by Rick Yancey
“And you wanted no part of their little conspiracy theory?”
I nod. A good, strong, confident nod—I hope. “They went Dorothy on me, sir. Turned the whole squad against me.” I smile. A grim, tough, soldiery grin—I hope. “But not before I took care of Flint.”
“We recovered his body,” Vosch tells me. “Like you, he was shot at very close range. Unlike you, the target was a little higher up in the anatomy.”
Are you sure about this, Zombie? Why do you need to shoot him in the head?
They can’t know he’s been zapped. Maybe if I do enough damage, it’ll destroy the evidence. Stand back, Ringer. You know I don’t have the best aim in the world.
“I would have wasted the rest of them, but I was outnumbered, sir. I decided the best thing to do was get my ass back to base and report.”
Again he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just stares. What are you? I wonder. Are you human? Are you a Ted? Or are you…something else? What the hell are you?
“They’ve vanished, you know,” he finally says. Then waits for my answer. Luckily, I’ve thought of one. Or Ringer did. Credit where credit is due.
“They cut out their trackers.”
“Yours too,” he points out. And waits. Over his shoulder, I see orderlies in their green scrubs moving along the row of beds and hear the squeak of their shoes along the linoleum floor. Just another day in the hospital of the damned.
I’m ready for his question. “I was playing along. Waiting for an opening. Dumbo did Ringer next, after me, and that’s when I made my move.”
“Shooting Flintstone…”
“And then Ringer shot me.”
“And then…” Arms crossed over his chest now. Chin lowered. Studying me with hooded eyes. The way a bird of prey might its supper.
“And then I ran. Sir.”
So I’m able to take Reznik down in the dark in the middle of a snowstorm, but I can’t pop you from two feet away? He won’t buy it, Zombie.
I don’t need him to buy it. Just rent it for a few hours.
He clears his throat. Scratches beneath his chin. Studies the ceiling tiles for a little while before looking back at me. “How fortunate for you, Ben, that you made it to the evac point before bleeding to death.”
Oh, you bet, you whatever-you-are. Fortunate as hell.
A silence slams down. Blue eyes. Tight mouth. Folded arms.
“You haven’t told me everything.”
“Sir?”
“You’re leaving something out.”
I slowly shake my head. The room sways like a ship in a storm. How much painkiller did they give me?
“Your former drill sergeant. Someone in your unit must have searched him. And found one of these in his possession.” Holding up a silver device identical to Reznik’s. “At which point someone—I would think you, being the ranking officer—would wonder what Reznik was doing with a mechanism capable of terminating your lives with a touch of a button.”
I’m nodding. Ringer and I figured he’d go there, and I’m ready with an answer. Whether he buys it or not, that’s the question.
“There’s only one explanation that makes any sense, sir. It was our first mission, our first real combat. We needed to be monitored. And you needed a fail-safe in case any of us went Dorothy—turned on the others…”
I trail off, out of breath and glad that I am, because I don’t trust myself on the dope. My thinking isn’t crystal clear. I’m walking through a minefield in some very dense fog. Ringer anticipated this. She made me practice this part over and over as we waited in the park for the chopper to return, right before she pressed her sidearm against my stomach and pulled the trigger.
The chair scrapes against the floor, and suddenly Vosch’s lean, hard face fills my vision.
“It really is extraordinary, Ben. For you to resist the group dynamics of combat, the enormous pressure to follow the herd. It’s almost—well, inhuman, for lack of a better word.”
“I’m human,” I whisper, heart beating in my chest so hard, for a second I’m sure he can see it beating through my thin gown.
“Are you? Because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it, Ben? That’s the whole ballgame! Who is human—and who is not. Have we not eyes, Ben? Hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? If you prick us, do we not bleed? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?”
The hard angle of the jaw. The severity of the blue eyes. The thin lips pale against the flushed face.
“Shakespeare. The Merchant of Venice. Spoken by a member of a despised and persecuted race. Like our race, Ben. The human race.”
“I don’t think they hate us, sir.” Trying to keep my cool in this strange and unexpected turn in the minefield. My head is spinning. Gut-shot, doped up, discussing Shakespeare with the commandant of one of the most efficient death camps in the history of the world.
“They have a strange way of showing their affection.”
“They don’t love or hate us. We’re just in the way. Maybe to them, we’re the infestation.”
“Periplaneta americana to their Homo sapiens? In that contest, I’ll take the cockroach. Very difficult to eradicate.”
He pats me on the shoulder. Gets very serious. We’ve come to the real meat of it, do or die time, pass or fail; I can feel it. He’s turning the sleek silver device over and over in his hand.
Your plan sucks, Zombie. You know that.
Okay. Let’s hear yours.
We stay together. Take our chances with whoever’s holed up in the courthouse.
And Nugget?
They won’t hurt him. Why are you so worried about Nugget? God, Zombie, there are hundreds of kids—
Yeah, there are. But I made a promise to one.
“This is a very grave development, Ben. Very grave. Ringer’s delusion will drive her to seek shelter with the very things she was tasked to destroy. She will share with them everything she knows about our operations. We’ve dispatched three more squads to preempt her, but I’m afraid it may be too late. If it is too late, we’ll have no choice but to execute the option of last resort.”
His eyes burn with their own pale blue fire. I actually shiver when he turns away, cold all of a sudden, and very, very scared.
What is the option of last resort?
He may not have bought it, but he did rent it. I’m still alive. And as long as I’m alive, Nugget has a chance.
He turns back as if he’s just remembered something.
Crap. Here it comes.
“Oh, one more thing. Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, but we’re pulling you off the pain meds so we can run a full debriefing on you.”
“Debriefing, sir?”
“Combat is a funny thing, Ben. It plays tricks on your memory. And we’ve found that the meds interfere with the program. It should take about six hours for your system to be clear.”
I still don’t get it, Zombie. Why do I have to shoot you? Why can’t the story be you gave us the slip? It’s a little over-the-top, if you ask me.
I have to be injured, Ringer.
Why?
So they’ll put me on meds.
Why?
To buy me time. So they don’t take me straight there from the chopper.
Take you where?
So I don’t have to ask what Vosch is talking about, but I ask anyway: “You’re plugging me in to Wonderland?”
He crooks his finger at an orderly, who comes forward holding a tray. A tray with a syringe and a tiny silver pellet.
“We’re plugging you in to Wonderland.”
IX: A FLOWER TO THE RAIN
65
WE FELL ASLEEP last night in front of the fireplace, and this morning I woke up in our bed—no, not our bed. My bed. Val’s bed? The bed, and I don’t remember climbing the stairs, so he must have carried me up and tucked me in, only he isn’t in bed with me now. I’m a little panicky when I realize he’s not here. It’s a lot easier to push down my doubt when he’s with me. When I can see
those eyes the color of melted chocolate and hear his deep voice that falls over me like a warm blanket on a cold night. Oh, you’re such a hopeless case, Cassie. Such a train wreck.
I dress quickly in the weak light of dawn and go downstairs. He’s not there, either, but my M16 is, cleaned and loaded and leaning against the mantel. I call out his name. Silence answers.
I pick up the gun. The last time I fired it was on Crucifix Soldier Day.
Not your fault, Cassie. And not his fault.
I close my eyes and see my father lying gut-shot in the dirt, telling me, No, Cassie, right before Vosch walked over and silenced him.
His fault. Not yours. Not the Crucifix Soldier’s. His.
I have a very vivid image of ramming the end of the rifle against Vosch’s temple and blowing his head off his shoulders.
First I have to find him. And then politely ask him to stand still so I can ram the end of my rifle against his temple and blow his head off his shoulders.
I find myself on the sofa next to Bear, and I cradle them both, Bear in one arm, my rifle in the other, like I’m back in the woods in my tent under the trees that were under the sky that was under the baleful eye of the mothership that was beneath the explosion of stars of which ours is just one—and what are the freaking odds that the Others would pick our star out of the 100 sextillion in the universe to set up shop?
It’s too much for me to handle. I can’t defeat the Others. I’m a cockroach. Okay, I’ll go with Evan’s mayfly metaphor; mayflies are prettier, and at least they can fly. But I can take out a few of the bastards before my single day on Earth is over. And I plan to start with Vosch.
A hand falls on my shoulder. “Cassie, why are you crying?”
“I’m not. It’s my allergies. This damn bear is full of dust.”
He sits down next to me, on the bear side, not the gun side.
“Where were you?” I ask to change the subject.
“Checking out the weather.”
“And?” Full sentences, please. I’m cold and I need your warm-blanky voice to keep me safe. I draw my knees up to my chest, resting my heels on the edge of the sofa cushion.
“I think we’re good for tonight.” The morning light sneaks through a crack in the sheets hung over the window and paints his face golden. The light shimmers in his dark hair, sparkles in his eyes.
“Good.” I snuffle loudly.
“Cassie.” He touches my knee. His hand is warm; I feel its heat through my jeans. “I had this weird idea.”
“All of this is just a really bad dream?”
He shakes his head, laughs nervously. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, so hear me out before you say anything, okay? I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I wouldn’t even mention it if I didn’t think—”
“Tell me, Evan. Just—tell—me.” Oh God, what’s he going to tell me? My body tightens up. Never mind, Evan. Don’t tell me.
“Let me go.”
I shake my head, confused. Is this a joke? I look down at his hand on my knee, fingers gently squeezing. “I thought you were going.”
“I mean, let me go.” Giving my knee a tiny shake to get me to look at him.
Then I get it. “Let you go by yourself. I stay here, and you go find my brother.”
“Okay, now, you promised to hear me out—”
“I didn’t promise you anything.” I push his hand off my knee. The thought of his leaving me behind isn’t just offensive—it’s terrifying. “My promise was to Sammy, so drop it.”
He doesn’t. “But you don’t know what’s out there.”
“And you do?”
“Better than you.”
He reaches for me; I put my hand against his chest. Oh no, buddy. “Then tell me what’s out there.”
He throws up his hands. “Think about who has a better chance of living long enough to keep your promise. I’m not saying it’s because you’re a girl or because I’m stronger or tougher or whatever. I’m saying if just one of us goes, then the other one would still have a chance of finding him in case the worst happens.”
“Well, you’re probably right about that last part. But it shouldn’t be you who tries first. He’s my brother. Like hell I’m going to wait around here for a Silencer to knock on the door and ask to borrow a cup of sugar. I’ll just go by myself.”
I push myself off the sofa like I’m heading out at that very second. He grabs my arm; I yank it back.
“Stop it, Evan. You keep forgetting that I’m letting you go with me, not the other way around.”
He drops his head. “I know. I know that.” Then a rueful laugh. “I also knew what your answer would be, but I had to ask.”
“Because you think I can’t take care of myself?”
“Because I don’t want you to die.”
66
WE’VE BEEN PREPARING for weeks. On this last day, there wasn’t much left to do except wait for nightfall. We’re traveling light; Evan thought we could reach Wright-Patterson in two or three nights, barring an unexpected delay like another blizzard or one of us getting killed—or both of us getting killed, which would delay the operation indefinitely.
Despite keeping my supplies to a bare minimum, I have trouble getting Bear to fit into the backpack. Maybe I should cut off his legs and tell Sammy they were blown off by the Eye that took out Camp Ashpit.
The Eye. That would be better, I decided: not a bullet to Vosch’s brain, but an alien bomb jammed down his pants.
“Maybe you shouldn’t take him,” Evan says.
“Maybe you should shut up,” I mutter, pushing Bear’s head down into his stomach and tugging the zipper closed. “There.”
Evan is smiling. “You know, when I first saw you in the woods, I thought he was your bear.”
“Woods?”
His smile fades.
“You didn’t find me in the woods,” I remind him. Suddenly the room feels about ten degrees colder. “You found me in the middle of a snowbank.”
“I meant I was in the woods, not you,” he says. “I saw you from the woods a half mile away.”
I’m nodding. Not because I believe him. I’m nodding because I know I’m right not to.
“You’re not out of those woods yet, Evan. You’re sweet and you have incredible cuticles, but I’m still not sure why your hands are so soft, or why you smelled like gunpowder the night you supposedly visited your girlfriend’s grave.”
“I told you last night, I haven’t helped around the farm in two years, and I was cleaning my gun earlier that day. I don’t know what else I can—”
I cut him off. “I’m only trusting you because you’re handy with a rifle and haven’t killed me with it, even though you’ve had about a thousand opportunities. Don’t take this personally, but there’s something I don’t get about you and this whole situation, but that doesn’t mean I’m never going to get it. I’ll figure it out, and if the truth is something that puts you on the other side of me, then I will do what I have to do.”
“What?” Smiling that damned lopsided, sexy grin, shoulders up, hands stuffed deep in his pockets with a sort of aw-shucks attitude, which I guess is meant to drive me the good kind of crazy. What is it about him that makes me want to slap him and kiss him, run from him and to him, throw my arms around him and knee him in the balls, all at the same time? I’d like to blame the Arrival for the effect he has on me, but something tells me guys have been doing this to us for a lot longer than a few months.
“What I have to do,” I tell him.
I head upstairs. Thinking about what I have to do reminded me of something I meant to do before we left.
In the bathroom, I poke around in the drawers until I find a pair of scissors, and then proceed to lop off six inches of my hair. The floorboards creak behind me, and I shout, “Stop lurking!” without turning around. A second later, Evan sticks his head into the room.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Symbolically cutting my hair. What are you d
oing? Oh, that’s right. Following me, lurking in doorways. One of these days maybe you’ll work up the courage to step over the threshold, Evan.”
“It looks like you’re actually cutting your hair.”
“I’ve decided to get rid of all the things that bug me.” Giving him a look in the mirror.
“Why does it bug you?”
“Why are you asking?” Looking at my reflection now, but he’s there in the corner of my eye. Damn it, more symbolism.
He wisely makes an exit. Snip, snip, snip, and the sink fills up with my curls. I hear him clumping around downstairs, then the kitchen door slamming. I guess I was supposed to ask his permission first. Like he owns me. Like I’m a puppy he found lost in the snow.
I step back to examine my handiwork. With the short cut and no makeup, I look about twelve years old. Okay, no older than fourteen. But with the right attitude and the right prop, someone might mistake me for a tween. Maybe even offer me a ride to safety on their friendly yellow school bus.
That afternoon a gray sheet of clouds draws itself across the sky, bringing an early dusk. Evan disappears again and comes back a few minutes later carrying two five-gallon containers of gasoline. I give him a look, and he says, “I was thinking a diversion might help.”
It takes me a minute to process. “You’re going to burn down your house?”
He nods. He seems kind of excited about the prospect.
“I’m going to burn down my house.”
He lugs one of the containers upstairs to douse the bedrooms. I go out onto the porch to escape the fumes. A big black crow is hopping across the yard, and he stops and gives me a beady-eyed look. I consider pulling out my gun and shooting him.
I don’t think I’d miss. I’m a pretty good shot now, thanks to Evan, and also I really hate birds.
The door opens behind me and a wave of nauseating fumes roars out. I step off the porch and the crow takes off, screeching. Evan splashes down the porch, then tosses the empty can against the side of the house.
“The barn,” I say. “If you wanted to create a diversion, you should have burned down the barn. That way the house would still be here when we get back.” Because I’d like to believe we’re coming back, Evan. You, me, and Sammy, one big happy family.
