by Summer Lane
I stand on the edge of a sidewalk, looking up at the glittering skyscrapers and the night sky, shrouded with thick, cold fog. I walk, moving quickly. The main streets are lit with torches and lamps, but many of the boulevards are empty and dark. I choose the dark, silent paths, observing abandoned apartments and coffee shops. Nature has begun to reclaim the city in places. Creeping vines crawl across brick buildings. Trees are overgrown. Piles of leaves and shrubbery trash the gutters and sidewalks. I pause. A red trolley is covered with a thin layer of creeping vines. Weeds have sprung up beneath the vehicle. The doors are standing open.
I climb the steps and duck inside. There is nothing in here, except for remnants of trash and artifacts from a civilization lost, like broken cell phones and MP3 players.
I take a seat and close my eyes, imagining the city on a normal day—sun shining, traffic humming, people talking, music playing, and the smell of cooking food in the many restaurants of the city lending a flavorful aroma to the air.
I open my eyes. The street is still dark, the trolley is still dirty, the vines are still growing. I look down at my hands, covered in fingerless black gloves. Yes, the hands of a fighter. I am not ashamed of what I am. I never will be.
Harry Lydell will not get inside my brain.
He will not.
I hear footsteps outside, and my hand darts to the holster on my thigh. I draw the handgun and hold it. The trolley shudders under the weight of another human being on the steps, and I see a figure standing near the front of the vehicle.
It is a man. That much is obvious. Thick, black coat, boots, and a bald head.
He throws his hands up.
“Please,” he says. “Don’t shoot. My name is Eli Morales.”
“That’s supposed to mean something to me?” I demand.
He flicks on a flashlight and shines it at his face. I see a starch-white collar around his neck. “Militia chaplain, San Francisco,” he says. His dark skin is the color of chocolate. A curly beard covers his face.
“Chaplain,” I echo.
I slowly lower my gun, but I do not holster it.
“Do you have a reason for following me?” I ask. “Because I gotta say: I can’t think of one.”
I raise the gun again as he takes a step forward.
“Commander Hart,” he says. “Please, let me explain. I spend much of my time in the prison, ministering to the inmates.”
“That’s a lost cause,” I reply, acidic. “And?”
“I overheard your conversation with Harry Lydell,” he goes on. “You seemed troubled. I followed you. I thought I might be able to help.”
I roll my eyes. Great. Just what I wanted to deal with tonight.
“Thanks for the concern,” I say, “but I’m fine.”
I throw my legs over the side of the open trolley windows and jump onto the street below, moving away from the trolley in a flash.
“Wait!” Eli yells. “Please! I can help you!”
I don’t look back.
I mutter, “Nobody can help me.”
I disappear into the blackness of the night, leaving the chaplain and the trolley and the streets far behind.
*
When I reach the dock, Uriah is waiting for me. He is standing at the railing, his arms folded across his chest. He is a shadow. There is a faint murmur of activity here. The water laps against the dock. My footsteps barely echo on the wood.
“Well?” Uriah asks, solemn.
“He doesn’t know anything,” I say. “And if he does, he’s not going to tell us unless we torture him.”
“And we’re not doing that because…?”
“I didn’t say we weren’t going to do that.” My answer is quick—almost too quick. “I’m saying that I don’t know if it’s worth it. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, though, it’s that he’s terrified of Veronica. She’s got him by the throat—he warned me against going to Red Grove because he thinks she’ll assume he’s the one who gave us the information.”
“Of course,” Uriah nods.
“He’s afraid.”
“Harry is always afraid.”
“Always.” I look across the water. Alcatraz Island seems to be floating above the fog. “This Red Grove thing…I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”
Uriah tilts his head.
“You’re not letting Harry influence you, right?” he asks.
“Of course not. I’m just saying.” I lean on the rail. “Killing the Western Council could mean nuclear destruction. I know Cheng says otherwise, but I don’t know. If we do something like this…we could be risking bringing on something worse than what we’re already dealing with.”
“What’s the alternative?” Uriah points out. “Fight one pointless skirmish after another, hoping that Omega will turn tail and run? No. We’ve got to take action and kill off the leaders of this movement. Starting with Veronica Klaus and the Western Council—whoever they are.”
“You sound like me talking,” I say, laughing. It is a hollow sound.
“I learned from the best.” Uriah smiles. “Kill or be killed, right?”
“Right,” I whisper.
“We should go back,” Uriah says. “Before they notice we’re gone.”
And by they I am aware that Uriah is talking about Chris.
I nod.
We walk toward the ferry. Before we step on the boat, I pause and touch my thumb to Uriah’s neck. I press a quick, sisterly kiss against his cheek.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I tell him. “I appreciate it.”
He licks his lips.
“Always,” he replies softly.
Chapter Seven
We are eating in the chow hall. It’s loud and uncomfortable, but it smells great. I am finishing off a plate of starchy, calorie-laden meat and potatoes when Chris sits down in the seat across from me. He’s wearing a green T-shirt that’s pulled taut across his broad, muscular chest. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in short-sleeves in ages, and I can see his cobra tattoo winding around his bicep.
I notice that his hair has been cut well above his shoulders, and his grisly beard has been trimmed down completely. His is clean-shaven, and I stare at him, shocked. He looks young.
He looks like his brother, Jeff.
“Wow,” I say. “You look…wow.”
That’s me. The master of compliments.
“You went to the mainland without me,” Chris states, his jaw clenched. “Why the hell would you do that without telling me?”
I blink, still taken aback by his appearance, and formulate an answer.
“I needed to talk to Harry,” I say.
“So you snuck on the ferry by yourself and just disappeared?”
“I wasn’t by myself. Uriah came with me.”
Chris clenches his fist and slams it on the table. I feel sick with guilt. What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I just suck it up and ask Chris to go with me to the mainland? Why Uriah?
“That makes it so much better,” Chris says slowly. “What’s gotten into you?”
“What’s gotten into you?” I snap, defensive. “I can handle myself.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. They are acidic and mean-spirited and unnecessary. I know that Chris is just worried about me—worried about us—and that is he angry that I went to the mainland without him.
“I’m just trying to watch out for you, Cassidy,” he tells me, his voice almost a whisper, his eyes raging.
I look at him, and I remember the expression of horror on his face when he watched me kill a man in Sky City at point blank range. It was the moment he realized that his sweet Cassidy Hart wasn’t so sweet anymore, and that there was no hiding the truth: I had changed, and I there was no turning back. Not after Sky City. Not after everything.
“You want me to be the same girl you fell in love with in L.A., the night of the Collapse,” I say quietly, meeting his gaze. “But I’m not. I’ll never be that girl again, Chris. You know it as well as I do.”
“I don’t want you to be the same girl,” Chris replies. “I just want you to be happy. I want you to let go of the rage and the coldness. You’re hanging on too hard, Cassie. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I don’t flinch. I don’t feel the need to cry. I am so dry, so spent. I do not possess the emotional capacity to shed a tear.
“I’m fine,” I reply, automatically.
Across the chow hall, I see Uriah walk through the door. He moves toward us. I throw my fork down, irritated. Uriah is not the person who should be interrupting our conversation right now.
“What do you want?” Chris growls, tense.
“The Schoolhouse,” Uriah says. His cheeks are flushed with color. He’s panting, as if he has been running. “A man just came in from the mainland. He’s demanding to speak with Cassidy.”
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Eli Morales. Militia chaplain.”
I roll my eyes.
“I have no use for him,” I say. “He’s just trying to preach to me.”
“No, Cassidy,” Uriah replies, holding a hand up. “I don’t think that’s why he’s here.”
Uriah is concerned. I can feel the worry radiating off his body.
“Okay,” I say quickly. “I’ll talk to him.”
Chris stands up.
“I’m coming too,” he states.
I don’t argue with him. Chris gives Uriah a long, dangerous look and then the two men follow me into the hallway, into the brisk evening light. The fog is rolling back across the bay, and the wind whips the flags on the fences in wild circles.
We reach the Schoolhouse. I don’t see Manny anywhere, but Arlene is leaning against a table, her arms crossed. A frown is painted on her face, and her expression does not change when we arrive.
Sitting in a chair, looking slightly frantic, is Eli Morales. He stands up when he sees me, darting toward me with frighteningly quick speed. Chris steps in front of me and Eli stops, taking several steps backward.
“Stay in your seat, Mr. Morales,” Chris warns. “What do you want? How were you allowed clearance on Alcatraz?”
Eli doesn’t sit.
“Please,” he says, breathless. “What I have to say is important. Very important.”
I step around Chris, facing the chaplain myself.
“You were following me last night,” I tell him. “And now you’re here. Why?”
“I told you,” he says. He swallows, nervous. “I overheard your conversation with Harry Lydell, the District Prefect for Omega. I know what you’re planning.”
“Do you?” I reply.
“Red Grove,” he answers, grave. “That is a dangerous place. Don’t try infiltrating.” He looks at Chris as he says this. “You will all die.”
I take a step closer to Eli.
“What do you know about Red Grove?” I ask, my tone even.
“I’ve only heard rumors,” he replies, trembling. “I was once a minister in this city, the pastor of a large church, and the president of a very large charitable organization that ministered to the destitute in the city. Many people visited the charity over the years. Senators, billionaires, world leaders.”
“The world’s elite,” Uriah mutters.
“There were whispers,” Eli continues, his eyes wide, “that some were visiting the Red Grove. But of course no one believed in its existence, and if you asked anyone if it was true, they would deny it.” He shakes his head. “I had a friend…a dear friend. He was curious. He tried to find the Grove…”
“And?” Chris demands.
“He found it.”
“What was it like?” I say, interested at last. “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing,” Eli answers.
“Why?”
“He was found dead in his apartment just days later,” Eli replies, finding a chair to sit on, steadying himself. “He’d been shot two times. He died a young man—just twenty-eight years old.”
“So you think he was killed because he knew too much,” I say.
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
“Well, thanks for the story, Reverend,” I say, “but we know what we’re up against.”
“You don’t,” he goes on, glaring at me. “They’ll kill you. Omega is powerful, but that’s nothing compared to the vengeance they’ll wreak once you penetrate their private world. They will destroy everything you hold dear.”
I lick my lips. His words are eerily similar to what Harry told me about Veronica Klaus.
“We’ll take our chances,” I say.
“Please!” Eli looks desperate. “Don’t do this.”
I don’t know why he is so passionate about getting his point across, so I say, “I’ll consider an alternative.”
He looks relieved.
Chris looks at me, and I know that he, just as much as me, has no intention of doing anything other than infiltrating Red Grove.
I don’t care what the chaplain says about it.
*
It is early morning, and I can’t sleep. I sit up on my cot, shivering. It is bone cold. A freezing feeling that only the damp, foggy environment of the bay could procure.
I stand up and pace the cell, agitated. I am too cold to sleep, too worried to relax. A million thoughts run through my head. This mission to Red Grove…what will it tell us? Does it really exist? And if it does, are we endangering the lives of everyone here by daring to go after something that Omega has spent so much time protecting? Is it worth the risk?
Yes, it is, of course it is! This is war. We have no choice.
I lean against the walls. I walk to the cell door, considering opening it, but then return to the cot. I crawl under the pile of blankets. It is still barely enough to protect from the chill.
I fall into a restless sleep for an hour or two, awakening when the first gray slits of morning light fall through the tiny, barred window. I stare at the ceiling. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Once I get my bearings, I rise, grabbing my weapon and slinging it across my back. I walk to the cell and open the door with my key. I gasp, taking a step backward, a strangled scream dying in my throat.
Inches away from my cell door, a man is lying prone, his eyes turned toward the wall, wide-open and glassy.
It is Eli Morales.
“Vera!” I yell. “Get out here!”
Vera streaks out of her cell, reaching me in the dimly lit hallway. She sees Eli and jumps back.
“Oh, my God!” she gasps. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, kneeling at the body, observing every detail. “I can’t believe I didn’t hear anything.”
“You’re the lightest sleeper on the planet,” Vera mutters. “You should have heard him collapse here.”
“Maybe he didn’t collapse,” I say.
There are wet smears on the floor. Blood?
“It almost looks like he was crawling,” I point out.
“That’s horrible,” Vera replies.
“Go get Chris,” I say.
Vera nods, disappearing with her weapon. The hallway is quiet and spooky, full of hidden dangers that weren’t there just moments ago. I have no idea what is going on, but I rest my gun across my knees, my back against the wall, able to see in every direction.
By the time Chris arrives, my heart has stopped thundering in my chest, but I get a sick feeling in my stomach every time I look at Eli’s body on the floor.
“What happened?” Chris asks, storming into the hall, grabbing me by the shoulders, pulling me to my feet. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I assure him. “I’m fine.”
“What in the name of all that’s good and holy is going on now?” Manny’s voice echoes down the hallway. He appears from the shadows, looking slightly bedraggled and confused. “Another dead body? Cassidy, you just keep attracting these things, girl.”
“Manny,” I say. “This was Eli Morales, the chaplain who was here tonight.”
His face darkens. No more jokes.
/> “What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
I kneel and slowly turn Eli over on his back. Vera screams. Her piercing shriek rings in my ears as I stand, jerking away from the horrifying sight.
Eli’s dark jacket has been ripped open, revealing a white shirt. A thick piece of cardboard has been pinned to the shirt, scrawled with uneven, sloppy handwriting.
“What is this?” I whisper. “Some kind of sick joke?”
“No,” Chris replies, slipping his strong arm around my shoulders. “This is a warning.”
The words read:
San Francisco Will Be Your Death
Manny kneels and examines Eli’s limp body.
“Curious,” he mumbles. “He’s dead.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Not a single sign of exterior wounds.”
I swallow.
“He was murdered,” I say.
“And dragged through the hall and left in front of your cell door,” Vera says. “Thank God the cell was locked.”
“How did he die if he wasn’t wounded?” Vera points out.
I look at Manny.
“Go get Elle,” I command.
*
Elle puts one knee on the cold concrete and holds Bravo by the collar. The dog’s hackles rise, sensing the cadaver in the room, smelling the blood.
“Search, Bravo,” Elle says, releasing her grip on his collar.
The dog rushes forward, sniffing the room, following the scent trail on the floor. Everyone hangs back behind Elle, watching the dog do his work. He stops at Eli’s body and takes one sniff, immediately stopping and sitting, staring at the dead man’s chest.
“He found something,” Manny says.
“He found a dead body,” Vera deadpans. “Fantastic.”
Elle stands up and calls Bravo back to her.
He sprints back, and she rubs his head.
“He didn’t find the body,” Elle tells Vera, a sharp tone in her voice. “He knew it was there. He was pointing. Bravo smelled poison.” She looks at me. “The chaplain was murdered with poison, and then he was dragged here.”
“Can Bravo track the person who did this?” Chris asks.
“Of course he can,” Elle answers. “But I’m willing to bet that whoever did this isn’t on the island anymore.”
