Burn (41 page)
“I got the bacterium off you while you were drunk. Didn’t think you were in the best shape to keep it safe. And I had just enough time to hide it as they came storming in.”
“Thanks and sorry about that,” El Capitan says.
“Well, there’s just one more thing,” Bradwell says.
El Capitan knows he doesn’t want to hear this. “What?”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone?” Helmud says.
“Are you sure you checked the right slot?” El Capitan says. “The wall was filled with slots.”
“I checked them all.” Bradwell runs his hands through his hair. “Someone took it.”
“Gorse?”
“I’ve talked to all of the people who were in that vault. They’re on my side now. They’re acting like I’m a god. It wasn’t any of them. I’m sure of it.”
He’d like to reach out and choke Bradwell—an ancient instinct. But, of course, he thought he was the one who’d lost it. He can’t really blame Bradwell, and he doesn’t have the strength to choke anyone right now anyway. And then he realizes how he really feels about the bacterium. Maybe he actually wanted it gone. “I’d be relieved that it’s out of our hands,” he says, “except that means it’s in someone else’s.”
Bradwell looks at him, confused. “Why would you be relieved?”
“We can’t take down the Dome.”
“What?”
El Capitan wants to tell him that he’s been forgiven. He’s clean. “I can’t go back.”
“Back to what?”
“Who I used to be.”
“We have to do it, Cap.”
“Why?”
“So there is no divide. Aren’t you tired of being nothing? Of being something left to die?”
El Capitan can’t look at him. He’s been nothing for so long he can’t imagine anything else. “There will always be a divide. There will always be us and them. And if this divide disappears, there will be another us and them.”
“They have to face up to what they did.”
“Why?”
“They’re all waiting for me—Dome worshippers, revolutionaries, OSR, even some of the mothers. Solidarity will save us—you said that. Even the Dome worshippers believe that this could be a way for them to join the Pures, in their own screwed up way. They’ve come down from headquarters and up from the city and out of the woods and Meltlands. They want me to lead them.”
This hurts. El Capitan has been trying to amass an army all these years, and Bradwell comes along and takes it from him. He knows it’s not the point, but still. “How many are there?”
“Too many to count. And now I’ve got nothing.”
El Capitan sits up, leaning Helmud’s back against the wall.
Helmud says, “Count.” Maybe Helmud thinks they need to know exactly how many they’ll have if they end up heading into some kind of battle.
“Now is the time,” Bradwell says. “We need the bacterium. How else will the Pures learn?”
“Do you mean how else will you get a chance to punish them? Are you really playing God?”
“Willux played God—not me.” He grinds his boot heels into the dirty floor. “Pressia’s locked in there, Cap! You want me to just abandon her?”
“Are you doing all this just to get her back?” Will Bradwell be the hero in all of this? Pressia has pushed El Capitan to do the right thing. Isn’t he finally doing it? Isn’t that worth something?
“I’m doing this because it’s the mission. Up until now, it was
your
mission.”
“You said you taught Shadow History because we had to learn from the past so we wouldn’t repeat it. Isn’t this just another apocalypse, a smaller one—on your own terms this time?”
Bradwell sits on the ground, lowers his head into his hands. His wings fan out on the floor around him. He rubs his eyes. Is he about to cry?
“What?” El Capitan says. “What is it?”
“I lost the bacterium. We got drunk, Cap. We got drunk. We woke up. We got captured. I tried to hide it. It’s gone.” He looks at El Capitan. “What am I, Cap?”
“What do you mean?”
“Am I a human being? An animal? Am I even still my parents’ son? What do you think I am?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“It does to me.”
“You’re a prophet. That’s what some say. An angel, maybe, with those wings. You believe in the truth. That’s why Pressia loves you.”
“How could she love me like this?”
“Now you know how I feel.”
“How I feel,” Helmud says. Is he in love with her too?
“You really do love her, don’t you?”
El Capitan nods. Bradwell seems to accept this. For some strange reason, he even seems like he’s glad to hear it. “She hasn’t sent word yet, right? We have time. Maybe we can find it.”
“Maybe,” Bradwell says.
“Word from on high,” El Capitan says, remembering how Bradwell put it. “There’s still some time.”
Helmud says, “On high.” El Capitan can feel him arching his back, looking up through the roofless library at the sky. “On high!” he says again.
“We know, Helmud. We know. Shut it, okay?” El Capitan says.
“On high!” Helmud says again, and then he grabs El Capitan’s chin and pushes it upward.
“Get off!” El Capitan says.
Helmud points at the sky.
El Capitan looks up grudgingly. Bradwell does too.
And there is a small dot, jittering in a circle, fluttering down.
“What’s that?” Bradwell says.
The little thing sputters and spirals closer.
They all stare at its fine metal wings as they flit and flit closer to them.
Freedle.
He lands on the bottom of El Capitan’s cot, lifts his wings. Helmud reaches out. Freedle hops up on his hand. Helmud lifts him up. And El Capitan sees the small white edge of a piece of paper that’s been slipped into the cage of his body.
A message.
P
artridge is strapped onto the stretcher and covered entirely by a white sheet. They’re out of the hotel now. Iralene and Beckley, dressed in white lab coats and surgical masks, guide the stretcher down side streets, the wheels rattling over the pavement. He can only see the lit-up sheet, sheer and bright over his eyes. He knows people are running nearby. They pass clusters of voices. A fight breaks out—he can hear two angry men shouting.
There’s a scream then more distant shouting—a few gunshots.
He’s supposed to be dead, but he feels very alive—his heart is sore, each beat like a punch inside of his chest. Glassings is dead. They might all die. Could his sister really be conspiring to take down the Dome? Is this sheet that covers his face—the thin, white sheet drawn into his mouth each time he takes a breath—a warning? Death—is that his near future?
He hears Beckley shout, “Watch the curb!”
The stretcher swerves, slams onto concrete.
They’re moving as quickly as they can. They hit divots, jerking his body around. There’s no car waiting for them this time. Luckily, they’re on the same level in the Dome as the high-rise with the suspension chambers.
Partridge can’t stand not being able to see. He pinches the sheet, inches it up on one side, and turns his head. He has a sideways view of it all, the streets jammed with people. Some are running, trailing kids, carrying jugs of bottled water and boxes of soytex pills. They’re packed into stores with lines that snake around the block. Some are busy sealing windows with tarps and duct tape out of fear that the protective Dome will be broken. Because of Foresteed, some have rifles strapped to their backs.
Still, they push along. As a dead man, he’s ignored. The Pures have gotten used to death. They’re bracing for more. Their faces are a mix of fear, panic, and a strange resignation—as if something they’ve been waiting a long time for has finally arrived.
But then he sees someone writing on one of the posters, Partridge and Iralene on a date—a man scrawling in dark red paint across their faces:
SCUM MUST DIE
.
Partridge is shaken. These people loved him and Iralene. They were why he got married—to keep them happy, to give them a reason to live. And now they’re scum? They must die? He lets the sheet fall. Is he going to be killed by Pures? Is this how it’s going to go?
Once inside the building, Iralene and Beckley quickly unstrap Partridge. They all run through what’s becoming a more familiar series of passages and long eerie halls, passing dimly lit rooms buzzing with the machinery that keeps the suspended people alive.
“Just up ahead,” Iralene says.
Partridge follows her and Beckley around a corner and sees a door, the light spilling out of the room into the hall. Iralene and Beckley slow. Partridge reaches the door, pauses, and then knocks. Peekins and a nurse look up from a chart.
“Ah, good to see you, Partridge,” Peekins says. “I’m glad you could make it under the…circumstances.”
The room is surprisingly bright and warm. Beckley and Iralene hover near the door, keeping an eye on the hall.
Partridge walks up to the capsule and can see the fogged outline of Odwald Belze’s face—his stiffened white hair, his closed eyes, his sallow cheeks—crystallized with a thin layer of ice. The scar on his neck is red, preserved when it was a fresh surgical wound. Partridge remembers the small blue box that held the fan removed from his throat, and Pressia’s face when she realized that this meant her grandfather was dead.
“Things are breaking down fast,” Beckley says.
“We’ve got to move quickly,” Iralene says.
“How do things look?” Partridge asks.
“Just a little longer, and we’ll know if there’s any long-term damage,” Peekins says.
“Damage? I thought he either survived or he didn’t.”
“There are a lot of scenarios in between,” Peekins says, obviously frustrated with him. “Quiet, please.”
Peekins and the nurse work quickly. They move the capsule into a horizontal position. The bright, incubated heat defogs the glass. The heartbeat on the screen near the capsule picks up speed. In fact, Partridge worries the heart is beating too quickly now. The beeps come fast.
With an electric hum, the glass retreats into the capsule, revealing Belze’s face—rigid and wet with melted ice crystals.
“Engaging full lung capacity,” Peekins says, and he inputs data into the computer, his face fixed with concentration.
Belze’s rib cage heaves, jerking up and down, and then he pulls air in through his nose. His head kicks back, his cheeks and jowls bobble, and then his face flexes. His eyes clench. His lungs seem locked.
“He’s not breathing!” Partridge says.
“Hold on,” Peekins says, his eyes ticking over the control panel. “Just hold…”
Belze’s heart starts to race—the beeping is shrill and relentless—but he lies there rigidly.
“He’s going into overdrive,” the nurse says.
Partridge shouts, “Do something! We can’t lose him!”
And then Belze takes another breath in, which seems impossible. He’s now holding too much air. His face flushes a deep purplish red.
“Hold on,” Peekins says. “Hold, hold, hold.”
Belze’s lips start to turn bluish.
“Jesus. He’s dying,” Partridge cries out. “He’s dying right here in front of our eyes!”
Iralene tries to pull Partridge back from the capsule. “Partridge,” she says softly.
Peekins suddenly looks panic-stricken. “I don’t know what more to do! I’ve never done this with someone so old!”
And then the heartbeat goes flat. The beep turns into one solid, deadly note.
Partridge reaches out and grabs Belze’s shoulders, which are still cold.
“Get back!” Peekins shouts, but Partridge pushes the old man’s body enough to wedge his knee onto the capsule then leverages himself onto Belze’s rib cage. He pushes down on his chest with all his strength.
Nothing.
Beckley shouts, “Partridge! Let him go!”
Partridge pushes on his rib cage again.
“If you’re going to do it, do it right!” Peekins shouts and points to the spot where Belze’s ribs join at the center of his chest.
Partridge rears and pushes down, his elbows locked. The old man is still rigid.
Partridge shuts his eyes and does it again and again. “Don’t die!” he shouts. “Don’t die!” He can feel the old man’s thin skin, the bones of his chest, the give of his ligaments.
“He’s gone,” the nurse says.
“Partridge,” Peekins says. “Stop!” He shoves Partridge in the shoulder. “Stop!”
Partridge, breathless and sweating, keeps going.
“It’s a lost cause,” Beckley says.
“Stop, Partridge,” Iralene says. “Please!”
And Partridge wonders if they’re right. He opens his eyes. The old man’s face is taut. He is already dead. Partridge keeps going. He feels like crying, but then the machine skips. There’s a heartbeat…and another. The man’s eyes flit open and lock on to Partridge’s.
Belze’s chest jerks up and down. His eyes are wide. He breathes out a deep, rattling wheeze.
“Odwald,” Partridge says. He leans in close to the old man. “Odwald! You’re here! You’re okay!”
Partridge hops down. Peekins and the nurse work quickly now, stabilizing Belze. Not long after, he’s calm. His breathing and heart rate are steady. Partridge says softly, “We’re going to get you together with Pressia, okay? She misses you. She wants to see you. Okay?”
“Pressia,” the old man says, his lips trembling with her name.
“Yes. She misses you.”
“My wife.”
Partridge shakes his head. “No, your granddaughter.”
The old man looks at him confused. “Where am I?”
“It’s okay,” Partridge says. “It’s okay.”
“Where’s my wife? Where’s Pressia?”
“Your granddaughter,” Partridge says.
“I don’t have a granddaughter. How could we when we couldn’t even have our own children?”
Partridge looks at the others.
“He’s disoriented,” Peekins says. “Maybe it’s temporary.”
“This happens sometimes,” the nurse says.
Partridge walks to a wall and leans against it, trying to clear his head.
“Where am I?” Belze says.
“You’re in a hospital,” Peekins tells him calmly. “You’re going to get well.”
Partridge says, “He wasn’t her real grandfather. He found her after the Detonations and took care of her as his own. He must have named her after his wife. She was like the child they never had.”