Talker 25 (6 page)

Pieces of a life more important to me than anything. Gone because I needed to have her by my bedside, to look at whenever I wanted. Gone because of the dragons.

We drive alongside the crash site, moving no faster than a walk because of the All-Blacks and mounds of debris. A layer of ash covers everything. APCs surround a crater to
our right, their mechanical arms digging out remnants of charred jet. The nearby houses will need to be replaced, but anybody who was in a shelter during the battle should be safe.

I say a silent prayer of thanks. Sam will be okay, and things could have been far worse. It’s amazing the jet didn’t take out any—

“Oh God.” I cover my mouth. On a clear day, free of smoke and A-Bs, I would have recognized where we were a long time ago.

The jet didn’t miss a house. It obliterated it.

It takes me two tries to get my phone out of my pocket. Shaking, I press the speed dial.
Calling Trish Potter
appears on the screen. I’m raising the phone to my ear when Dad grabs my hand and touches the off button.

“She won’t get the message for a while, and you shouldn’t worry her unnecessarily.” He wipes the tears from my cheeks. “Once they clear the wreckage, they’ll be able to access the shelter. They’re designed for high-stress impact, Melissa. There’s a good chance Major Potter survived.”

It’s his doctor tone again, and this time I know he’s lying.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Black
. The color of America.

After the government instituted its blackout policy a decade ago, cars, houses, and cities went dark in under four months. Psychologists spoke out against what they called “the prevalence of grim,” pointing to the nationwide crime increase and skyrocketing suicide rates. But there were fewer dragon attacks, and the so-called “bright psychs” lost favor with the media.

The dark world never bothered me much, except in junior high when it became trendy to dress like an A-B. I was one of the few who didn’t dye my hair or wear Smoke
^®
makeup. It was all quite ridiculous.

Mom hated it. After she died, she was buried in a white coffin in a white dress. Everybody wore pastel colors, like
we were at an Easter wedding in a time before the dragons. And there were white roses everywhere. That was ridiculous, too, but in a wonderful way.

But today there is only black.

And it squeezes me from every direction. Black smoke around the car, a constant reminder of Sam. Black soot over Ms. Potter’s dragon shelter, maybe a grave now with scorched jet debris for a tombstone. All-Black soldiers everywhere, modern-day grim reapers.

Trish and I used to joke how the world would look if dragons couldn’t see pink. Mom would have loved that, if for nothing else than seeing soldiers strut around in fuchsia. I’d settle for pink today, too.

Anything but black.

We drive toward the medical bivouac, an eerie carnival tent in the center of a macabre circus. I’m out of the car and sprinting before Dad finishes parking. The All-Black at the entrance lowers his gun after I find my breath and explain why I’m here.

“Red-haired kid?” he says. “Was hacking up a lung when he came in. Said something about ‘meeting Smokey the Cyclone,’ and laughed.” I grin back tears. The soldier shakes his head. “Guess it’s something with you kids.”

He pulls up the entrance flap and waves me in.

Curtained sections run the length of the tent on either
side. Coughs and moans echo all around. Medical personnel move between units, practiced and proficient. I ask a nurse about Sam. He leads me to a room at the back.

I’m ready for the hospital gown, heart monitor, and IV, but the clear plastic mask covering half my brother’s face makes me gasp.

“He’s under sedation right now,” the nurse says. “Don’t wake him.”

He closes the curtain and silence engulfs me, broken only by the wispy exhale of Sam’s ventilator and the faint sound of someone crying nearby.

I slump into the chair beside my brother’s bed. Even asleep, Sam looks as if he’s up to no good. His lips are turned up at the corners beneath the mask, and fiery hair splays from his head like weeds.

I often asked him how we could be related—him looking like a sunburned child of mischief, complete with nose freckles and red cheeks; me having Mom’s darker features, never wanting a strand out of place, a color uncoordinated. Him always acting the fool; me thinking humor inappropriate in a world with dragons.

I run my fingertip along the freckles up to his forehead. Something Mom used to do. When we were younger and afraid—me of the dragons, Sam of things that didn’t exist—we’d crawl into our parents’ bed. She’d go to Sam first and
trace a slow line from his chin, telling him how closet goblins only came after boys who didn’t eat their vegetables. Then Dad would tickle him into forgetfulness as Mom turned to comfort me.

Her soft voice would send me into a dreamy fog where I didn’t have to worry about dragon shelter drills, visiting friends at the hospital, our house burning down. She somehow made the world seem safe, like we weren’t in the middle of some never-ending nightmare.

Then I turned thirteen, decided I was no longer Mel Mel, and stopped running to their bedroom. Acted like dragons didn’t scare me anymore, like Mom’s salvage missions and Dad’s research were nothing out of the ordinary. Anyway, the war was over. And even if a few dragons roamed free, Arlington was protected, never victimized by dragons because of its exemplary defense system.

Until she became another black cross in Arlington National Cemetery, Sam never stopped seeking her comfort. Must have known something I didn’t. Still does. I thought Mom’s death would hit him harder than me, but after we put her in the ground, he moved forward with life, figured out how to be happy in a world with dragons, in a world without Mom.

As I watch Sam sleep, a different sort of jealousy surfaces, and unexpected relief washes over me. I hurt my brother
today, could have killed him, but he’s stronger than I am and will survive my weakness, will probably brag about it the first chance he gets. I smile, press my hand to his cheek, feeling his warmth, his vitality.

“He needs a haircut, doesn’t he?” Dad says from behind me.

“Mom wouldn’t like it, but it suits him.” I reach up and squeeze my father’s hand.

I’m holding on to my father, looking at my brother, trying my best not to think about anything else, when Trish calls.

“Do you want me to talk to her?” Dad asks.

I shake my head and step from the room. “Hello?”

“Mel, thank god. Where are you?”

“At the medical tent.”

“Sam?”

“He’s okay. Smoke inhalation, but they say he’ll be fine.”

“You want me to come give him a kiss?”

I grin. “That would probably wake him up fast, but they want him to sleep a little longer. Where are you?”

“They let us out of the shelter, but they’re not letting us out of school. A-Bs are walking the halls, making sure we’re good little brats. They shut down the vid windows and cut off net access. They wanted to kill our phones, too, but Keith convinced them not to. I can’t reach my mom, Mel.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.” I try to adopt Dad’s neutral tone, but I’m no good at it.

“What is it, Mel? Remember what we promised each other.”

“It’s nothing, Trish. I don’t—”

“Shit, there’s someone coming.”

The line goes dead.

I’m about to pull back Sam’s curtain, but a nearby voice stays my hand.

“Don’t you touch her.”

The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it. I lean over, peep through the slit between curtain and pole.

“Son, this will go a whole lot better for you if you cooperate. It’s no use struggling,” says the A-B who let me in. He and a black-suited man flank a pale woman laid out on a gurney. Aside from the sheet covering her torso and thighs, she appears naked. Her silver-and-black hair falls in waves to her hips. She looks strangely beautiful.

“Please don’t take her.” I shut one eye, cock my head, trying to get a better view, but all I see is a tanned leg, the beginnings of a hospital gown, and an arm cuffed to a chair.

“Tell me where the rest of your group is and I’ll make sure she gets a funeral,” Blacksuit says. He motions to the soldier, who rolls the gurney toward the curtain.

“Hey, Trish, hold up,” I say into the silent phone, then
wave to the soldier as he emerges from the room. “She going to be okay?”

Head shake. “How’s your brother?”

“Good.” I study the woman’s face. “What happened to her?”

“Found her”—he nods toward the curtain—“and her son at Dragon Hole. A strange lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was dressed like Amelia Earhart and her kid was wearing this Euro punk rocker getup.” He shakes his head. “I’ll never understand dragon riders.”

The voice, the overdramatic farmboy words, the beauty of the dead mother.

“He’s an insurgent?”

“So says the D-man.” He hooks a thumb at the curtain. “Ask me, he’s a few acorns short of a tree. It’s too bad you kids had to grow up in this world.” He draws the sheet over the woman’s face. “Glad your brother’s okay.”

I peek in on my way back to Sam. The D-man is on the phone, but not saying anything. I nudge back the curtain an inch. The clink of rings sliding on rod echoes loud in my ears, but he doesn’t notice.

James does. Those blue eyes watch me from a face blackened by smoke and haunted with grief. I swore if I ever saw him again, he would regret it. But now I can only think of
the terrible bond we share.

The curtain rattles above me.

“Protect the children.” The words come from my head. Sounds like Trish, but a bit deeper. Just like the last time atop Dragon Hill. Am I completely batshit—

The earth rumbles. The D-man pockets his phone. He looks at James, then to the curtain, his eyes widening when they find me.

“You’re that—”

A sharp jolt sends him sideways. He clutches at a trembling tent pole.

“You need to get out . . .,” James says, but the rest of his words are swallowed by an explosion of dragon sirens.

The Blues are on the rampage.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Fissures
rush through the tent, vicious subterranean claws that shred anything in their path. They come fast and straight, and when the tendrils of cracking earth reach me, they shift course and accelerate toward the D-man.

A section of asphalt shoots up through the canvas beneath his feet. He surfs the undulating chunk until a secondary tremor tips it over and he slams to the ground. The pole he clung to moments before crashes onto his head.

“Get out of here, Melissa,” James shouts above the blaring sirens. “It’s the Blues. They can’t control it much longer—”

“Then you’d better shut up, farmboy, and tell me where the keys are.”

He nods at the BoDA agent. “Left pants pocket.”

I drop and crawl over. The agent groans when I roll
him onto his side. His eyes are closed; blood pours from his scalp; a splinter of bone protrudes through his left pant leg. Biting my lip to keep from gagging, I fish through his pocket until I find the keys.

I’m lurching toward James when I hear Dad shouting my name. He sounds miles away, but when I pull back the curtain, he’s on the other side of the corridor, no more than ten feet from me. Sam’s slung over his shoulder. My brother’s eyes blink open. He gives me a dopey smile and a gleeful wave.

I steady myself against the worsening tremors and struggle to my feet. “In here, Dad.”

He spins around. “Come on!”

A nurse flashes past him, pistol in hand, and I’m suddenly aware of the patter of gunfire. Sounds like heavy rain, and it’s coming closer, along with the thunder of the dragon stampede.

“Go, Dad. Get Sam out of here. I’m coming!” I yell.

He looks at the agent, at the keys clutched in my hand. “What are you doing?”

Poles clatter to the ground. Sections of tent collapse. Dad stumbles sideways and collides with a gurney, nearly dropping Sam.

“Get out of here, Melissa!” James urges.

“Sam needs you, Dad. Go!” He doesn’t move. “Mom
was right about the dragons. They’re not here to hurt us. And they’re not going to hurt me.”

Dad glances toward the exit. “You know where to meet us?”

When we’re not running dragon shelter drills, we’re learning evac routes. “At Henley’s farm. Bet I’ll beat you there.”

“You better, Melissa Anne. Love you.” Then he and Sam are gone.

With the earth pitching me around, it takes a couple of tries to insert the key into the cuffs securing James’s hand. The latch clicks, the world shifts, I’m thrown sideways onto his lap.

He sets me on my feet, wraps an arm around my waist. Leaning on each other, we crouch-walk forward, the ground shaking every which way. We’re almost to the curtain when I hear the groan behind me.

I hesitate.

Another groan. I glance back. The D-man’s sprawled on a slab of asphalt that’s going crimson with blood. Even with our help, there’s no guarantee he’ll survive. But without it, he doesn’t have a chance.

“Help me get him.”

James tenses. “No.”

“He’ll die if we don’t help him.”

“Good.”

A tremor erupts beneath us, knocking over chairs, a cot, and the EKG machine. I stagger.

James offers me his hand. “Come on, Melissa, before it’s too late.”

“I’m not leaving him.” I maneuver my way around fallen medical equipment, a couple of poles rolling to the earthquake’s chant, and chunks of street poking through the tent floor.

The man’s eyes open when I grab his jacket collar. Panic, confusion, anger cross his face. He reaches for his gun. His eyes dart from me to James, and the panic and confusion disappear.

He pulls his gun in one quick motion.

I kick at his hand, but the earth gives beneath me and I lose my balance.