The Isle (18 page)

“
L
ab Security to Base,” a quaking guard says into his cuffcomm. “Lab Security to Base.
The prisoners are out
, I repeat,
the prisoners are out.
I need backup immediately!” He pulls out his baton, knowing it's useless against these numbers. Still, he takes a fighting stance. “Get back!”

“You can't keep us here! Not now!” one man at the front cries, lights haloing his black hair. He has a bulldog's face and is the largest in the room by far. “We heard the radio-cast.” His raised fist is bigger than my head.

Behind him, more prisoners flood the hall, a nonstop current. The strongest are first, men and women neither old nor young, but somewhere in the middle, where the sickness doesn't strike as hard. Their breathing is heavy. Tidal. No one wheezes, and there's not one tumor between them. They
push toward us, fists swinging.

If the strongest are at the front, leading the charge, then the ones farther back are just waking up, snailing into motion—they didn't break the observation glass, they just walked through it. The water works right before our eyes: it shrinks their tumors, leaving flaps of stretched skin behind, then taking those too.

Some are holding each other and hugging, weeping into rags.

Some are angrier than that.

As the comm's clock ticks on, they grow stronger.

“We want to see the governor!” a woman yells, her voice singing with challenge. She steps forward—the overhead lights flash against her dark cheeks, and she looks sharp, like broken glass.

Somebody recognizes me—

“That's her,” I hear a voice say. “That's the girl who said she'd come back for us.” It's an accusation and a hope wrapped all in one.

Everyone's looking at me, expecting me to keep my promise. But . . . it wasn't supposed to happen like
this
: a mob out of the history lessons, crying for their king's head on a stick.

From a second stairwell past the observation room, at least two dozen men in blue fatigues and black boots tear through the corridor, more still behind them. “Back! Back into Quarantine!”

Officers run toward the flood, small black spheres in their hands, which they loose into the crowd. The things hiss, releasing puffs of chemical gas. We cover our eyes as the
prisoners retreat from the smoke-filled hall.

No
, I think, adrenaline lacing my blood like a drug.
They're not sick anymore.

I cough out the gas, eyes stinging, and reach for the ID scanner. My Mimic hovers over it.

“Don't open that door!” the guard next to me barks. His baton swings in the air. “Remove your hand from the scanner and step away.” My spine sends off sparks, each vertebrae itching with movement.

They deserve to see the governor.
We all do.
I feel around behind me for the scanner.
They can't go back.

I lay my finger down, and then I press.

The door clicks twice, opening into the wide glass tunnel. Ter and Sipu grab for my scrubs through the smoke, and together we bolt. The causeway stretches on for a mile. An alarm sounds all around us, roaring like an animal in our ears. As we run, the floor panels light up red ahead of us.

At our heels, five hundred.

They cover their eyes and jog through chemical smoke, headed for the tunnel where the air's clearer. The first of them will hit the governor's in ten minutes. Less, possibly, with the water running through their veins. They dodge the fumes, then trample the checkpoint. Their gait is unbalanced as they pick up speed. But the longer the water has a chance to work, the faster they move—soon, the glass tube is packed with bodies. It groans under the weight of a thousand feet. Some are running. Others, still too weak from dehydration or not enough food, lag behind.

All just want to get away, get out.

On our right, we pass the door to the lot. We run between an underwater forest, dead, shrouded in dark green algae. We pass ghost cars and old, toothless buildings, seaweed swaying out their windows. In the distance is the door to the governor's mansion. . . .

It's thrown open, and a pack of Blues comes flying through, at least a dozen holding shooters—how Ren was netted.

But the Blues weren't aiming to kill her.

Us, however, they probably are. Ter and I freeze, but Sipu pulls us close to the glass, pressed there like it's the safest place to be.

Smart
, I realize. She must think the guards won't fire into it and risk flooding the tunnel.

The DI hold, waiting for the stampeding five hundred. They're not worried about us anymore—there's a flood coming and they've got to hold it back. When the gap closes, they release the darts, cracking in the air, finding homes in shoulders and thighs and stomachs.

The woman with the broken-glass face is the first to fall, metal piercing her collarbone. I stop breathing.

Is this why I let them out? So they could die like
this
?
I'm spinning in circles and everyone is falling. I see the little girl—the one Ter was talking to. She crumples to the ground three feet away.

Somewhere in there is Mrs. Bedrosian and Miss Nale. . . .

I close my eyes. Ter huddles over my body, protecting me like a shell. I hear someone crying.

I think it's me.

Then a hush fills the air, and I hear people murmuring to
one another. Through my knees I see the first woman who fell. In her hand she's holding a bloodied dart. She spits, and she throws the dart on the floor. Her shirt is painted red all the way to her waist. Winding her arm up like a toy, or a pitcher, she flexes her neck from side to side and keeps on walking. And she's not the only one—others pull darts from kneecaps and necks, blood fountaining onto the floor. They howl with the pain of it, whimpering on the ground, until it stops.

The water—it's closing their wounds.

No one understands, because there isn't time to understand. They look to one another, to the causeway's glass ceiling—they cry into the red, lit floor.

They understand only two things: they're
alive
, and they can
fight back
.

Standing, the prisoners aim their darts at the officers.

“Officer Hardy to Chief Dunn: The situation has not been contained.
We need more backup
. The darts aren't working; I repeat, the darts are ineffective!”

The dog-faced man with the black halo raises his fist to the air. “
We will
not
be contained
,” he growls. His voice is a spark.

“We will see the governor. You have no way to stop us.”

“To the governor!” someone else shouts.

The DI faces flush with fear; they hold the shooters with a perfect army stance, but their barrels shake. They fire anyway, again and again. But everyone knows you can't poke holes in a dam. It only makes the water mad.

The gates are open. The prisoners cannot be stopped.
Tattered rags force themselves against blue uniforms—and the Blues don't stand a chance.

They trample the first DI troop, still firing off rounds that slow, but don't stop them. When they hit the ID checkpoint, someone drags a fallen officer to the scanner. They press his limp finger down, and the door opens.

“To the governor!” they repeat.

It's a battle cry.

T
ime and speed and gravity all catch up to us at once. Inside the mansion, it's become
impossibly
loud.

When I check my comm to find it's only been about twenty minutes, I'm floored. Derek and I separate, no longer able to ignore Earth's pesky planetary rules. Looking through the window, the coast seems clear, but the window's locked. I reach under my dress for the knife still strapped to my thigh and use it to whittle away the frame, creating a hole around the metal bolt. Soon as it's big enough, I dig my finger in and I push the bar aside. The window pops open, and Derek and I jump through.

Even from the servants' stairwell on the fourth floor we can hear the people yelling. Shouts fill every one of the mansion's crevices, growing louder as we follow the stairs down.

At the first floor, Derek slows.

“Bring out the governor!”

“We want Voss!”

“Find him!”

This is
not
how I'd expected a hundred wealthy West Isle folks to uproar.

I knew they'd be upset, but in a righteous, moralistic sort of way. This is different. There's real anger out there, hot-blooded and unrestrained. The sound of people taking it personally, like
they've
been the ones getting sick because of Voss.

Pushing me up into the stairwell, Derek whispers, “Back, get back. Voss is right there.”

Sure enough, Voss stands at the end of hall, the balcony behind him. He's surrounded by a group of officers, outside of the same room where I'd left Emilce dead in her cot. My stomach turns. He whispers something to Chief Dunn, and in the dim hallway lights, Voss's eyes are glistening and red.

He knows
.

“Bring him out!” voices call from the ballroom. “Where are you, Voss?”

Will he do it? Will he face everyone?

He makes his way to the balcony. His footsteps are as slow and purposeful as a dead man walking the plank. There, his guards split up. Four cut off the stairwell that leads to the balcony, and the remaining two flank him, one on either side. Dunn's out of sight, way to the left.

Voss raises his hand to the crowd. “Quiet,” I hear him say over the shouting. “Quiet, please.”

The yelling subdues but not enough for him to speak—Dunn steps in. “Silence in the room!” he barks through a megaphone. That does the trick. The people quiet.

“First, I ask of you all a moment of silence for my beloved wife, Emilce. She passed away not thirty minutes ago. I understand your anger and confusion, but please . . . a moment for the dead.
All
of the dead.” With that, he bows his head.

In the building's deeper recesses, I can still hear angry voices. But here in the ballroom, they're silent. It makes me sick, but I gotta give him credit for knowing how to capitalize on sympathy points.

After a minute, Voss raises his head. “By now you've seen the broadcast, wherein I appear to admit having created the Blight.”

Appear
to admit? He's gonna deny it?

“People!” he cries, pointing to the room where Emilce died. “My own wife is dead, a victim of the virus just as you are!”

The convenient lie rolls right off his tongue, but then I wonder—
who is he even speaking to?
Victims of the virus? Not too much of that here on the Isle.

So I can get a better look, I crouch past Derek. “Ren, don't,” he warns, grabbing my arm and holding me back. Both my fists ball up. If I were a fly on this gaudy gold wallpaper, I'd see he's right. In some smart, objective corner of my mind, I know it's true. But I'm not a fly. I hear Voss lying, always lying, and I'm not human anymore.

“People!” the governor cries. “I am not responsible for the
death of my wife! I did not create this virus!”

Grinding my teeth, fists tight, I jerk myself free of Derek's grip. Our eyes meet. He blinks, confused. Shocked. I back away.

The blurring hallway calls my name.

I'm sucked underwater, where all sound dies except for my beast made of teeth. I thought I'd never have to see it again. I thought I could get rid of it by ruining him. It never went away, though.

He can't go on
, it insists, gnashing for my lungs and for my heart, and then I'm not me anymore—I've been consumed from the inside. I'm running toward the balcony, and I don't know if Derek follows. I don't know anything beyond the shrieking need for justice and vengeance, and for the return of every moment where Aven and I suffered.

It's like I've been unplugged from my very self; the wires of my muscles won't connect to the wires in my brain. I feel my feet pounding through the corridor, and to my left, the leaves of a potted tree shivering at my ear. They're red. Star-shaped. Blood in my periphery. I feel my hand reaching for the blade still at my thigh. Then there is a hilt in my hand. I watch as the balcony nears. People see me now. They see the steel and its flashing promise.

I watch everyone watching me. They're in ragged, browned clothes, not Isle finery. Tucked beside the silk white drapes, I recognize a face. A girl, an old racing fan; she gave me fresh just because she liked me. Standing deeper in the crowd, the homeless guy who always hit me up for green to cover his Dagger addiction.

These are
not
guests
, I realize.
They're the prisoners
.

I imagine a flash of moon-yellow hair, but that can't be—

And then . . .

Miss Nale?

“No!” she hollers, lunging for me from the bottom of the stairwell. Her graying hair loosens from the same bun she always wore. I freeze as she tries to push past the DI.

The ballroom falls silent.

“Don't! He's
—
”

Her face contorts like wet clay. “He's your—” She repeats it over and over, unable to finish.

He's your, he's your
. . .

My ears hear nothing.

Then, after a dozen incomplete sentences, her mouth forms the final word.

R
en?

Watching, my vision blurs. I grip Ter's hand—an officer chases after her. She rushes for the hallway, and I lose sight of them. As I cover my mouth to keep from crying out, the prisoners raise their hands and cheer. They wouldn't have minded seeing the governor die then and there.

“They won't find her . . . there are too many people,” Ter reassures, and I hope he's right. The cheering continues, and someone throws something into the balcony. It misses, landing in the crowd with a crash.

“He's lying,” Sipu says, weary. Sinking against the wall, she pulls a hand through her hair.

“How do you know?” Ter asks.

“Think about it. What might he have to gain from creating a deadly disease?”

“The cure . . . ,” I whisper, covering my mouth.

“Exactly. He'd sent it to Kitaneh as a threat, thinking she'd tell him where the spring was. She did not. She did not consult me, nor Derek, nor Lucas. I only found out later, when other things she'd said didn't add up.” Sipu grimaces at the chaotic room.

Now I understand why she wanted to help . . . why it was so important that these prisoners be sick with the Blight. The Blight itself is what she feels most guilty about.

More people have taken to throwing things into the balcony: Silver forks sail between the banisters, landing at the governor's feet. He ducks as empty water flutes miss and shatter in the air like glass fireworks.

“Control them!” Governor Voss commands, fever-pitched over the crowd.

A foghorn sounds.

Above us, the glass chandelier shivers. A dart cracks as it's fired into the air, sailing for him. The whole room falls quiet, watching, as it lodges itself directly into his chest.

Voss, clutching his side, sways on the balcony. In that moment, his face ages a hundred years. The lines in his skin become deep, ancient caverns. His flesh sags even lower, as though his face were just a mask.

“Get him out of here!” Chief Dunn barks to the closest officer.

Like turning a volume dial up all at once, the room roars. Cheers ring out, people's fists lift into the air. Chief Dunn
steps behind the governor, catching him as he sinks to the ground. Only half of his collared white shirt is still white. A thick red stain spreads from under the fabric, just over his rib cage. He's wheezing, gasping for air. A trickle of pinkish foam runs off one corner of his mouth.

I pull my eyes away, unable to look.

“Kitaneh,”
I hear Sipu breathe behind me. I follow her gaze to the back corner of the room. There, a black-haired girl in the servant uniform has dropped an empty shooter onto the ground. Smugly, she watches as Voss is wheeled off the balcony, coughing up red.

She senses us, and raises her head. Our eyes meet.

Voss might be dead, or dying, but nothing in her look says she's done with any of us.