Torn (10 page)

Lying in this body bag was surreal. It was so quiet that all she could hear was their breathing. Lying there, alive and not dead like the others in the room, made her acutely aware of how lucky she was. It was all a matter of chance: if she hadn't been a Neither, she could have wound up in one of these bags under very different circumstances. Like Emilie. And Caitlyn.

And Cole.

She fought against the tears that threatened to overtake her, and Mercer pulled her close, comforting her. She shivered into him, wanting to reject his embrace but needing to accept it—they hadn't accounted for the sharp drop in temperature inside the storage facility, and goose bumps were forming on her exposed arms. They also hadn't thought about how long they'd have to wait. She burrowed closer to Mercer, his soft cotton shirt such a normal source of comfort that for a second she could imagine he was Cole and they were anywhere but here. She snuggled in, trying to generate body heat. Her teeth chattered. He drew her head toward his chest. She was about to say something to him, to explain why she was pulling herself close. Then they heard the footsteps.

Davis heard the door to the storage facility draw open. She reached into her pocket, withdrawing the chloroform and a scrap from an old pillowcase that she'd taken from her bed. She didn't open the chloroform yet. Timing was everything. If she acted too soon, she risked drugging the two of them.

Two sets of footsteps sounded against the cold stone floor: one heavier, and one much lighter and more rapid sounding. But the men weren't taking bodies and hauling them out like they were supposed to. Davis turned to Mercer, the question on her lips, but he silenced her with a finger.

“You got something good?” one of the workers asked, his voice muffled behind the air filtration mask all such workers were required to wear. Mercer knew from observation that the full-body suits and masks offered just enough coverage to guarantee anonymity.

“Gold watch. Could be better.” The second man's voice was higher, his speech less languid.

“Shoulda seen the ring I drug off someone last week,” the first guy bragged. “I'm hanging onto it awhile, getting a good value on it before I let it go.” They moved on, zipping and unzipping the bags.

“They're stealing off the bodies,” Davis whispered, horrified. “They're unzipping the bags.”

“We'll have to be quick,” Mercer told her.

“Did you hear something?” The guy with the deeper voice paused, his footsteps halting a few paces from the stack on which Davis and Mercer rested.

“Nah. Just nerves, man. You're always worried someone's gonna catch us. Like anyone wants to get near this shit.” He spoke so fast that Davis had trouble making out his words.

“I've just got this last stack here. You better start hauling 'em out.” The man was so close that Davis could catch a whiff of rank, musky body odor.

“Just don't pocket anything. Fifty-fifty split, like we agreed.”

“Yeah, I know.” Apparently satisfied, the second man bent, his knees creaking, and Davis could hear him beginning to push a cart away. The sound of his footsteps echoed loudly around the room as he retreated.

Davis felt the other man standing over their bag. He was so close she could hear him breathing. If he thought theirs looked lumpier or bigger than the rest, he wasn't giving any indication. Mercer dug his fingertips into her thigh, signaling for her to get ready. She slowly, carefully loosened the top of the bottle.

The man unzipped the bag.

Mercer reached out, grabbing him and knocking off his air filtration mask, as Davis doused the scrap of fabric in chloroform. Mercer and the worker struggled, and for a second, Davis couldn't get her bearings. The man let out a choking cough and his mask clattered to the floor. Then Davis reached for him, closing the rag around his nose and holding it there until his body fell limp to the floor.

“Hurry!” she hissed. Mercer stripped the guy of his uniform, and together they dragged him to the darkened side of the room where Mercer had found the stacks of unused body bags. They pulled him behind the stacks, and Mercer slipped on the man's uniform, zipping it all the way over his head and pulling the air filtration mask tightly over his face. He looked like a stranger. He motioned for her to step back inside the bag, and when she did, he bent low and picked her up, hauling her off to the barge.

 

 

A half hour or so later, Davis felt the boat beginning to bob slowly away from the shore. It was an eternity after that when she finally felt the zipper of her bag being pulled slowly down, felt a familiar hand reach for hers.

“I thought something had happened,” she breathed.

“I had to wait until it was dark to come,” he said, squatting beside her. “The other guys are eating below. We need to go now. There's a lifeboat just over there.” He nodded toward the side of the boat, just a few feet from where Davis lay. “That's why I put you here.”

“We're so close,” she said, her heart accelerating. Mercer nodded, squeezing her palm. He pulled her closer to him. He looked like he wanted to say something; his lips parted, and his eyes glittered in the dark.

“We need to go now,” she told him, getting to her feet. Whatever he wanted to say, she wasn't ready for it. Mercer lowered Davis into the lifeboat, grasping her firmly around the waist. She felt the boat rock steadily beneath her feet, felt freedom just inches away. Then Mercer untied the knot that held the lifeboat to the barge and leapt in after her, pushing off into the night.

They watched as the tinier boat separated from the larger vessel. The deck of the bigger boat, loaded with bodies, was otherwise quiet. Lights shone from the lower levels, but no one peered from the windows. If they had, they would have seen nothing, Davis imagined, other than what looked like a piece of bobbing driftwood. The night sky was cloudy, dark. And they were free.

“They'll hear of it soon,” Mercer said into the still night air.

“I'm sure they know already,” Davis echoed. “Dr. Grady would have looked for his key.”

“We'll make it,” he said. “We have a head start. They aren't prepared to handle this.”

Davis hoped he was right. He had to be right—everyone's lives depended on it. This time, her fingers reached for his first and curled around them, holding tight.

8

COLE

Cole had been toiling for nearly an hour, and he suspected at this point that Mari was just toying with him. But he had no choice, if he wanted to get on Braddock's good side. The tree still barely trembled each time he swung the enormous ax Mari had given him. His muscles burned, and his arms and back ached so much he could hardly heave the ax through the air. Flies and gnats swarmed around him, attracted to his sweat. He'd long since given up on swatting them away. He was drenched, thirsty, and tired. All he wanted in the world was clean water, but water was scarce out here in Open Country. Cole knew by now that Braddock paid a street kid to bring him an enormous case of water each month. Not many people were desperate enough to make the trek to Open Country, Braddock had told him. But he paid the kid well. Still, they had to be very careful to ration the drinking water. For bathing and cooking, they boiled the contaminated water from the nearby streams. Mari claimed her immune system was invincible, due to the toxins she'd probably absorbed as a kid.

Training,
Mari had said. But what the hell kind of training was whacking at a tree all day long? It helped to funnel all his frustrations into that tree—to pretend
the tree
had separated him from Davis;
the tree
had caused the riots that had destroyed so much of the Slants. Instead of absorbing his anger, though, whaling on the tree made him hungry for a fight. He needed a human opponent. And not a girl half his size. The fact that Mari was training him—and not the other way around—was starting to feel like some sort of joke. There was no way he'd be prepared for the Olympiads with a girl in charge of his training.

“How's it coming?” she asked, emerging from the house with a bottle of water.

“Are you sure?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows and took a long swig before offering him some. Cole accepted it gratefully. He knew the water was scarce. Still, he wasn't going to play nice. Not when she was putting him through such pointless torture just because he came from a city she hated. In her mind, he realized, he was almost as bad as the Priors she clearly despised.

“Not going too well, I guess?” She eyed the tree critically. “So maybe you'll fell it by the time the contest happens. Awesome.”

“I'm not really sure what this has to do with the Olympiads,” Cole told her. “Should I be thinking about competing in the Paul Bunyan division?”

“Ha-ha,” Mari said without humor. “But you're so right. This has pretty much nothing to do with the Olympiads.”

“What the hell, Mari?” Cole threw the ax on the ground. “So you're wasting my time.”

“Correction. It's
my
time
you're
wasting,” Mari said. “It's not like I'm getting paid to do this. The tree is for the table you're building to replace the one you broke. Once you're done, we'll talk Olympiads.”

“Right,” Cole muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Can't wait.” His lower back was stiff, and it hurt to twist his torso. His arms felt like dead weights attached to his shoulders. He hadn't eaten in hours. He would have killed for one of his mom's egg salad and green olive sandwiches just then. For a second, he missed his dank, dirty hideout—which had never seemed like anything more than a glorified prison but now was taking on the properties of a sanctuary, in his mind. His tattered cot and the few novels Worsley had brought him beckoned invitingly. Besides, this entire endeavor was pissing him off. It felt like he was achieving nothing, frittering away time.

“What's with the attitude?” Mari wanted to know. “As I recall, you came to us for help.”

“Not
you,
plural,” Cole corrected. “Your dad. Personally, I don't think I should be taking instructions from someone half my size. Especially someone who's pretty much a hermit.” Cole only sort of regretted saying it. Mostly, it felt like a relief.

“So that's what this is about. ‘Someone half my size.' You're mad because you're taking orders from a girl. Is that right?”

Cole didn't answer. She'd pretty much hit the nail on the head. But she'd missed one thing: he was also mad because she hated him for no reason. Like he didn't have enough to deal with beyond the latent rage of some girl who barely factored into his life.

“Suit yourself, pawn,” Mari said, her face furious. She stomped back into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Pawn?
That could only mean one thing. She thought he was some sort of lemming because he lived in Columbus, aka Priorville. Forget the Slants; forget what he'd gone through. And if she knew he was in love with a Prior, well.…

Cole kicked the tree and swore. Now his toe hurt. His back hurt. His arms were aching. And this whole stupid thing was pointless. He was better off going home, rethinking his strategy, training himself. Screw their table. If she hadn't attacked him, he wouldn't have broken it.

Cole was just past the front door when he heard a cough behind him. He turned to find Braddock on the front porch, sitting in his wheelchair, his arms crossed over his chest, a cigarette dangling from between his lips.

“You're making a mistake,” the old man said gruffly.

“This whole thing was a mistake,” Cole replied.

“No. With Mari. She might be small, but I trained her from the time she could walk. She knows more about athletics than you possibly could. She's seen the inside of the best training facilities in the country. Gyms were her playgrounds. The girl has lived and breathed FEUDS and Olympiads her whole life. She's seen all the best fighters, Prior and Gen. She's been with me from the beginning. She's sparred with the best. They all loved her, wanted to take her under their wings. She's the best and the smartest. You know why, kid?”

Cole didn't answer.

“I asked you a question. You know why? No? I'll tell you. It's because people like you underestimate her.
That.
That's her secret weapon. You think she's not fit to train you? You should be so lucky. Look around you.” The old man stared at him, long and hard. Cole opened his mouth, feeling his neck burn. He'd never felt like more of an asshole. The front yard where he stood was littered with medals and ribbons hanging from tree branches to support the weight of dozens of tiny feeders for birds. Evidence of Braddock's brilliance was all over the place. Clearly, Braddock knew what he was talking about. Cole swallowed hard, wishing he hadn't offended Braddock. He realized he was still hoping that if he played Braddock's game—trained with his daughter—maybe Braddock himself would eventually step in. This wasn't the way to earn his trust.

“I'm sorry,” he started, but Braddock waved him off and wheeled back inside, shaking his head.

Cole turned back around to find Mari standing on the lawn, her arms crossed. How long had she been watching?

“So?” She arched an eyebrow and Cole felt his face heat.

“Let's do this,” he said. He'd do whatever it took to get on Braddock's good side. “I'll chop that tree into planks if it takes me all night.”

She pursed her lips, waiting.

“I'm sorry,” Cole told her reluctantly. He knew he had to say it, and if he was honest with himself, it was true. “I was an ass. A complete idiot. I'm really, really sorry. I'm just used to.…”

“To being the best,” she finished. “To not having a girl call all the shots.”

Cole swallowed hard. “No. That's not it. Or at least, not all of it. I'm just … I have so much riding on this.”