Unravel Me (23 page)

Anderson releases his son. Pushes him so hard that Warner stumbles as he tries to
maintain his balance. His face is chalk-white. The sling wrapped around his arm is
seeping with blood.

“So much talk,” Anderson says, shaking his head. “So much talk and never enough follow-through.
You
embarrass
me,” he says to Warner, face twisted in repulsion. “You make me
sick
.”

A sharp crack.

Anderson backhands Warner in the face so hard Warner actually sways for a moment,
already unsteady from all the blood he’s losing. But he doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t make a sound.

He stands there, bearing the pain, blinking fast, jaw so tight, staring at his father
with absolutely no emotion on his face; there’s no indication he’s just been slapped
but the bright red mark across his cheek, his temple, and part of his forehead. But
his arm sling is more blood than cotton now, and he looks far too ill to be on his
feet.

Still, he says nothing.

“Do you want to threaten me again?” Anderson is breathing hard as he speaks. “Do you
still think you can defend your little girlfriend? You think I’m going to allow your
stupid infatuation to get in the way of everything I’ve built? Everything I’ve worked
toward?” Anderson’s gun is no longer pointed at me. He forgets me long enough to press
the barrel of his gun into Warner’s forehead, twisting it, jabbing it against his
skin as he speaks. “Have I taught you
nothing
?” he shouts. “Have you learned
nothing
from me—”

I don’t know how to explain what happens next.

All I know is that my hand is around Anderson’s throat and I’ve pinned him to the
wall, so overcome by a blind, burning, all-consuming rage that I think my brain has
already caught on fire and dissolved into ash.

I squeeze a little harder.

He’s sputtering. He’s gasping. He’s trying to get at my arms, clawing limp hands at
my body and he’s turning red and blue and purple and I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying
it so, so much.

I think I’m smiling.

I bring my face less than an inch away from his ear and whisper, “Drop the gun.”

He does.

I drop him and grab the gun at the same time.

Anderson is wheezing, coughing on the floor, trying to breathe, trying to speak, trying
to reach for something to defend himself with and I’m amused by his pain. I’m floating
in a cloud of absolute, undiluted hatred for this man and all that he’s done and I
want to sit and laugh until the tears choke me into a contented sort of silence. I
understand so much now. So much.

“Juliette—”

“Warner,” I say, so softly, still staring at Anderson’s body slumped on the floor
in front of me, “I’m going to need you to leave me alone right now.”

I weigh the gun in my hands. Test my finger on the trigger. Try to remember what Kenji
taught me about taking aim. About keeping my hands and arms steady. Preparing for
the kickback—the recoil—of the shot.

I tilt my head. Take inventory of his body parts.

“You,” Anderson finally manages to gasp, “you—”

I shoot him in the leg.

He’s screaming. I think he’s screaming. I can’t really hear anything anymore. My ears
feel stuffed full of cotton, like someone might be trying to speak to me or maybe
someone is shouting at me but everything is muffled and I have too much to focus on
right now to pay attention to whatever annoying things are happening in the background.
All I know is the reverberation of this weapon in my hand. All I hear is the gunshot
echoing through my head. And I decide I’d like to do it again.

I shoot him in the other leg.

There’s so much screaming.

I’m entertained by the horror in his eyes. The blood ruining the expensive fabric
of his clothes. I want to tell him he doesn’t look very attractive with his mouth
open like that but then I think he probably wouldn’t care about my opinion anyway.
I’m just a silly girl to him. Just a silly little girl, a stupid child with a pretty
face who’s too much of a coward, he said, too much of a coward to defend herself.
And oh, wouldn’t he like to
keep
me. Wouldn’t he like to
keep
me as his little pet. And I realize no. I shouldn’t bother sharing my thoughts with
him. There’s no point wasting words on someone who’s about to die.

I take aim at his chest. Try to remember where the heart is.

Not quite to the left. Not quite in the center.

Just—
there
.

Perfect.

I am a thief.

I stole this notebook and this pen from one of the doctors, from one of his lab coats
when he wasn’t looking, and I shoved them both down my pants. This was just before
he ordered those men to come and get me. The ones in the strange suits with the thick
gloves and the gas masks with the foggy plastic windows hiding their eyes. They were
aliens, I remember thinking. I remember thinking they must’ve been aliens because
they couldn’t have been human, the ones who handcuffed my hands behind my back, the
ones who strapped me to my seat. They stuck Tasers to my skin over and over for no
reason other than to hear me scream but I wouldn’t. I whimpered but I never said a
word. I felt the tears streak down my cheeks but I wasn’t crying.

I think it made them angry.

They slapped me awake even though my eyes were open when we arrived. Someone unstrapped
me without removing my handcuffs and kicked me in both kneecaps before ordering me
to rise. And I tried. I tried but I couldn’t and finally 6 hands shoved me out the
door and my face was bleeding on the concrete for a while. I can’t really remember
the part where they dragged me inside.

I feel cold all the time.

I feel empty, like there is nothing inside of me but this broken heart, the only organ
left in this shell. I feel the bleats echo within me, I feel the thumping reverberate
around my skeleton. I have a heart, says science, but I am a monster, says society.
And I know it, of course I know it. I know what I’ve done. I’m not asking for sympathy.

But sometimes I think—sometimes I wonder—if I were a monster, surely, I would feel
it by now?

I would feel angry and vicious and vengeful. I’d know blind rage and bloodlust and
a need for vindication.

Instead I feel an abyss within me that’s so deep, so dark I can’t see within it; I
can’t see what it holds. I do not know what I am or what might happen to me.

I do not know what I might do again.

An explosion.

The sound of glass shattering.

Someone yanks me back just as I pull the trigger and the bullet hits the window behind
Anderson’s head.

I’m spun around.

Kenji is shaking me, shaking me so hard I feel my head jerk back and forth and he’s
screaming at me, telling me we have to go, that I need to drop the gun, he’s breathing
hard and he’s saying, “I’m going to need you to walk away, okay? Juliette? Can you
understand me? I need you to back off right now. You’re going to be okay—you’re going
to be all right—you’re going to be fine, you just have to—”

“No, Kenji—” I’m trying to stop him from pulling me away, trying to keep my feet planted
where they are because he doesn’t understand. He needs to understand. “I have to kill
him. I have to make sure he dies,” I’m telling him. “I just need you to give me another
second—”

“No,” he says, “not yet, not right now,” and he’s looking at me like he’s about to
break, like he’s seen something in my face that he wishes he’d never seen, and he
says, “We can’t. We can’t kill him yet. It’s too soon, okay?”

But it’s not okay and I don’t understand what’s happening but Kenji is reaching for
my hand, he’s prying the gun out of the fingers I didn’t realize were wrapped so tightly
around the handle. And I’m blinking. I feel confused and disappointed. I look down
at my hands. At my suit. And I can’t understand for a moment where all the blood came
from.

I glance at Anderson.

His eyes are rolled back in his head. Kenji is checking his pulse. Looks at me, says,
“I think he fainted.” And my body has begun to shake so violently I can hardly stand.

What have I done.

I back away, needing to find a wall to cling to, something solid to hold on to and
Kenji catches me, he’s holding me so tightly with one arm and cradling my head with
his other hand and I feel like I might want to cry but for some reason I can’t. I
can’t do anything but endure these tremors rocking the length of my entire frame.

“We have to go,” Kenji says to me, stroking my hair in a show of tenderness I know
is rare for him. I close my eyes against his shoulder, wanting to draw strength from
his warmth. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks me. “I need you to walk with me, all
right? We’ll have to run, too.”

“Warner,” I gasp, ripping out of Kenji’s embrace, eyes wild. “Where’s—”

He’s unconscious.

A heap on the floor. Arms bound behind his back, an empty syringe tossed on the carpet
beside him.

“I took care of Warner,” Kenji says.

Suddenly everything is slamming into me all at the same time. All the reasons why
we were supposed to be here, what we were trying to accomplish in the first place,
the reality of what I’ve done and what I was about to do. “Kenji,” I’m gasping, “Kenji,
where’s Adam? What happened? Where are the hostages? Is everyone okay?”

“Adam is fine,” he reassures me. “We slipped in the back door and found Ian and Emory.”
He looks toward the kitchen area. “They’re in pretty bad shape, but Adam’s hauling
them out, trying to get them to wake up.”

“What about the others? Brendan? A-and Winston?”

Kenji shakes his head. “I have no idea. But I have a feeling we’ll be able to get
them back.”

“How?”

Kenji nods at Warner. “We’re going to take this kid hostage.”

“What?
”

“It’s our best bet,” he says to me. “Another trade. A real one, this time. Besides,
it’ll be fine. You take away his guns, and this golden boy is harmless.” He walks
toward Warner’s unmoving figure. Nudges him with the toe of his boot before hauling
him up, flipping Warner’s body over his shoulder. I can’t help but notice that Warner’s
injured arm is now completely soaked through with blood.

“Come on,” Kenji says to me, not unkindly, eyes assessing my frame like he’s not sure
if I’m stable yet. “Let’s get out of here—it’s insanity out there and we don’t have
much time before they move into this street—”

“What?” I’m blinking too fast. “What do you mean—”

Kenji looks at me, disbelief written across his features. “The
war
, princess. They’re all fighting to the death out there—”

“But Anderson never made the call—he said they were waiting for a word from him—”

“No,” Kenji says. “Anderson didn’t make the call. Castle did.”

Oh

God.

“Juliette!”

Adam is rushing into the house, whipping around to find my face until I run forward
and he catches me in his arms without thinking, without remembering that we don’t
do this anymore, that we’re not together anymore, that he shouldn’t be touching me
at all. “You’re okay—you’re
okay
—”

“LET’S GO,” Kenji barks for the final time. “I know this is an emotional moment or
whatever, but we have to get our asses the hell out of here. I swear, Kent—”

But Kenji stops.

His eyes drop.

Adam is on his knees, a look of fear and pain and horror and anger and terror etched
into every line on his face and I’m trying to shake him, I’m trying to get him to
tell me what’s wrong and he can’t move, he’s frozen on the ground, his eyes glued
to Anderson’s body, his hands reaching out to touch the hair that was so perfectly
set almost a moment ago and I’m begging him to speak to me, begging him to tell me
what happened and it’s like the world shifts in his eyes, like nothing will ever be
right in this world and nothing can ever be good again and he parts his lips.

He tries to speak.

“My father,” he says. “This man is my father.”

“Shit.”

Kenji presses his eyes shut like he can’t believe this is happening. “Shit shit
shit
.” He shifts Warner against his shoulders, wavers between being sensitive and being
a soldier and says, “Adam, man, I’m sorry, but we really have to get out of here—”

Adam gets up, blinking back what I can only imagine are a thousand thoughts, memories,
worries, hypotheses, and I call his name but it’s like he can’t even hear it. He’s
confused, disoriented, and I’m wondering how this man could possibly be his father
when Adam told me his dad was dead.

Now is not the time for these conversations.

Something explodes in the distance and the impact rattles the ground, the windows,
the doors of this house, and Adam seems to snap back to reality. He jumps forward,
grabs my arm, and we’re bolting out the door.

Kenji is in the lead, somehow managing to run despite the weight of Warner’s body,
limp, hanging over his shoulder, and he’s shouting at us to stay close behind. I’m
spinning, analyzing the chaos around us. The sounds of gunshots are too close too
close too close.

“Where are Ian and Emory?” I ask Adam. “Did you get them out?”

“A couple of our guys were fighting not too far from here and managed to commandeer
one of the tanks—I got them to carry those two back to Point,” he tells me, shouting
so I can hear him. “It was the safest transport possible.”

I’m nodding, gasping for air as we fly through the streets and I’m trying to focus
on the sounds around us, trying to figure out who’s winning, trying to figure out
if our numbers have been decimated. We round the corner.

You’d think it’d be a massacre.

50 of our people are fighting against 500 of Anderson’s soldiers, who are unloading
round after round, shooting at anything that could possibly be a target. Castle and
the others are holding their ground, bloody and wounded but fighting back as best
they can. Our men and women are armed and storming forward to match the shots of the
opposition; others are fighting the only way they know how: one man has his hands
to the ground, freezing the earth beneath the soldiers’ feet, causing them to lose
balance; another man is darting through the soldiers with such speed he’s nothing
but a blur, confusing the men and knocking them down and stealing their guns. I look
up and see a woman hiding in a tree, throwing what must be knives or arrows in such
rapid succession that the soldiers don’t have a moment to react before they’re hit
from above.