Chapter 14 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
I blink blood out of my eyes for the third time, then wipe at my fresh head wound with a shaking hand. Red smears across my
fingers as I turn on the nav lights and shut off the radio before doing a few quick, preflight checks. I monitor the engine
pressure as it rumbles louder, rising in RPM. This plane was receiving maintenance, but I don’t know whether it was for a
routine check or a more serious issue.
There’s a chance something’s wrong with it.
A quick scan of the systems tells me that fuel levels are low; the tire pressure in one wheel is suboptimal. There’s a flashing
alert for an issue I can’t decipher, and a distinct, concerning rattle rises up from the engine as it accelerates, the cockpit
reverberating with a force that shudders through my shattered body.
I have no doubt my ankle is broken.
I’m afraid to look too closely at the rest of me.
I can feel that my lip is split, swollen and bleeding; the inflamed touch of my skin tells me I’m running a fever; my inability to duck my head without losing my equilibrium says I have a serious concussion.
I’m otherwise in so much pain that one injury is indecipherable from another, my body throbbing as a single unit.
But I’ve collapsed so far inside myself I’ve managed to deaden all sensations to a manageable agony, survival instincts overriding everything but my mind, my desperate need to get out of here.
My eyes dart to the windows, the glow of the moon in the storm. I hear the clamor of voices below—
Gunfire hits the glass with a violence that rattles my shot nerves, spiderweb cracks forming along the windshield. The bullet-resistant
windows can sustain only so much before they lose efficacy.
My pulse quickens.
It’s taking longer than necessary for the engine to reach a stable operating speed. I take a chance pushing open the throttle
a little more, but the rattle only gets worse. Panic threatens to crowd my head.
There’s no time. I’m out of time.
These seconds I have now were stolen from the future, meted out against the will of fate.
I have to work quickly or die.
It feels impossible that I even made it inside the cockpit, but I’m not yet beyond reach. I managed to knock down one of the
two rolling safety ladders leading up to the aircraft, but I couldn’t collapse the other, nearly taking a bullet in the throat
as I tried to shove it out of reach, my body shaking with exhaustion. The ladder is now separated from the passenger door
by several feet, but it won’t be long before—
More gunfire cracks the windshield, each shot landing like a small explosion in my eardrums. I grit my teeth, begging the engine to cooperate as I take a risk and fully open the throttle.
I lick my split lip; taste blood; try to breathe.
The jet finally accelerates, and my heart nearly gives out as the plane begins to move forward. I’m breathing so hard my lungs
are tired, but a whisper of relief moves through me as I reach for the nose wheel, ready to maneuver the plane out of the
hangar and onto the runway.
It’s going to be okay—I’m going to get out of here—
I flinch as a fresh round of shots ricochet off the steel body, a few more making contact with the windows. A final shot shatters
the windshield entirely, and I duck almost too late, the bullet grazing my shoulder, burying itself in the seat behind me.
I stifle a cry as the pain takes my breath away, cold winds sweeping rain into the cockpit as an alarm blares, a flashing
indicator informing me that the pressurization system has malfunctioned.
Without a perfect seal, the jet won’t be able to maintain cabin pressure once I’m in the air; but I’m not concerned about
maintaining oxygen levels at high altitude. I don’t need to ascend that far in order to escape. I might freeze to death, but
at least I’ll be able to breathe.
They think I’m trying to fly all the way home.
I just need to get far enough away.
The jet is picking up speed, the nose pushing farther out the hangar as I drive forward, granting me better cover for gunfire.
With a shaking hand I unzip the neck of my costume, retrieving what’s left of the slim chocolate bar still stashed against my sternum.
It’s broken in several places and at least partly melted—but the wrapper is still managing to hold most of the pieces together.
I place this tattered miracle on the interface.
If I can manage to get this plane above ten thousand feet I’ll be thrilled. I’ll grab the emergency kit before I eject; and
then I’ll find time to reset my bones, stitch up my wounds, bring down this fever. I’ll be fine. I’ll find somewhere safer
to hide. I’ll have time to heal while I regroup. I’ll get home in one piece. I’ll save Clara. I’ll bring her chocolate.
I’ll burn the Ark to the ground.
I comfort myself with these lies the way a corrupt government comforts its people: tending a wound by tying the bandage so
tight you don’t realize you’re being killed by the same hands promising to save you.
I realize I’m likely sentencing myself to death.
But I’d rather go to my grave knowing I gave everything in the effort to get to Clara. I won’t give up now, not for the pretense
of survival, not to chain myself to a new master in The New Republic, not for a lifetime of wondering whether I could’ve tried
harder to save my sister, to annihilate an oppressor.
My priorities have never been so clear.
The plane moves smoothly as we exit the mouth of the hangar, the rattle of the engine quieting, and hope begins to unfurl
dangerously in my chest even as the sound of gunfire scores my desperate exit.
Nearly there.
Blood drips off my chin onto the aircraft interface with a steady pat pat, and the spatter is soon distracting; I wipe haphazardly at my cheek, guessing at the source of the wound, then wipe the
blood off the screens only to smear everything in red.
My hands are trembling badly.
I’m not sure what will be left of me by the end of this, but I am the monster they made me. If I manage to survive I will
destroy The Reestablishment for doing this to me—for lying to me, for torturing my sister—for thinking they could use and
discard me without suffering the consequences.
Ten years they spent slowly disassembling my soul, and I was stupid enough to believe that after they’d annihilated my humanity
I might be rewarded with freedom. It’s the promise of retribution that keeps my heart beating, my broken body moving. There’s
no use feeling anything other than anger right now. I refuse to succumb to fear. I’ll die before I ever surrender my mind
again.
And when I go down, I’ll take them down with me.
Bullets continue to riddle the aircraft body at steady intervals, my frayed nerves recoiling at every sound, my ears ringing
in pain.
I grip the nose wheel tighter.
I navigate the aircraft onto the tarmac, using my one good foot to manipulate the rudder pedals, aligning the nose wheel with
the center of the runway.
I take a deep, steadying breath.
“ROSABELLE—”