Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
As I turn the corner to my street, I flinch, pulling my car up so short that the vehicle behind me honks its horn.
With my brain already dull from panic, it takes me a moment to realize what I’m staring at: The mountains lining the horizon, usually a pretty sight to welcome me home at the end of the day, are on fire.
The flames are bright and intense, bright orange and yellow covering the rolling peaks. Thick clouds of smoke rise above them.
They look almost like a freshly erupted volcano, lit up and menacing in the darkness of the night. The sight is disturbing. It feels almost—
Blood, and fire, and pillars of smoke.
—apocalyptic.
After scrubbing myself raw in the shower, I wrap myself in a robe and pour myself a generous glass of my quickly dwindling whiskey.
My usual view from my armchair is marred by the mountains on the horizon, their fires only seeming to burn hotter in the black night.
The news says it’s a wildfire caused by a lightning storm in the mountains.
I’m not sure if I believe it. Especially after I saw blood pour from a faucet today. It seems it was contained to the MRF, but still, it left me shaken. Even Director Wright and Barnes seemed at a loss about how to handle it.
Whatever is happening to Sixteen, it’s escalating. Every time I close my eyes, I see those wings bursting from his bloodied back again.
After drawing the curtains against the grim sight of the mountains, I retreat to my bedroom. I set my glass on the nightstand and hesitate before crouching to open a drawer.
The box waits inside. I always bring it with me when I move, no matter how short the stay is. I haven’t opened it in many years, yet still I drag it with me, unwilling to let it go.
I hesitantly flip the top open, waving away the dust motes that shimmer in the air.
Inside the plain wooden box sit the only two relics that remain of my childhood: my mother’s silver cross necklace and my old Bible.
I stare at the former before reaching for the latter, running my fingertips gently over the cracked leather cover.
I used to clutch this book in my small, chubby hands as I walked to church every morning. Following along diligently as the preacher ranted and raved at the pulpit.
It’s been twenty-five years since that day—nearly twenty-six, I realize with a lurch, but I quickly push that thought away—but the weight of the Bible still feels familiar in my hand.
With hesitant fingers, I flip open to a random page. A line, circled in pencil, catches my eyes, and I can hear the echo of the preacher’s words in my ears.
On the wing of abominations shall come one who makes desolate…
I slam the book shut again, swallowing hard, forcing the image of dark feathers and blood out of my mind. I shut the box and the drawer and sink onto the edge of my mattress, pressing my face into my hands.
Years after the massacre of the cult, when I was old enough to truly understood what I had survived, I wondered what the preacher was thinking that day.
What he felt as he gazed from the pulpit at the corpses of his flock.
Did he flee in humiliation after realizing his prediction was false, or was he just an evil man who had never believed his own teachings?
I eventually decided it didn’t matter if he believed or not. He was vile either way.
So why do I keep remembering his words lately? And why am I seeing his warnings of the apocalypse everywhere I look?
Blood, and fire, and—
On the wing of abominations—
“Shut up,” I groan, pressing my face into my hands, trying to make the thoughts stop.
Do I seriously think there is a chance that preacher may have been right? And that the end of the world might be tied to X-16, of all people? Do I really think he’s… What? An omen of the end times?
The Antichrist?
The Harbinger. Those were the words the preacher always used.
I force myself to laugh, the sound hollow in the emptiness of my bedroom.
The idea is ridiculous. All of it, ridiculous.
I’m sure those fires in the mountains have nothing to do with Sixteen.
The water turning to blood was…unnerving, but not apocalyptic.
Sixteen is strange, and what’s happening to him is horrific, but it isn’t biblical.
Yet after a moment’s hesitation, I find myself reaching for the box in my nightstand again. I take my mother’s old cross necklace and slip it around my neck, securing the delicate golden chain and then tucking both it and the holy symbol beneath my shirt.
The next morning, I head straight toward Sixteen’s room. I need to make sure he’s recovering. I can’t get the image of the last time I saw him out of my head—limp and pale with those bloody wings.
On the wing of abominations—
No. Fuck. I need to stop.
My head’s a mess, and I’m lost in my own thoughts as I round the corner and run straight into Barnes. He grabs me by the shoulder to steady me, his brow furrowed in concern.
“I was just on the way to find you, Hawkins. You good?”
“Yeah, I—” I blow out a breath, push my bangs out of my face, try to regain my composure.
I know that I’m in trouble with Barnes—I disobeyed protocol yesterday—and I should probably apologize, or at least defend myself, but right now it’s hard to think about anything other than X-16.
“Just wanted to check on Sixteen first. How is he?”
Barnes looks at me for a long moment before saying, “Stable.” He releases my shoulder and nods toward X-16’s cell. “Come on, we can talk in the observation room.”
Barnes is quiet as he leads me into the room and opens the shutters. As metal slides back to reveal the room, the pressure in my chest eases.
It’s such a relief to see X-16 conscious, sitting up in bed, with the blood washed off his porcelain skin.
Yet my throat constricts at the sight of wings hanging loosely from his back, the feathers black and glossy as a spill of oil across the ocean.
Pretty, yet disturbing, as it’s impossible to forget the blood and pain they came with.
Impossible not to notice, too, that it’s made him look somehow…
different. Somehow more, and yet—less human.
The shadow of his wings makes him appear bigger under the fluorescent lights, his silhouette angular and strange.
His face looks different—sharper, almost, with shadows like bruises under his red eyes.
He’s naked from the waist up, exposing a tapestry of black veins and red eyes.
A blanket is draped over his waist, and he doesn’t appear to be wearing anything else.
His feet are bare on the tile, black feathers sprouting along his ankles.
“Has nobody gotten him any fucking clothes?” I ask, bristling, as I turn to Barnes.
Instead of pushing back at my tone, he holds his hands up as if in surrender.
“We tried. I tried.” He shrugs, lowering his hands.
“We’re not sure what to do about the wings, so shirts are off the table for now.
And apparently wearing any bottoms, even loose ones, was…
uncomfortable. The fabric irritates, uh, the eyes.
One appeared on his thigh, and he hasn’t really been able to wear anything since. This is the best we could do.”
I blow out a breath, forcing myself to relax. Of course Barnes is only trying to help. This isn’t his fault. But being angry is easier than facing the pure helplessness I feel when I gaze at X-16.
He looks so despondent, perched on the edge of the bed like that, wearing nothing but a blanket to preserve his modesty. But he also looks…statuesque. Like something out of a painting. With his wings behind him, and that blanket draped just so, he looks like…
“Like an angel,” I murmur to myself. My fingers wander to the spot on my chest where my mother’s cross rests beneath my shirt; I can just barely feel the press of the metal symbol through the fabric.
“Did you say something?” Barnes asks.
I shake my head, dropping my hand, embarrassed heat flaring in my face. “No. Has he had any incidents today?”
“Nothing so far. He’s been pretty stable since he woke up, and he’s remaining relatively calm.”
“Good,” I say.
But stable isn’t better. And I still have the terrible sense that more awaits him on the horizon. I had such hope that my immunity to Sixteen’s uncanny aura meant I could help him, but I’ve done nothing. This episode was the worst of all. Whatever is happening to him, it’s accelerating.
After gazing in at X-16 for a few moments, I notice that Barnes is staring at me. I jerk like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
“Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but…you seem to be getting awfully attached to Subject X-16.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “I’ve been working closely with him. I’m the only one who can. I feel responsible for his safety—”
“Enough so that you disregarded protocol to go into his cell yesterday. We hadn’t confirmed your immunity yet, and I told you to wait for my approval before entering the cell, but you went in alone anyway.”
“It was an emergency.”
“You were alone, Willow. You could’ve been hurt.”
“He was hurt,” I snap. “And I wasn’t. I’m immune. Yesterday proved it.”
Barnes heaves a sigh. But he doesn’t argue.
“Look, I know what it’s like. I care about X-16 too.
Hard not to feel for the kid. But… At the end of the day, we’re security.
We’re here to ensure the safety of the subjects and the personnel in the building.
If you’re going to continue to work closely with X-16, I need to know that you can approach situations like yesterday without bias. ”