Chapter 12 James
James
Chapter 12
“This is nice, isn’t it?” I ask, peering out the windshield. “Peaceful.”
Outside, the scenes blur only a little as we soar under the clouds. The land here is beautiful: jagged mountains biting into sky, lakes shining under the morning sun. The hum of the electric chopper isn’t too bad, either; I don’t have to strain my voice much when I say, “I’ve never been on one of these things before.”
My seatmate seems unimpressed, but he’s been dead for at least twenty minutes now, so no surprise there.
Right now we’re on our way to one of the warehouse-looking buildings that I chose at random on the map. According to the helpful screen displaying our current flight information, we should be landing in fifteen minutes.
Here I was, thinking I had to steal a jet, or a boat, or even rappel into the canals of hell on foot—and the world offered me up some kind of flying tricycle instead. I don’t know how else to describe it. No doors; two-seater; single cup holder; peppy motor; leatherish interior; minimal recline; built-in navigation; and, bonus: it’ll fly itself. Super bonus: it was just waiting for me. I made it back to the outskirts of civilization and the uniformed owner of this fine vehicle picked a fight with me immediately, and all because I asked to borrow his nifty little air-trike.
“Hey, how long do you think it’ll take before they realize you’re not the one flying this thing?” I ask, looking again at my seatmate. According to the ID I fished out of the cup holder, his name is Jeff Jefferson. Different Jeff with a side of Jeff. I can’t make this shit up. “Or do you think they already know you’re dead?”
Jeff says nothing, but I can tell what he’s thinking.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding as I return my eyes to the windshield. “They definitely know you’re dead.” Earlier I found a roll of mints, some kind of diet milkshake, and two chocolate bars taped together with a note that read You’re better than this in the glove box. I jam the remaining half of a chocolate bar in my mouth now, chewing thoughtfully.
I glance at Jeff.
“You were too hard on yourself, man. You didn’t eat the chocolate and now look at you—you’re dead.” I rip open the second chocolate bar, take a huge bite, then inspect the label on the diet milkshake. “What is this shit, Jeff? Why were you drinking this garbage?” The trike beeps angrily in response, demanding another round of biometric verification.
Shaking my head, I flatten Jeff’s limp hand to the corresponding screen. A moment later, it flashes green. It’s been demanding verification every other minute— probably because it’s pretty sure the pilot is dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if this thing tracked heart rates and bowel movements and impure thoughts, too. It started freaking out the moment I hopped on board. As if it could tell—before I’d even snapped the guy’s neck—that I was going to snap the guy’s neck. And then I did something to really piss off the machine: instead of going straight to the warehouses, I took a gamble and tried to fly home.
I knew it was a risk.
Not only are these things loaded with trackers and cameras, but they probably have enough data on Jeff to know his normal flight patterns. A random trip to The New Republic would definitely send an alert into the system.
Still, I figured I had to try.
But the minute I fed the navigation unauthorized coordinates, it put me on probation. Apparently people on Ark Island aren’t allowed to leave this place without high-level security clearance. Apparently anyone who tries to make a run for it is immediately reported to the authorities.
Now, in addition to emphasizing the target on my back, the trike has entered a limited-usage mode, which basically means I can’t take control of the steering wheel, the seat belts don’t work, the lights won’t stop flashing, and the aircraft won’t fly too high or too fast until the alert is cleared by official personnel.
I take an angry bite of the chocolate bar.
I’ve barely started chewing when the trike screeches at me again, and I force Jeff’s hand onto the scanner for the hundredth time. It was a little awkward in the beginning, pushing Jeff out of the trike only to drag him back on board after I realized I needed him to operate the thing. It was also upsetting for all the people who watched me do it. I know this, because they never stopped trying to kill me.
Apparently everyone on this island is armed.
Jeff was armed, too, which was lucky for me. Before I raided the glove box for snacks, I made sure to check him for weapons. Now I sit back and stretch, dried blood flaking off my body like confetti. When the sun shifts, offering me a fleeting reflection in the windshield, I’m so surprised by the sight of my own face I have to do a double take. I can practically hear the sound of Kenji’s voice, holding back laughter—
You look like someone took a bloody, chunky, runny shit on your face. Do you understand what I’m saying? The word I’m looking for is diarrhea . Do you know what diarrhea is? It’s you.
The thought almost makes me smile, and then it almost kills me. Suddenly I miss home so badly the feeling nearly penetrates. Fear nearly penetrates.
I take a tight breath. Less than ten minutes left. The forest grows thicker and denser as we get farther from the populated region of the island, shrouding our destination in mystery.
My knee bounces.
There’s a reason Warner never led a mission into the Ark. His theory was that our only chance at winning a fight against The Reestablishment 2.0 would involve luring them back to the mainland. He has all kinds of ideas about the dark shit they might be developing out here and doesn’t think we’re ready to match them on their home turf. I thought he was losing his touch. Going soft.
Now I realize I should’ve listened.
This is a suicide mission. I was worse than stupid for thinking I knew better than Warner, and stupider than that for thinking I could do this on my own. The moment this tricycle touches land I’ll be surrounded. I still have no idea how I’m going to get out of here. I don’t know what they’re planning for me or why they’ve kept me alive so long. I’m mostly just making it up as I go, hoping things will work out. And right now the sting of real emotion is burning a hole in my heart and I have to beat it down. I can’t let these assholes see me sweat.
I force myself to look at Jeff. “So. Jeff. Who made you think you had to lose ten pounds to be loved?”
“Beginning initial descent,” says a smooth female voice. “Touching ground in five minutes.”
“Five minutes?” I straighten in my seat so fast Jeff jolts beside me, falling into my arms. I shove him back into his chair and peer out the open door.
We’re descending over the sea, the water shimmering in the rising light, and as the trike makes a steep turn toward land, I catch my first glimpse of the warehouses in the distance—just as Jeff slumps into my lap again. Irritated, I shove him back into his seat.
I return my eyes to the scene, and my irritation is quickly replaced by confusion. From this vantage point it’s absolutely clear: these are not warehouses.
They’re homes .
Shitty cottages clustered together in one of the most bleak, postapocalyptic scenes I’ve seen in a long time. People mill about, parents and children looking grim and malnourished. The fresh snowfall of yesterday is already soot-stained and dirty, rays of sunlight struggling through a thin layer of smog. The scene comes together all at once, with little time to reflect before we touch down—
“Input verification.”
The biometric scanner shrieks once more in angry warning. Annoyed, I turn to grab Jeff’s hand.
Except, suddenly, Jeff’s seat is empty.
“Oh. Shit.”
I scramble, craning my neck out the other open door as if I might catch him still tumbling to his second death—but of course the effort is useless. I’ve lost Jeff, and now the air-trike is pissed.
“Warning,” says the voice. “Input verification.” It won’t stop yelling now. “ Warning. Input verification. Warning. Input verification —”
I consider placing my own hand on the screen, but then I think it’s probably a lose-lose situation to straight up verify that I’ve stolen Jeff’s vehicle, so, instead, I decide to panic. I’m only about fifteen feet off the ground but the thing is refusing to land, and I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I’m drawing attention to myself, or the fact that I was right about being mobbed by The Reestablishment. As predicted, there’s a swarm of armed soldiers waiting in the distance, where larger, more impressive versions of my air-trike litter the landscape like toys. I’m guessing those will be much harder to steal.
“System shut down in five, four, three, two—”
The motor cuts out and suddenly I’m free-falling, everything happening so fast I never get to decide whether to jump. The steel frame strikes the ground with thunderous force, juddering to a chaotic stop as waves of pain rocket through my battered body.
I blink, and it seems to take forever.
My ears are ringing. I touch the side of my face and my hand comes away wet. Red. I suck in a breath as the pain spirals, pinching a shard of glass out of my arm just as I hear a young girl scream.
I stiffen at the sound.
My heartbeat picks up swiftly, scaring me. I react badly to the sound of children screaming. It’s the most broken thing about me; the part of me I’m always trying to manage. I grew up listening to children screaming. Fell asleep listening to children screaming. Children dying. Children disappearing. Children being tortured, starved, abused. I was one of the lucky ones in the orphanage; I had a big brother who came back sometimes. Who sent food sometimes. Who eventually saved up enough money to get me out. But I was raised with the kids whose parents were slaughtered trying to fight The Reestablishment. There were so many children left behind we’d flood the streets like schools of fish. There were never enough beds. There was never enough food.
We were always, always unprotected.
I force myself to look around, light streaking across my vision as I survey the chaos: dented metal; smears of blood; flashing lights; input verification ; crushed glass; input verification . My eyes home in on the gleaming edge of an automatic rifle. Input verification.
I tumble out the open door, hitting the cold ground with a thud, struggling to clear my vision.
Again, the girl screams.
The sound is like a strike to the face. I take a breath, grit my teeth. For years I couldn’t even be around Adam’s kids for too long. When Gigi or Roman cried too much I’d lose it; I’d lash out even though I knew, intellectually, that sometimes kids cried even when they were safe. I could see the horror in Adam’s eyes when I’d lose control. I could see how it killed him to realize I was so messed up.
Still messed up.
Eventually I learned how to fake it for his sake— timing my visits, dissociating from the moments I couldn’t escape—but I’ve tried for years to shake it off for real and never could. There’s a rage that lives inside me I’ve never been able to kill. A rage that lives buried, like magma, miles beneath still waters. The rage of a child still too young to fight the monsters when they came calling.
When I hear the girl scream for the third time, I stand.
My head is pounding; my heart is pounding; sweat beads along my brow. I squint at the crush of soldiers in the distance, my anxiety ticking up a notch, and in my haze it takes me a moment to realize they’re not facing me.
Hell, they’re not here for me at all.
They’ve surrounded one of the cottages, its front door flung open to reveal a child so thin she looks skeletal. I blink rapidly, my head steadying, and as my sight sharpens I realize she looks strangely familiar. White-blond hair, super pale skin. Two soldiers are forcing her out the door, handling her so roughly I’m worried she’ll snap in half. Her cheeks are hollow, her body shaking—but she’s looking at something with focused desperation, and when I follow her line of sight I nearly rock back on my heels. There’s a young woman on her knees in the dirt, thrashing violently against the soldiers pinning her arms behind her back. A broad, dark-haired man looms over her, his face in shadow. He’s half-bent, hands planted on her shoulders. And that’s when I remember—
Please
Tell them to be gentle with her
She’s just a child
When I die, they’ll throw her in the asylum
The soldiers aren’t pointing their guns at me, they’re pointing their guns at Rosabelle, and I should be thrilled. This is the perfect diversion. I don’t need to be here. I don’t need to listen to this. This is not my problem. I could run for it. I should run for it. Steal a vehicle, base jump into the ocean—
“You promised me,” she says, and her voice is unnaturally calm, on the verge of breaking. “You promised —”
“Rosa, enough—”
She spits in the man’s face.
A soldier slams the butt of his gun into her eye so hard I hear the crack of bone, and when her sister screams for the fourth time, it practically rewrites my DNA.
“All right, fuck it,” I mutter, grabbing Jeff’s gun from the overturned trike. “Let’s do something stupid.”