Chapter 14 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
Chapter 14
Everyone rears back.
A detachment of soldiers charge forward, forming a barricade in front of the oncoming aircraft. They lift their weapons, an electric thrum zipping through the air just as Sebastian bolts ahead, aiming his gun at the broken chopper barreling toward us.
“Stand down,” he shouts, his voice booming. “Stop the vehicle immediately.”
James pops his bloodied head out the open door. “What’d you say?”
“I said stop —”
James leans farther out the door, revealing a sophisticated automatic rifle. “I was just kidding, dumbass,” he calls back. “I heard what you said.”
James opens fire.
The crowd screams.
Sebastian dives out of the way; the soldiers don’t hesitate. They shoot over and over at the trike, glass shattering everywhere.
“Steady your fire!” Sebastian bellows, clambering to his feet. “Don’t alter course! We have fifteen minutes left in the script—”
James steers the broken chopper directly into the fray, people diving for cover as he unloads round after round. Occasionally he runs alongside the battered aircraft to give its slowing momentum a boost, risking his life in the process. I watch him get shot three times; twice in the legs and once in the shoulder, each assault punctuated by a colorful epithet. It’s clear they’re not trying to kill James, and I wonder if he can tell.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
I have no idea what his intentions are. I don’t know whether he’s here for revenge, intent on killing me along with everyone else for what we did to him. I can’t find the energy to concern myself with his motives, not now that Clara’s been taken from me. I’ve never cared less to live. Without Clara, I have no worth as a person.
Without Clara, I am a killer, nothing more.
I watch the impossible scene melt around me from a cold distance, disappearing further and further inside myself with each passing second. It’s not until two shots explode right next to my head—one for each of the soldiers restraining me—that I’m jolted back into my body. Only then do I realize what’s happening.
James came here with a plan.
“Get in,” he shouts, steering the dilapidated vehicle in my direction.
I don’t hesitate.
My arms ache, screaming now that they’ve been released from their tortured positions, but the torment feels distant: a photocopy of a photocopy.
“You okay?” says James, sparing me a glance.
For a moment I only stare at him.
I slit this man’s throat. I literally killed him, and now he’s asking me if I’m okay. I think there might be something wrong with him. Gunfire rains down upon us, battering the bullet-resistant body of the trike. Smoke curls in the sky like loose calligraphy. I sit back in my bloodied seat as we bump and judder over rough terrain and fallen bodies. James looks like a creature of the night, so covered in matted blood and baked-on dirt he’s the very definition of grotesque.
I wonder how he found my cottage.
“There are pedals,” I say, amazed by the steady sound of my own voice. “In the wheel well.”
He freezes; then looks down; then looks at me; then looks down again. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
I don’t answer this; I am suddenly enervated. Energy leaves my body in a stunning defeat, so all-encompassing I seem to lose my bones. I wonder then whether I should even bother with this mission—whether I owe any loyalty to The Reestablishment after what they’ve done—before I remember, with a start, who I’m dealing with. The Reestablishment would never be so stupid as to kill Clara.
I go solid.
Gone is my boneless fatigue; fear grows roots and branches inside of me, animating me against my will.
Killing Clara would be stupid. Killing her would mean forfeiting their power over me. Torturing Clara, on the other hand, would be far more effective, as I only have one weakness.
I’ve only ever had one weakness.
I watch, through a haze of renewed horror, as James kicks away a panel in the floor, the blood from his boots smearing the white paint to reveal a set of traditional foot pedals, which he jumps on without delay. Three bullet wounds and still, his eyes light up. He grins at me like this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, and he starts pumping his legs like a kid learning to ride a bike for the first time.
“Yes!” he says, slapping the dashboard with his hand. “Hell yes!” Almost immediately, we pick up speed. He turns to look at me. “All right. Okay. Where’d they take your sister? The asylum, right? But, like, how do we get there?”
These words blow open a hole in my chest.
The pain is so unexpected that I make an involuntary sound, lifting a hand to my sternum only to discover I’m still intact.
How do we get there
How do we get there
I am unwell, my heart hammering as I study him. The words left his lips without guile, as if he meant what he said. More anomalies. I can’t make sense of him.
No one in the pit helps each other—certainly not without the promise of compensation. People have too many problems of their own. Those who reek of neediness are pariahs; there’s no faster path to isolation than to ask for help.
I asked for help once, when I was ten years old.
My mother had just killed herself, her remains still spattered against the wall. Clara had scooped up a bit of Mama’s brain and couldn’t stop staring at it. I was worried she was going to put it in her mouth so I pried it out of her grubby fingers and Clara cried for two days straight. I had no idea how to care for a three-year-old. I could hardly care for myself. I ran from cottage to cottage, hysterical and half out of my mind. The only neighbor who answered her door slapped me in the face so hard I fell silent. She looked me up and down a long time.
Just you two girls alone in there now? she asked.
Yes, ma’am. Clara hasn’t eaten in days—
You’re going to need this , she said, and handed me a shotgun.
“Hey,” James says sharply, glancing away from the road.
I look up.
“You okay?”
James blurs as I stare beyond him, my mind fracturing. Even if we could get to Clara, how could I help her? Where would I take her? How would I care for her? They took Clara from me to torture her. They’re going to bring her to the point of death only to destroy her over and over and over—
“ Hey ,” he barks.
I look up again. I hadn’t realized I’d looked down.
“Your name is Rosabelle, right? Or is it Rosa? I heard someone call you Rosa just now.”
No one but my family ever calls me Rosa , I answer in my head. Sebastian lost the right years ago.
“Look, I realize you’re in a bad place right now, but if we’re going to save your sister we really—”
“There is no saving her,” I say quietly.
“What? What do you mean?”
“This is a small island with highly developed surveillance technology. If I try to save her, I’ll be easily caught and executed for treason. When I’m executed Clara will die.”
James slackens, his feet slowing on the pedals for the first time. “Oh,” he says, deflated. “Damn.”
I nod, taking the moment to dissolve inside myself. Feel nothing, taste nothing, be nothing.
Die.
I glance out the open door.
James’s efforts have earned us a slight lead, but a swarm of aircraft is gathering in the sky above us, soldiers’ footfalls thundering toward us. James tries to shoot back but the effort is short-lived; the magazine is empty. He shakes his head before rifling through the glove compartment, chucking something angrily out the door as he mutters, “Seriously, Jeff? A fucking diet milkshake but no ammo?” and I choose not to ask him what he means.
Sebastian didn’t share the details of the program with me; as with my first encounter with James, Klaus felt it necessary that I participate in the mission as organically as possible. All I know for certain is that I’m not supposed to kill James; in fact, I haven’t been instructed to kill anyone yet. My job is to remain close enough to James to get the two of us off the island and into the heart of enemy territory in order to initiate a broader offensive. I’ll receive communications about the next steps of the operation only after I’ve touched down in The New Republic, where an undercover agent will find me.
This is phase one of six.
Each phase must be completed within a prescribed time period. Right now, for example, I have as long as it takes to get out of here before someone kills me.
If I fail at any phases of the operation, I’ll be executed.
I glance at the cracked screen in the dashboard, the flashing demand for biometric verification. Soon, we’ll be surrounded. Soon, I’ll be on my own to manage all aspects of this situation, which means, for Clara’s sake, I need to do my job and get us off this island as soon as possible. The trike appears to be working, at least a little, which—
“All right.” James sighs, giving up the ammo search. “Get out.”
I go suddenly still. “Excuse me?”
“I said get out.” He nods toward the door. Circles a finger above his head, gesturing to the helicopters above us. “I have shit to do.”
“I don’t understand.” I hesitate. “I thought you were trying to save me.”
Now he looks annoyed. “You really thought I was trying to save the serial killer who murdered me? Honestly, I’m offended. Get out before I push you out. You can fucking save yourself.”
A feathery sensation moves inside me at that, something akin to joy. “You wanted to save Clara,” I say softly. “You only wanted to save Clara. You don’t care about me at all.”
“Look, are you okay? Like, I get that you’ve had a bad day, so it’s cool if you haven’t noticed the ten pounds of blood all over my body, but I’m kind of having a bad day, too, and I’ve got two new bullet wounds to deal with—”
“Three,” I say, glancing at the encroaching masses. “You were shot at least three times.”
“Okay smart-ass, I’ve asked you twice to get the hell out of this vehicle, and now you’re starting to piss me off—”
“Can you swim?” I ask.
At this, he hesitates. “Yeah, but—”
“The only way off this island is off the island . Do you understand what that means?”
He glances away from me, toward the sea. “You’re suggesting I jump off the cliff? Thanks for the brilliant insight. I already thought of that. Get out.”
“ Drive off the cliff,” I clarify. “And I’m not getting out. I’m coming with you.”