“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 tokillClara.
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.
