The rest of the sycophants stayed behind.
It’s never been easy to discern which of the “reformed” members of The Reestablishment might still be loyal to the old order. Many of them are now undercover agents dotted all over the globe, undermining us at every opportunity. Last year was more brutal than ever: there was a mysterious gas-line explosion at one of the elementary schools, and over a hundred kids died. It was one of the darkest days in our recent history; the nightmare is still embedded in my skin. We keep trying to explain to our own people that we’re being hacked and attacked, but it’s getting harder to convince people of these facts when The Reestablishment appears, by all outward appearances, to have gone totally dark.
All we know for certain is that we’re struggling.
These psychological operations are meant to turn the masses against us. People have short and fickle memories; too many are beginning to wonder whether life under The Reestablishment was better. Juliette is worried. Even Warner, who rarely shows emotion, seems stressed. He floated the idea of launching a covert mission into the Ark,but we all knew he wouldn’t leave Juliette in her condition.
So I came up with this genius plan: uncover something useful about the psychopaths out here, make it home alive, and, in the process, earn the respect of my friends and family. The problem is that no spy from the mainland has ever breached these borders and survived. I’d hoped I had the necessary skills to be the exception.
Looks like I was wrong.
The guy with the robot arm is striding toward me now, weapon raised. I’m running a few scenarios in my head, trying to do the necessary calculus to determine whether it’s worth stabbing this dude before he blasts a hole through my chest, when suddenly he slows. He studies me with those creepy eyes. Lowers his weapon.
“Incredible,” he says, his voice touched with awe. “You look so much like your father. What a shame that both of you should die such tragic deaths.” Then, tossing his gun blindly at Rosabelle: “Make it quick.”
Rosabelle
Chapter 5
In the split second the weapon sails between myself and Soledad, the inmate launches himself forward, snatches it out of the air, and lands in a smooth tumble.
He immediately opens fire on everyone.
Shots explode, screams pierce the din. Soledad barks orders, but sounds warp and distort; sirens blare as lights flash. I back up against the cold wall, my heels knocking against the footboards, my hands searching for purchase. The scene developing before me is so impossible it seems to bleed at the edges. I feel as if the floors are melting under my feet, my breaths loud in my ears, the pain in my ribs beginning to crescendo once more. They shoot at the inmate over and over, but his reflexes are extraordinary; he manages to dodge most of their fire, sustaining minor injuries that I now realize he can easily overcome. Watching him move is like witnessing wind: it’s only clear he’s been there when someone else falls.
There is no precedent for this situation.
I’ve been summoned here countless times, and my work has always been faultless. Never have I failed to kill a mark. Never has an inmate been able to escape. This one cannot be allowed to run rampant through these halls; he cannot be allowed to report back anything he’s witnessed here.And I—
I will be executed for this failure.
The realization hits me like another shot of adrenaline. An image of Clara flares to life behind my eyes, her name repeating in my head. If I am dead, no one will wipe the blood from her lips. If I am dead, no one will catch her when she collapses. No one will bathe her, no one will read to her, no one will comb the knots from her hair. Clara is only allowed to live as she does because I take full responsibility for her needs. Without me, they will toss my sister in the asylum, where she will die a slow, torturous death.
If I am dead, no one will ever smile at her again.
I drag myself upright, biting back a sound as pain lances through my body. I have no idea how many ribs I’ve broken. Systematic starvation has weakened my bones, atrophied my muscles. I feel the telltale tremble in my right hand and clench a fist against it.
The Reestablishment has no sympathy for the weak.
I realize as I step forward that I’ve gone slightly deaf from the barrage of chaos and sound. There’s a ringing in my ears so loud I hear only a muted dissonance as I force myself into the fray, limping slightly over fallen bodies. My vision has tunneled to a single figure: the inmate is now engaged in a round of hand-to-hand combat with the only two remaining officers, and I watch him land a bone-crushing blow to the jaw of one, then the other, before he racks his stolen weapon and opens fire directly at their throats. I flinch twice, in concert with each recoil.Blood spatters everywhere, but only one officer’s head detaches fully from his body.
My ears are still ringing.
Dimly I register that Soledad is lying nearby in a pool of his own blood, the glint of his prosthetic flashing in my periphery. In a movement so excruciating it nearly takes my breath away, I bend to swipe Soledad’s gun from his limp fingers, then hoist the hefty weapon into my arms, absently checking the laser fill of the magazine. Floaters crowd my vision; sweat beads at my brow. It occurs to me that I’m running a slight fever—that perhaps my physical state is worse than I feared.
Strangely, this realization offers me comfort.
If I’m to die either way, there is little to fear from injury. I will not be afraid of this stranger who seems chronically unafraid. I will not be afraid of an arrogant insurrectionist; a worthless rebel. Soledad’s last words to him echo in my head—
You look so much like your father.
I don’t know what that means. I don’t know who his father is or whether the information is relevant. Perhaps I will never know, as Soledad is dead. I know the inmate has blue eyes and brown hair, a reductive description that fails to illustrate a problem. His face is like none I’ve known. His beauty is absurd and shocking, the effect aggravated by contradictions that draw the eye over and over: he’s a study in contrasts, at once playful and unyielding. His brow and jaw are severe, but there’s a boyish dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.His body is solid, taut with muscle, but he seems at ease in his own skin. His eyes seem to shimmer, as if laughter comes to him freely—and yet he single-handedly slaughtered a dozen soldiers.
He was unarmed.
I still feel the crinkle of plastic in my pocket; still recall the synthetic apple scent on his breath. I thought Clara might like to cut out the colorful bears illustrated on the wrapper. I thought she’d like to know what sugar smells like. I thought I’d be returning home to her with food and medicine and firewood, and I realize now that I might not return to her at all.
I close my eyes. Open them.
