Burn (46 page)

“Weed told me you’d throw everything at me to get me to call it off.”

“Why won’t you?”

“Why do you think I can?”

“Let me tell you what my father figured out. The wretches are the superior race. They’ve been tested and tested and tested by all the horrors they’ve been through and are now toughened. And the Pures? They’re weak—coddled and protected. They have no real immune systems anymore. You know what will happen if the Dome no longer exists and the Pures have to live out there, breathing ash and fighting Dusts and Beasts and Groupies?”

“Yes,” Pressia says. “I know exactly what will happen. Have you forgotten? That’s my childhood.”

“And do you want that to play out again?”

Pressia shakes her head. “I wanted Pures to help the survivors. I wanted to even the playing field with the cure. I wanted to erase all the scars and fusings and have everyone be whole again. But I don’t want that anymore. Bradwell was right. We should never erase the past even when we wear it on our skin.”

“I know where the button is, Partridge.” Iralene points to a small metal square embedded in the wall. “This is it, isn’t it? Save us, Partridge.”

There’s a knock on the open door. A man’s voice says, “Bradwell is standing by. Are we ready?”

“We’re ready,” Partridge says.

A screen lights up one wall. And there is Bradwell’s face. His eyes are squinting. The wind is whipping his shirt, his hair. He turns and looks to one side—showing the double scars running down one side of his face, his dark wings.

Iralene gasps. She’s not used to ash, scars, and fusings.

The cameras that are lodged in Hastings’ eyes take in El Capitan and Helmud, who look pale and weak. El Capitan has two black eyes and a crooked jaw.

“What happened to them?” Pressia says.

“Are those two fused together?” Iralene says the word
fused
as if it’s new to her. She’s horrified, and Pressia remembers what Bradwell said about what he thought the Pures would think of him—that disgust, that horror.

“I’ll explain it later,” Partridge says.

Pressia wonders if there will be a later…

“Tell Bradwell to call it off,” Partridge says to Pressia. Would Partridge hit the button? Would he kill all of the survivors once and for all?

Pressia slips her hand in her pocket and grips the top of the spear that Lyda whittled from the crib slats.

“Bradwell!” Pressia says. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes!” he shouts into the wind. “Are you okay?”

“Are you?” she says.

He nods. He glances at El Capitan and Helmud. “We’re okay. I wish I could see you!”

“Tell him, Pressia,” Partridge says.

“Is that Partridge’s voice?” Bradwell asks.

“It’s me,” Partridge says.

“What do you have to tell me?” Bradwell asks.

Pressia knows that she’s supposed to tell Bradwell to call off the attack, but instead she says, “Partridge can kill all of you. He can push a button of his father’s design and send a gas out across the wind that will put you all to sleep forever.”

Bradwell takes a deep breath. “We’re unarmed,” he says. “El Capitan said that was the only way to do this. Unarmed. All of us together.”

“If you bring down the Dome, Pures will die. They can’t live outside the Dome. Most won’t make it,” Partridge says. “So you seem pretty well armed to me.”

El Capitan starts to speak. Hastings’ eyes quickly focus on him, and his face fills the screen. “You’d choose to kill survivors to save Pures?”

“Don’t you see the death toll on either side?” Partridge asks.

“Do the deaths of wretches count for less?” Bradwell says.

“None of you can understand. I’m going to be a father. I’ve got a baby on the way—you don’t know what it’s like to worry about raising a child out there.”

“Partridge,” Bradwell says, “we were children out here. We know what that’s like, and you never will.”

“My own child!” Partridge says. “My own child has to be able to breathe and grow and thrive. He can’t do that out there.”

“
Your
child?” Iralene says, as if it’s just now dawning on her how much this child means to him. Does she think she’ll be the mother of the child? Or is she talking about Lyda?

Pressia says, “The baby isn’t just yours. In fact, right now, the baby isn’t yours at all.”

“They’ll kill me—you know that. I’ll be the first to die. They’ll kill Iralene too. Pures and wretches—it doesn’t matter who. They’ll kill us. You know what we represent.” He presses his hands against the wall. “He’s in me. He’s inside of me. My father. He’s not just in the air all around us. He’s inside of my body. His blood is my blood.”

Pressia watches his hand, the one with the pinky that’s now fully grown back, the one dangerously close to the command button. She can’t rush Partridge with the spear. He’s been coded for strength and speed. He’d overtake her easily.

But she glances at Iralene. She’s a Pure—she’s the weaker race; that’s what Willux came to believe. And so Pressia reaches for Iralene’s pale wrist. She grabs it and spins her around, twisting her arm and jamming it up between her shoulder blades. The letters and photographs that she’d collected in her arms fall to the floor, a spray of faces, birthdays, bicycles, Christmas trees, and handwritten notes—pages and pages of them. Her skin feels thin and chilled. Pressia shoves Iralene’s face against the wall, pinning her other arm with Pressia’s hip and holding the spear tip to her throat.

“Walk away from it,” Pressia says, “or I’ll kill her.”

Partridge glares at Pressia. He clenches his fists and stands completely still. “Hastings,” Partridge says. “Get Bradwell.”

Partridge’s voice is tinny and cold.
Get Bradwell.
The words are a sick echo in Pressia’s head, a ringing that won’t stop.

Hastings has no choice.

He pushes Bradwell to the ground, puts his good foot on Bradwell’s chest. Bradwell’s wings splay beneath him. Hastings aims one of the guns lodged in his arms at Bradwell’s heart.

There’s the red bead of light.

Bradwell stares into Hastings’ eyes, but he’s only talking to Pressia. He says, “I’m sorry.”

Pressia can’t breathe. She knows what he’s sorry for—not what’s happened, no. He’s saying he’s sorry for what’s about to happen.

“No!” she screams, still holding Iralene tight. “No!”

And then Bradwell starts to fight back. He bucks. He kicks Hastings and tries to wrestle himself up from the dirt. His wings beat against the dirt, filling the air with more dust and ash.

The screen darkens. Bradwell’s face is lost in the dark cloud.

“Stop resisting!” Hastings orders. “Stop now!”

Pressia shouts at Partridge. “Do something!”

But Partridge doesn’t understand, does he? Bradwell is fighting to the death. He’s fighting, knowing he’ll die.

The screen goes black.

Hastings has shut his eyes.

And then there’s a gunshot.

Just one.

A few survivors scream.

And then silence.

And then there’s a cry—loud and long.

It’s followed by another cry—just as loud and just as long.

An echo of the first.

Pressia drops the spear. She loses her grip on Iralene, who remains completely still, her body leaning against the wall.

“He’s dead,” Pressia whispers.

*  *  *

Hastings is stiff, his guns poised on the crowd. He is a soldier. He stands his ground.

El Capitan kneels next to Bradwell. He’s terrified of all of the blood, so sudden and quick, spreading across Bradwell’s chest. Helmud holds on to El Capitan’s neck. He grips his shirt in his skinny fists.

“Bradwell,” El Capitan says breathlessly. He’s supposed to check his heart. But the blood has soaked his shirt. There can’t be much left of his heart.

El Capitan’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely get hold of Bradwell’s shirt. But when he does, he rips it wide open.

The wind gusts.

Small sheets of bloody paper lift.

El Capitan sits back as the wind collects the papers and sends them out over the dry dirt.

Hastings’ boot steps on one, its edges soaked red.

El Capitan picks one up.

We are here, my brothers and sisters,

to end the division, to be recognized as human,

to live in peace. Each of us has the power

to be benevolent.

There is no cross on the bottom of the message. Only random splatterings of Bradwell’s blood.

The survivors pick up the sheets. They gather around Bradwell.

His body lies on a blanket of his black-feathered wings. The bloody white sheets of paper keep fluttering up from his chest like an unending ribbon pulled by the wind.

His arms are spread wide, his hands open—and from one of them, Freedle appears. Nearly lost in the spinning, swirling sheets of paper, Freedle spreads his mechanical wings and takes flight, heading toward the Dome.

*  *  *

Pressia can’t breathe. She can’t cry. Bradwell is dead. He knew that he was going to die.
If we don’t see each other again…
She should have stayed with him. She shouldn’t have left. He knew, and he didn’t tell her—not the whole truth. He said
if
… if, if, if… She thought it was just the beginning.

She can still remember his kiss. Will she always remember it? Is it burned onto her lips? This is why he made her promise to be together here, now, and beyond—in case there’s a heaven…in case of what might lie ahead.

She puts her fist to her heart. She and Bradwell are still locked together. There is no better church than a forest. In the end, a wedding is between two people—what they promise in a whisper.

She isn’t sure why, but now she feels fear. It seizes her chest. She knows what it is to feel the shock of grief, what it’s like to mourn. But what she feels is terror. He is gone. The realization that the world still exists and he doesn’t—this is what she’s been most afraid of. And here it is.

She looks at the ground littered with the photographs of Partridge’s happy childhood.

Partridge walks toward her. “I killed him,” he says.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me.”

Partridge is a ghost.

Iralene says, “You didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t. You didn’t kill him. Hastings did it!”

“Shut up,” Pressia says. “Shut up!”

Iralene slides down the wall and sits on the floor. She stares blankly.

“Pressia,” Partridge says, “I did the right things. I swear. I didn’t know that Hastings was going to kill him.”

“Hastings was programmed to kill anyone who resisted. Bradwell knew it. It’s why he fought back.”

“I gave the order,” Partridge says, his voice so hoarse it’s barely audible. “I could have called Hastings off. I could have done something.”

“You got us here,” Pressia says. “You drove us all to this moment. You’ve done worse than not calling off Hastings.”

“I wasn’t going to push the button,” Partridge mutters. “I wouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t have.”

“No,” Iralene says. “You wouldn’t have. I know you wouldn’t have.” Then, with hope in her voice, she adds, “Maybe that stopped them. Maybe they’ll turn back now.”

“Freedle,” Pressia says. “Didn’t you see him? He’s carrying the bacterium. It’s coming. It works fast.”

There’s pounding on the door. They hear Beckley’s loud, urgent voice. “The people are rising up in the streets! They want blood!”

“They’re coming for us,” Iralene says.

“They’ll find us here,” Partridge says. “I know they will.”

The screen is still playing out the scene. Hastings’ eyes are wide open. He scans the crowd of people. El Capitan is shouting, “We keep going. This is what he wanted. We move forward. Together!” His face is streaked with black ash. He’s wiped his bloody hands on his shirt.

And then Hastings turns. He walks toward the Dome and stands in line between two other soldiers.

“The Dome is coming down, and when it does, I’m getting out and going home,” Pressia says. She walks to the door, opens it, and stands in the conference room. Beckley is standing next to Pressia’s grandfather, who sits in one of the leather chairs, Lyda at his side.

“You’ll come with us,” Pressia says to her grandfather. “We’ll keep you safe.”

He’s scared, but he nods. Once upon a time, he was the stranger who took her in. This time, she’ll be the one to take care of him.

*  *  *

Partridge stares at Lyda, still shocked that she’s here, so close, and yet she’s still distant. Things have changed between them. What has this been like for her? He remembers Pressia telling Lyda that they were going to take the baby from her. Did she believe that? Was it the truth? He doesn’t know what’s true anymore. Maybe he never has. Pressia will tell her what happened in that room. She’ll tell Lyda that he could have saved Bradwell and that he failed. His friend is dead. Partridge hesitated. Why? Out of anger, spite, or did he really think he was doing the right thing, trying to save his people? Deep down, is that the way he thinks of the Pures—as his people? He may never know his own truth. Maybe this is how it began for his father—one act that he couldn’t ever take back and he had to decide what kind of person he was. Partridge wants to be good. He’s always wanted to be good, hasn’t he? Right now, he has to decide how they’re all going to try to survive. “You could have run. You probably should have. Why’d you stay?” Partridge asks Beckley.

“We’re friends. Friends stay.”

Partridge didn’t realize that he’d been waiting for this, but now that he hears it, he’s happy. He grabs Beckley and hugs him. “Thank you,” he says.

“We have to move now. If you don’t go,” Beckley says, “they’ll find you here. You can’t lock yourselves away. They’ll only wait you out if you stay in your father’s chamber.”

Partridge looks at Pressia. He knows that he doesn’t deserve to come with them. He shakes his head. “They’ll just tear us apart out there,” he says. “One way or another…”

“We have to move now,” Beckley urges.

“Come with us,” Pressia says. “We can find a way to get you out of the Dome; then we can find a hiding place for you on the outside.”

Beckley and Lyda help Pressia’s grandfather. They move to the door. Pressia follows. “Come on, Partridge. Bring Iralene. Getting out is her only chance. Let’s stick together.” He can tell that it pains her to say this. He knows what he must seem like to her. He hates himself. He hates both worlds—inside the Dome and out.