Downburst (18 page)

I don’t cry as I close my eyes and rest my head against the pillow. I never cry.

The next morning, I get up early, take a good, long shower, and put on my windbreaker, making sure the switchblade is in my pocket. Luckily, the air has been growing cooler, so no one will think it’s strange that I’m wearing a jacket.

I look at my medals for a moment but decide to leave them since they’ll only weigh me down. Besides, I don’t want to tip anyone off. If Lila saw they were missing, she might become curious. I bid a mental farewell to my sleeping friend, to my corner of the bunkhouse, to all of it, and slide down the pole for the last time.

As I walk to the
wakenu
,
I breathe in deeply, soak up the crisp morning air.
It’s a good day to begin a hiking trip.
I’ll just eat a big breakfast and be on my way.

I enter the dining hall and pile a generous heaping of food on my plate. This is the last good meal I’m likely to have for several days, so I better make it count. I find an empty table and take a seat.

Not two minutes later, Holly plops her tray down next to mine. “Kit,” she says, “You’re not going to believe it! Some of the boys are having a free fall contest.”

“Mm,” I grunt, scooping some fried potatoes into my mouth.

“It’s going to be at the lake. In fifteen minutes. Where’s Lila?”

“Sleeping,” I mumble around the food.

“Maybe I should call her. She’ll be mad when she finds out she missed it.”

“I have to miss it too,” I say, swallowing.

“What! Why? You don’t have another competition do you?”

“No, but a girl I know from home does. I told her I’d watch.”

“What event?”

“It’s the, um … ” I search my brain. What events were listed today? “Drum making.” I’m pretty sure that was one of them.

“Oh, you’ll be fine then. Drum making isn’t until eleven. The contest will be over long before that.”

I frown. I can’t think of any other excuses, and if I try too hard to get out of it, Holly will wonder why.
You win
, I sigh. I’ll just have to leave after I watch the stupid contest. I hope it’s quick.

After I finish eating, I walk with Holly down to the lake where a crowd of thirty or so has gathered along the shore, most of them girls. I notice there are no counselors.

Six boys are standing on the dock, and my stomach does a slight somersault when I see that familiar chocolate hair. Buck is there too, and he whistles to get everyone’s attention.

“Let’s start,” he says. “You all know the rules. Hit the water, and you’re out. Closest one to the lake wins. The prize is
tookakihi
.”

A giggle sweeps through the crowd of girls. I peek at Rye, and my stomach jumps again. He’s staring at me. I look away quickly.

“Okay,” says Buck. “Take your marks. Then watch for my signal.”

The five boys leap into the air, rising high above the lake. I watch them move back and forth, catching the right surf to travel higher and higher. They must be up at least five hundred feet—higher than even the tallest skyscraper in Winnipeg. I wonder briefly what will happen if Naira catches them, but my eyes are fixed on their shrinking bodies and the thought doesn’t hold my attention for long.

At last, they stop moving and hover together in the clouds. Buck enters something on his Quil, and an instant later, the first contestant drops.

I choke back my yelp. The boy has his arms and legs spread wide as he plummets toward the earth at an alarming speed. I can’t look away. In a matter of seconds, he’s going to crash into the water. Now I see why they’re doing it above the lake. Landing on the ground could kill him. Heck, the water could kill him.

Suddenly, he stops falling. He grabs a current and rides it for a few yards before bobbing more or less in place, about the height of the nearest pine tree. Immediately, another boy drops. He stops a little closer to the water. Two-thirds of the way up the tree. Now the next boy falls. He catches the wind near the first.

It’s down to Rye and one other person. I bite my tongue as I watch Rye drop past the other three. Then, not more than five feet above the water, he pulls up.

Now the final boy takes his turn. My eyes are glued to his plummeting body. He falls past the first and third boys … the second boy … Rye. When he’s inches away from the surface, he grabs the wind. But his left arm keeps falling, hitting the water. He spins out of control and pitches into the lake, making Rye the winner.

All of the girls squeal as Rye grins and waves. The boys return to the dock, the last one wet and red-faced. They shake Rye’s hand, and he pounds them on the back.

“Well done, lads,” says Buck. “Rye, you may now claim your prize.”

What is it?
But I have a feeling I know, and I hold my breath as Rye looks into the crowd. His eyes roam thoughtfully over the eager girls, and he taps a finger against his chin. At last, however, his gaze settles on me. I inhale too quickly and choke on the air.
Don’t cough,
I pray.
Not now.
Water beads up behind my eyes, and I know my face is turning maroon.

Rye steps down from the dock and walks toward me. The crowd parts slowly, each girl thinking he’s coming for her, but his eyes never leave my face.
This can’t be happening.

When he’s a foot away from me, he stops. “Will you oblige me?” he asks softly.

After a full ten seconds, I manage to whisper, “Okay.”

He grins. Then he faces the horde of disappointed girls. “I would like to defer my reward until this evening.” He turns back to me. “I’ll come find you after dinner.” He walks back to Buck and the other boys, leaving me glowing beet red. The other girls glare at me.

“Let’s go,” I say to Holly. Her eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them, and for once she has nothing to say. After a few moments, however, she recovers from her speechlessness, and the entire walk back to the bunkhouse is filled with her continuous chatter.

We enter the
wakemo
and climb up the ramp—something I thought I’d never do again—and Holly shakes Lila awake. “Lila, you’re not going to believe what happened! Rye chose Kit for his free fall prize.”

“Huh?” Lila says groggily. Holly has to explain it to her three times before she understands.

“Rye’s going to kiss Kit?” she asks as she rubs her eyes.

I close my eyes, wondering how this is happening. The cutest boy in the camp is going to kiss me.
Only he won’t, because after dinner, I won’t be here. In my mind, I see Rye’s eyes finding me in the crowd, hear him ask for my consent. Oh, why did he have to be so gorgeous?

“Kit?” Lila is asking me something.

“Sorry, what?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” But I know my face is pale.

“Don’t worry,” Holly says. “We can give you some kissing tips.”

While Holly and Lila pummel me with friendly advice, I wage an inner war. Tomorrow I’ll have to fight in the Aerie, and if I get talked into staying longer, they’ll find out I can’t windwalk. I’ll be tortured as a spy. Tortured! No kiss is worth that. I’ve got to get out of here.

But he’s so handsome, and I’ve never been kissed before. Maybe I could leave first thing in the morning, before breakfast.
No, something might come up. It’s not worth the risk.
Or is it?

Before long, my head is throbbing.

Somehow I find myself being dragged to lunch. I pick at my food in a daze, struggling to make a decision. But delay is the easiest choice, and that’s what I keep deciding. So when Lila and Holly set their course for the arena, I’m still in the camp, walking beside them. I know I should come up with an excuse to get away from them and leave, but I also know that they would quickly notice my absence.
Yes, that’s right. If I were to leave today, before Rye kissed me, everyone would know I was missing.
Better to leave tonight, right after it happens.

I hope I know what I’m doing.

We don our masks and jackets and find seats. I’m grateful for the mask. It means people won’t be whispering and pointing at me, like they were at lunch.

In the row in front of me, a little to my right, I notice unkempt hair sticking out from someone’s mask. Light brown locks under a red bandana. Jeremy. I look away and hope he doesn’t recognize me. For some reason, seeing him makes my chest hurt.

The battle begins with as much color and energy as usual. None of the contestants are particularly spectacular, however, not like Rye or Tornado or Lila, and I find myself preoccupied with my dilemma until, in the final round, a torrent of paint washes our section of the bleachers. I jerk back, flicking the clear liquid from my sleeves.

And then, directly in front of me, a boy in red takes his knife and slashes it across a girl’s throat. The red paint oozes along her collar, and as the boy draws back his knife, black spots fuzz my vision. The girl’s armor has been pummeled by paintballs from both teams, the blue and red pigments smearing together into a terrible purple hue, right under her neck. My seat tips, and the players shrink and twist away from me.

The acrylic smell on my hands. The knife. That ghastly color. Her gushing throat. I can’t stand it.

“I’ll be right back,” I gasp. I rip off my mask and stumble past the spectators on our row, elbowing people on both sides of me. The smell is all over the stadium, inside my nose. It’s like she’s everywhere, suffocating me.

I reach the hallway that leads to the exit and collapse on the ground, clutch my legs, dig my face into my knees.
Get out!
I yell at the purple specter.
Get out!

It’s all coming back now. Her slumped body, twitching foot, stained wallet. The neon blue fingernails. Vanilla perfume. My feverish flight. Her face looking at me from her I.D. The face I’ve stolen. I’m here, being her. She was supposed to kill the goose, run the race, get Rye’s kiss. Not me. I’m not her. I’m not—

“Aura?” someone says.

I shriek and smash my body against the wall. Two hands reach for my arms, and I slap at them blindly. But the hands are strong, and they press my arms down.

“Hey!” the voice commands. “Stop that. It’s me!” I slowly raise my eyes.

“Jeremy.” I fling myself at him.

“Hey now,” he croons as he wraps one arm around me and strokes my hair with his other hand. “What’s the matter?”

And that’s when I decide I’m going to tell him everything. Jeremy won’t let them torture me, not when he knows the full story. He’ll make it right.

Only the words won’t come out, just great, heaving gulps. He puts a finger over my mouth and rocks me gently, and I focus on the strength of his biceps, the way we’re swaying back and forth, the faint citrus scent of his neck.

When I’ve finally calmed down, he brushes my hair behind my ears, and his fingers pause on my cheeks, the question on his lips.

The gong announces the end of the battle.

“Want to see who won?” he asks instead.

I nod, still not trusting myself to speak. We walk to the edge of the hall and look into the arena. Naira is standing on the platform with the winner, a girl this time. She places the medal around the girl’s neck and bows.

Then she straightens back up. “Congratula—”A paintball splatters on her jacket, cutting her off mid-word.

The crowd gasps when they see the red blotch on Naira’s chest. I gasp too, and then I frown. Something’s wrong. I look down at the clear goop on my hands then back at Naira. She’s not wearing any armor. That paint shouldn’t have shown up.

Suddenly, Naira crumples onto the platform, the stream of red cascading down her body, and the spectators’ gasps turn to screams.
That’s not paint
, I realize
.
It’s blood.

I don’t have time to react—don’t have time to think about Naira’s dead body or her blood running down the quarter pipe—because as soon as she goes down, wild shouting overpowers the screams in the arena. I look up and see people dropping from the holes in the roof, their heads encased in helmets. They’re dressed from the neck down in black leather, and the automatic rifles in their hands are not paintball guns. They dive into the Aerie and ride the wind around the stadium, training their weapons on the initiates standing in the field below and on the spectators in the stands.

And then everything explodes. The contestants in the arena vault into the air, some rushing over the bleachers to get to the exits, some trying to go over the net or through the roof, and some just hoping to dodge the deadly hailstorm. Few of them succeed. The bullets plow them down.

All around me, people are being blown out of their seats, off their feet as they run for the emergency exits. Some escape, bursting through the doors that lead to nothing but air, but as they ride the wind away from the Aerie, more assailants in black shoot them out of the sky. I stare at the bloodied faces and body parts and corpses, feel the gunshots resound inside my head. The crowd pins me against the wall as people flee toward the main doors.

Someone yanks me back behind the cover of the wall. It’s Jeremy. He yells, I think at me, and whips off his jacket, pulling out a 9mm handgun tucked in the back of his pants.

“Stay close!” he shouts. But before we can go anywhere, gunfire shoots through the doors and into the panicked throng. The initiates nearest the exit drop to the floor, dead. Their bodies block the doorway. I look into the sightless eyes of a boy not five feet from me, his sneer gone forever. It’s Gander.

I add my screams to the others. No one knows what to do. Some people charge over their dead peers and get shot in turn. Some run back inside the Aerie, searching for another exit, tripping and pushing and falling and howling.

Four of the leather-clad attackers burst through the front doors, stepping over and even on the corpses. Jeremy fires his gun, not at their chests, but at the tiny space between their helmets and their necklines. Two of them go down before firing a shot, but the third one gets Jeremy in the arm. He curses and switches hands, catching his adversary in the ankle and wrist. The fourth person backs out of the doors and disappears.

Jeremy sinks against the wall, gripping the wound on his arm. I stare at his bicep until the ruby gore fades to a muted pink and then ashy gray. Everything turns white and foggy, and I stagger forward. I don’t hear Jeremy until he’s yelling in my face.

“Come on!” he’s saying. He pulls me after him, and I stumble over the bodies in our path.

We stop on the threshold. “I want you to hold onto me tight while I get us to cover,” he says, lifting up the cuff of his pants to reveal a smaller gun, a .38 caliber pistol, strapped to his shin. He hands it to me. “Your job is to watch my back, got it?”

I clutch the warm metal and nod dizzily. I wait behind the door while he fires several rounds into the trees.

“Now!” he yells. I run forward, looping my arms and legs around his chest, looking over his shoulder. He sprints to the edge of the deck, and then we’re sailing through the air.

I tighten my hold. Jeremy has his bad arm pressed against me, but it won’t stop me from falling if I lose my grip. He zips right and left, and my stomach feels empty as I watch the trees whir by. My heart is lodged in my throat. I can feel my pulse reverberating on my tongue.

In the air around us, people are streaming out of the Aerie and into the sky. Some of the counselors have guns, like Jeremy, and are returning fire on the enemy, but none of the initiates do. The best they can hope for is to dodge the bullets and escape into the forest. I watch them get hit and fall, screaming, to the ground.

Stay focused, Kit.
But I’m flying and my body is wrapped around Jeremy’s and people are being shot and everything’s bending funny. And then I see the dark, blurry shape behind us, catch the glint of a rifle.

Arms wobbling, I aim Jeremy’s gun and fire. The shot splits my eardrums, and the kickback sends us dipping to the right. But I fired wide, and now our pursuer is raising his own weapon.

“Someone’s behind us!” I scream.

“Gathered that,” Jeremy grunts as he leaps to the side. The bullet just misses my arm. Shaking, I level the gun again, both hands this time. I’m not as accurate as Jeremy, but I’m a fair shot. I try for the neck, like he did.

I hit his stomach. The person flies backward and crashes toward the ground. But he recovers and catches the wind in time.
He must have a bulletproof vest.
He’s still chasing us, but at least I’ve bought us some distance.

I’m turning my head to tell Jeremy when I hear the thunderclap of his gun. We plummet to a lower current, twirling from the force of the shot. I almost lose my grip and, shrieking, hold on tighter.

“Don’t choke me,” Jeremy wheezes.

“Sorry,” I stammer.

And then a bullet finds its way into his thigh. Jeremy yells and suddenly we’re diving into the trees. I mash my face into his shoulder as we crash through the branches and pine needles, hitting the ground hard. Jeremy takes the brunt of it, rolling to cushion my fall.

I tumble off him and lie shaking in the underbrush. We’re still in the camp but hidden for the moment by a large log and some bushes. I turn to look at him. His face is pale, and I wonder if he broke his leg. Even if he hasn’t, his other wounds will send him into shock soon.

“Listen,” Jeremy grunts, “we only have a few seconds before they find us. I’m going to distract them so you can make a break for it.” I shake my head. There’s no way I’m going to leave his side.

“Count to ten,” he continues, taking a clip out of his pocket and pressing into my palm, “and then go as fast as you can.” He grimaces and sucks in his breath through his teeth.

“No, Jeremy, I won’t let—”

He puts his hand on my mouth. “I can’t protect you anymore,” he says. “Promise me you’ll run. Promise.” His gaze holds mine without faltering. How did I ever think his eyes were sharp? They’re warm and soft, softer than the sky.

My own eyes are burning as I nod my head. His hand slides from my mouth to my cheek. He holds my face close to his for one quiet moment, presses his lips against my forehead.

“Thanks for proving me wrong, kid,” he says. And then he’s gone.

I watch him stagger to his feet and limp out of our hiding spot. He rises shakily into the air.

One.

Immediately, the people in black find him, surround him. He fires three shots, moving higher, away from me.

Two.

Someone hits him in the shoulder. He spins to dodge another bullet and fires his own.

Three.

A backflip to get around yet another assailant. Climbing still higher.

Four.

It’s working. He’s leading them away. Heat swells behind my eyes.

Five.

One of the enemy falls out of the sky. Twirling in a death spiral.

Six.

But there are too many. He’s hit again. And again.

Seven.

Someone drops down from behind him and empties a round of bullets into his torso. He arcs his back in pain, and
I see his strong body tumble to the ground.

“Jeremy,” I choke. I bite all the way through my lip, force the tears back before they have a chance to fall. I have to go now, or they’ll find me.

Stumbling, I drop the clip into my pocket then push back the bushes and dash for the forest at the edge of camp, maybe a hundred yards away. Gunshots and screams ring through the trees. I clutch the handgun and swivel my head from side to side.

An explosion shakes the ground and sends me falling onto my face. I look over my shoulder at the black smoke devouring the trees. They’ve blown up the Aerie.

I climb to my feet, ears ringing, wondering who was still inside.

And then the
wakenu
bursts into a million pieces.

I hit the ground again. The glass shards blossom outward, reflecting the orange flames a billion times over, blinding my eyes. The top part of the meetinghouse is completely obliterated. The steel base and supports, warped and twisted, are the only things left. The beautiful dining hall, gone forever.

Run, you idiot!
I get up and sprint for the woods.

A blast of searing hot air sends me flying forward. My head crashes into a tree, and I lie on the ground, stunned. I don’t hear anything. No screams, no gunshots. I look back at the meetinghouse. The steel remnants have collapsed completely, sunken into a giant hole in the ground. The flames from the first explosion must have hit the natural gas well, causing the second explosion.

The fire has spread, running through the dry pine needles and latching onto the surrounding trees, but I don’t hear the flames.

Suddenly, the ground in front of me starts to sink, and I hold onto my head, thinking it’s the dizziness. But it’s not. The dirt at my feet is literally slipping into the earth. I scramble backward, trying to get to higher ground. What’s going on?

Around me the bunkhouses are swaying, tipping, smashing on the ground as everything collapses toward the center of the camp. A burst of fire shoots out of the earth fifty feet away from me. And then I know what’s happening. The gas lines underground. The explosion must be spreading through the tunnels, weakening the cement—the entire infrastructure of the camp. The bunkhouses, the trees, the sticks on the ground, it’s all going up in flames.

I run from the fire, from the tipping earth. The soil slides under my feet, and I have to scramble on all fours. I can’t hear the flames, the exploding pipelines, but I can smell the gas-filled smoke. It scalds my throat and lungs.
Not this, please not this!

I finally get clear of the landslide, enough to stand on my feet again, when I trip on the first body. The person is lying face up, her face blackened beyond recognition. I choke down bile and keep running. Past another body. And another. They’re everywhere, emblems of the massacre.

And then I see her petite frame. Her feathery hair, plastered with blood. Charity. I can’t hear myself screaming her name. I drop to my knees.

A second later, a bullet streaks above my head, and I feel the slice in the air, see it hit the tree in front of me. I look up. A man in black leather is riding the wind above me, his gun leveled at my head. He isn’t wearing a helmet, and I can see his face. Black, coiling tattoos curve from his nose onto his cheeks and forehead, around his eyes and chin.

Frozen in place, I stare at the barrel of his rifle, knowing that it’s all over, that I’m going to join the others. But then a tomahawk splits the man’s face, and he drops to the ground. I turn away from the blood, gagging.

Someone bursts out of the forest and runs toward my dead assailant. He steps on the man’s face, grabs the tomahawk by the handle, and yanks the blade free. My stomach heaves. Then the person strips the man of his weapons and turns to look at me, cheeks and hair smeared in black. If it weren’t for the bright green eyes peering out through the ash, I wouldn’t recognize him.

“Go!” I read the word in Rye’s mouth rather than hear it. I lurch to my feet. Then he’s at my side, grabbing my elbow, pushing me forward, and we run into the forest.

Rye drives me through the trees. I trip over the stumps and logs, but I keep going. Behind us, I can feel the smoke grow thicker, feel it creeping into my skull. I shake my head forcefully.

We reach the river. Rye pushes me, and I fall in, gasping as the cold water stings my burned skin. A second later, his arms reach around me and pull me out. He’s windwalking, carrying me. We land on the opposite bank.

Rye says something, but I still can’t hear him. I think he’s asking why I didn’t windwalk, so I point to my ears. He nods curtly and we keep running through the trees. We run for another hundred feet or so. Then he pulls me into a thick patch of bushes where we lie on our bellies under the leaves, panting. Rye grips his weapons—a tomahawk and the man's automatic rifle. I keep my hand wrapped around Jeremy’s handgun.