Sugar Skulls (28 page)

“Take five minutes. I need to figure out where we proceed from here.”

His assistant nods and heads through the double doors.

“I’m so close, Micah. So fucking close, and you will
not
stand in my way.” Trav stares me down for a moment, daring me to oppose him.

But I wouldn’t know how.
I’m not even sure why he wants me back on the grid in the first place . . .

He stares at the datapad, his eyes ricocheting from point to point, mumbling to himself. I hear phrases like
nucleus accumbens
and
neuronal variance
, but none of it means anything to me. Then his eyes light up. And for the briefest moment, he’s the old Trav again, exhilarated by solving a problem, conquering an obstacle, getting a look of approval from Bryn.

Part of me, some small part that remembers and loves the Trav I knew, wants to encourage him, to see him succeed. Trav peers close, meeting my gaze. And I search his face for any sign of my old friend.

When Fisher returns, Trav has him call for more equipment while doing some quick calculations on the datapad. “We’ll need a secondary conduit for increased output. I’m talking about a constant flow. No more measured doses of nanotech. We’ll plug him straight into the wall like a fork in the socket.”

As Fisher makes the necessary preparations, I can feel the electrodes and probes sliding from my skull. Trav steps away, cradling a modified aerosolizer in his hands. It looks like an ink-black pyramid, with output jets on four sides and a small reservoir in the center. There’s the tiniest puff of air from one of the jets as he puts it back down on the counter.

And as worn out, as burned out, as confused as I am, I finally know something for sure. Trav’s not on my side. No matter how much I wanted to believe it, he’s not. He can’t be.

Because I can smell it. I can smell the rotten cider stink from here.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

V

By the time we hit Hawthorne Street, every vidscreen in town is flashing the announcement:

“NIGHT OF THE DEAD” PARK CRAWL

F
REE CONCERT BY THE
S
UGAR
S
KULLS
!

P
AINT YOUR FACE AND JOIN THE FAMILY
!

We put the tinted window up between us and the driver so he doesn’t realize his orders didn’t actually come from Damon. Sasha’s keystroking as fast as she can, hacking into the citywide speakers using his phone as the intermediary between her laptop and Cyrene’s broadcasting system.

“Almost there,” she mutters, fingers flying.

“Keep at it,” I tell her. “None of this is going to mean dick if we can’t go live—”

“Shut up, then, and let me concentrate,” she snaps back, her thumb brushing over Callie’s silver ring before she resumes typing.

Jax tries to get a better look at my injured hand. “Shit, Vee, you burned yourself a good one there.”

Sparing a glance for my blistered knuckles, I surprise myself by grinning at her. “It was worth it.”

“Yeah, you dropped him like a pro, Princess,” Jax says. “Remind me not to piss off this new Vee, all right?” With a glance at Sasha, she adds, “You, either.”

Sasha laughs but doesn’t look up from the blue glow of her digital displays. “Just don’t get between me and Callie, and you’ll be fine.”

I know exactly how she feels. Rewrapping Micah’s silver necklace around my hand, I count off the links, every one a promise to him.
If they’ve hurt you, I’ll pay it back a thousand times over, love.

“Got it!” Sasha crows seconds before every speaker across the city crackles to life. Given that one in the morning is when a lot of the die-hard shenanigans commence across Cyrene, kids are pouring into the streets in droves. All of them wearing leather and lace and tatters. All of them ready to raise a little hell.

Time for Phase Three.
Slipping on my wireless earpiece and adjusting the mic, I nod to Jax. “Open it up.”

With a sinfully satisfied smile, she opens up the sunroof and I boost myself into the moonlight. Almost immediately, screaming fans surround the limo, each of them wearing a different version of my face.

“It’s the middle of the night, you kinky little motherfuckers. Why aren’t you in bed?” They all laugh as the car loops slowly around the park, gathering everyone converging on the green square. “How are all my pretty little dead things?”

They roar their answer. I have to give them credit. For all their blistering enthusiasm, they’re keeping enough distance to allow the limo to pass through the streets, falling in behind it, my own personal undead army.

Somewhere below me, Jax knows it’s time to give them what they want. Using her mini-ironing board mixer from the mall concert, she shoots a spiral of notes from here to eternity. After the second pass around Mercette, I jump into the song and the car rolls toward Richter Park, gathering strength like a storm.

M

The first try nearly tore me apart; this one shatters me instantly, roaring like a hurricane and battering me from all sides. Every inch of me is on fire as a flood of nanotech pours in. It’s a jailbreak, throwing open cell doors and unleashing everything the applejack overdose stole from me. Dead neurons flare back to life, and I feel it. The pain in my ribs explodes, and tears stream down my face.

Nine months of emotion crash into me like a wrecking ball. Memories well up, fresh and revitalized, magnified a thousand times, begging for a chance to be felt for real.

Vee and I kiss, and my heart swells three sizes like the Grinch’s.

Venomous spikes of despair and joy and fear run me through as Bryn’s death and Trav’s reappearance wrestle for my attention.

Old scars and new feelings, agony and delight . . . I drown in it, the ultimate sensory clip show.

When I can bear to open my eyes, there’s no sign of Fisher. Instead, I see Trav slipping on a full rebreather, holding the aerosolizer, and watching the datapad intently for updates on my condition. He’s almost giddy.

And I realize he’s counting down. Waiting to test his new and improved applejack on me.

“Think of it, Micah. No more deadly tabs and inconsistent doses! No more burnouts! No more deaths! Just white-hot highs and a massive boost in thrum!”

The full weight of his betrayal cuts me to the quick, like a drill bit to the heart.

That’s why he needs me on the grid. I’m his guinea pig. His test will either kill me or make him a millionaire.

Either way, Trav wins.

V

The music rolls ahead of us, thumping bass barreling down the street. It sweeps up everyone in its path like flotsam; by the time we hit Raskin Park—our final stop—the crowd has tripled in size. If I had to take a guess, at least half of Cyrene’s under-21 population has us surrounded, and they’re messaging the other half to come join us.

They’re not the only ones burning up the Cyrano network. An incoming call almost knocks us off the broadcast system, but Sasha manages to reroute it through her laptop.

“That was unexpected, Vee.” Damon’s voice, softer than expected.
Damage control mode.

Jax loops in the chorus of “Little Dead Thing” so I can cover the mic and purr, “I guess your security team found you taking a nap on the marble? How’s your neck feeling?”

“Vee, we can fix this. If you pull the plug and get your ass back here, I can explain—”

“I’m sorry, this is a
terrible
connection. Apparently there’s some huge park crawl concert going on right now—”

“You kept going back to that house, Vee. Hoping your family would be there, waiting for you.”

Goose bumps ripple down my arms. I thought my past was
my
card-up-the-sleeve, but it turns out that it was his, too. “So fucking what?”

“So, I know where they are, Vee. I can take you to them—”

I signal to Sasha to end the call, and the line goes dead. Both the girls stare at me, but I don’t want to explain,
can’t
explain that a few simple words were somehow the cruelest thing he’s inflicted on me yet. So I shake the curls out of my face and jab a finger at the equipment.

“Don’t stop, damn it. Stick with the plan!”

Sasha immediately starts broadcasting a live feed of our impromptu performance to every screen in the city. Jax gets in my face with a palm-sized vidcam, which she then pans over the crowd. Every time they see themselves, their energy levels spike higher. Instead of forcing the car to a crawl, the crowd pushes us along with screams and snippets of songs.

It’s building, this lovely apocalyptic juggernaut, and now that we’ve turned down Dover, I’m aiming it straight at the medcenter.

“You asked for plenty of advance notice the next time around. Are you ready to riot?” I ask under my breath.

Jax swings the camera back to me with another huge grin. “Five minutes more, and I could have managed grenades.”

I don’t need grenades. It’s time to set off some dynamite.

Out of old material, Jax uses her unmolested glove to cue up a new heartbeat, the hand holding the camera never wavering from my face as I light the match.

Red hot wires jack up my soul,

They want to think they have control,

Inferno starts with a single candle,

Power’s too much for them to handle.

Fuck the thrum, screw the grid.

Lick the sparks, eat the dark.

All the pretty undead things

Wear silver necklaces and rings.

We’re coming for you, one by one,

Your perfect satin knot’s undone.

Fuck the thrum, screw the grid.

Lick the sparks, eat the dark.

By the time I hit the second chorus, the crowd is singing along. This isn’t like the Dome. No mayhem. No wanton destruction. The boys and girls out to play don’t splinter off down the side streets; they’re with me, heart, body, and soul, waving their middle fingers at Damon, at Corporate, at Cyrene. Banshees, every last one of us, and we’re going to make them hear us.

Even if we have to take down the city to do it.

The first of them runs up against the metal gate blocking the entrance to the medcenter. Hands grasp chain-link, rattling it like a necklace of chicken bones.

Fuck the thrum, screw the grid.

Lick the sparks, eat the dark.

More hands, more weight, more undead howls from all the face-painted sugar skulls, but they need something more.

They need me.

Boosting myself out the top of the limo, I slide down the windshield and take three running steps down the hood. Launching myself into the crowd, I trust them to catch me, just like they did at the mall. Riding the energy currents, I end up at the fence. Two of the tallest guys offer up their shoulders, and after that it’s a quick scrape over paltry razor wire. I cut up the hand not wearing the glove, but fuck it.

What’s a little blood now?

I land on the other side of the fence in time to tag a security guard headed for me. The Brights shock the shit out of me again, but it’s nothing compared to the adrenaline pouring through me, and everyone roars when he hits the concrete. I was almost expecting to run up against an army’s worth of Facilitators, but Damon hasn’t had time to scramble his backup.

Better make my move.

Jax loops the new song around to play again, ghost-voicing me and adding some nice reverb on the back end; normally Sasha would do this, but she’s busy organizing the tech side of our little revolutionary diversion. The music makes for the perfect soundtrack as I run to the empty security booth, punch every button, set off sirens and rotating red lights. Finally the front gate swings open. The crowd pours in, chanting, “Screw the grid!” They head straight for the front doors, battering against the glass like zombies in search of brains.

I bolt for the side entrance, hearing glass shatter seconds before Sasha manages to cut the power to the building. Security system fucked six ways to Sunday, the side door swings open, and the only thing between me and Micah is a million miles of pitch-black corridor.

“Lick the sparks,” I mutter as the nearest emergency light crackles on, green instead of the usual orange. “Eat the dark.”

M

I scream myself hoarse, and then I scream until I can taste blood, but it has no effect on Trav. He’s wild-eyed, practically foaming at the mouth, waiting for whatever sign he needs to activate the aerosolizer.

“We’ll test every batch on you first! Perfect quality control!” Trav’s hands are shaking slightly, from adrenaline or excitement or rage or all three at once. “How fast did your love for Bryn fade? How soon after you woke up were you fucking whores like your little singer? Was Bryn’s body even cold yet, you piece of shit?” He’s ranting now, spewing every vile bit of misery and anger he’s bottled up over months and months. Each word lands like another vicious jab to the ribs.

With the nanotech surging through me, I’m a raw nerve. I can’t resist, I can’t fight. I just feel. I’ve completely trashed my voice with my screaming, but I still manage to choke out a few words: “Trav, I’m sorry.”

He drops the datapad, grabs my face hard, and stares into my eyes. “You’re sorry?! You ruined my life, you took her from me, and you’re sorry?” He lets go of me, and I can feel bruises already forming from his fingertips. “If you were really sorry for what you did, you’d be dead. You should have saved us all the trouble and just killed yourself—”

The window suddenly crashes inward, bits of frosted glass tinkling to the floor, the subdued after-hours glow of a Cyrene high-rise now visible.
We must be a few floors up.

And slipping through the myriad cracks, there’s chanting, over and over.

Fuck the thrum, screw the grid.

Lick the sparks, eat the dark.

Trav turns his attention from me to the window, glaring through the spiderwebbed glass at the street below.

Fisher bursts through the double doors. “Sir, there’s a mob outside. Security will be here in a few—”

“I’m fine! We’re almost there. Give me five more minutes. If I need anything, I have my panic button. Now go.”

The assistant glances at me before leaving, obviously spooked by more than the noise outside.

Fuck the thrum, screw the grid.

Lick the sparks, eat the dark.

That single note, that tone resonating inside me, is bolstered by one particular voice in the crowd. Her voice emerges from the frantic pitch and leads the sonorous charge.

Vee is okay.

She remembers me.

And she raised an army with just her voice.

Trav stares out the window, looking without seeing. “A rescue mission. How sweet. You did the same thing for her, didn’t you? At the Dome.”

I try to nod, but my head is still locked down by the restraints. “Yeah.”
Using some of the know-how you taught me.

“Smart enough to save her but not us, right? Not Bryn?”

He’s still there. In the alcove. He lives there every day.
“I couldn’t move, Trav. I couldn’t do anything.”

“I watched her, Micah. I watched her die, and as she died, she reached for you. For fucking you. And you just sat there. I reached for her, with everything I had. Just fingertips away.” Angry tears streak down his face.

The nanotech races through me, dozens of doses. Hundreds. It’s hard to think. Hard to focus.

I wonder if I can still reach him, the man who loves Bryn, even now.
“She . . . she wouldn’t want this for you.”

He rips the rebreather from his face and hurls it across the room. “You don’t know the first thing about what she wanted! She wanted
me
. She came to me with open arms. You had to chase her down to get her to notice you at all.” Taking a deep breath, he carefully puts down the aerosolizer. “You don’t know shit, Micah.”