Talker 25 (20 page)

The major stops the line at Eleven, offers him a Kit Kat. “For a job well done.”

The boy shakes his head. “It was a privilege, sir.”

Fourteen, chewing at a fingernail, glances at the candy bar, then to his feet. The major pockets the Kit Kat, claps him on the shoulder. Fourteen stiffens. “You barely reached the minimum standard today, Fourteen. Your performance continues to lag. Remember, weak links break chains.”

Eleven glares at him.

Fourteen nods rapidly. “I’ll do better tomorrow, sir.”

“You’ve had plenty of chances. You will resume your duties in the ER.”

Fourteen blanches. “Please, sir. I’m not—”

“Enough. Fourteen, you are dismissed.”

Then it’s the girls’ turn. I get behind Twenty-One, who bobs her head from side to side. “Kill the dragons, yes, yes. Chocolate for me. Burn, burn, burn.”

“Hush now, child,” the major says, extending a Kit Kat. She snatches it from him and sticks it into her waistband. Alderson frowns. “What do you say?”

“More, more!”

His frown deepens. “Not today.”

“Burn, burn, burn,” she says, and skips after the other girls. I try to follow her, but Alderson blocks my path.

I expect another lecture for my behavior, but instead he says, “I heard about what you did for Twenty-Six. Trying to persuade him to our cause. I appreciate that. Unfortunately, some are too stubborn to break by conventional method. . . . I’m glad you have seen the error in your ways.”

I want to slap that smug smile off his—

My CENSIR jolts me.

Chuckling, the major steps aside. “We’ll work it out of you, don’t you worry. Have a good dinner, Twenty-Five.”

As I climb the steps onto the bus, I glance toward the Smurf pens. Empty.

I join Twenty-One in the front seat behind the driver. She clings to the steel grating with one hand; the other’s clutched around the dragon brooch I gave her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbles to it. She notices me, follows my gaze to the Smurf pens. “Crawl, crawl, crawl. Burn, burn, burn.”

Her knuckles go white around the brooch. She sniffles and looks back to me. “They’re always talking, always talking. We can’t get rid of them.” Her eyes widen with expectation. “You’ll help us get rid of them, won’t you?”

I stare out the window, at the empty cages shrinking from view. What choice do I have?

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

When
we return from dinner, the barracks are frigid. I check the screen, worried I’ll see my interview on display, but it’s just episode fifty-two, “Kissing Viridescia.” Lorena, who wasn’t at dinner, sits on her bed, shivering in her blanket.

“Weak links break chains,” Evelyn says. Her girls repeat the phrase in hushed whispers while the soldiers collect our jackets, gloves, and hats. Once they’re gone, the whispering ceases and everyone makes for the warmth of their beds.

I wrap a blanket around myself and join Lorena. “You okay?”

“Just a bad day. Sorry.”

“For what?”

“It’s my fault it’s cold in here.”

“Weak links break chains,” I mutter.

“Yep. Another reason to do what you’re told. Check that. Do what you’re told and be happy about it.”

“If it makes you feel better, it might be my fault.” I tell her about my attempt to contact Syren.

“Nah, it’s not your fault.” Her upper lip curls into a sneer. “Almost everybody tries to call out at some point. They expect it. I think they like it. They want to break you. We’re nothing but animals. . . .” she stops talking, takes a deep breath.

“You should roar,” I say, thinking of Myra’s funeral. “Let it out. I’ll roar with you. Bet Twenty-One would, too.” The girl, counting fingers on the floor beside us, raises her head and howls at the ceiling.

“No!” Reconditioned Claire screams. She leaps from the bed closest to the screen and lumbers toward Twenty-One, murder in her eyes.

“Stop them!” Lorena says to the camera in the ceiling corner. She steps in front of Claire. “It’s all right, Claire. She’s not a real dragon, she’s a hum—”

Claire plows through her. Lorena falls hard. I lunge for Twenty-One, intending to pull her out of Claire’s path, but she springs up too fast. She darts away from Claire’s bull rush, sucks in a lungful of air, and releases a louder roar. Claire wheels around.

Twenty-One flaps her arms, circles the larger girl. “I’m a
dragon, I’m a dragon. Burn, burn, burn!”

Claire’s face goes crimson. Her nostrils flare. Her bandaged hands lock into fists. She swings out, misses. Again. Twenty-One circles her, roaring and taunting.

“Kill the dragon, Claire! Kill it!” Evelyn shouts from her bed. Her minions take up the chant. Some of them laugh.

Lorena, back on her feet, scowls at Evelyn, then directs her anger back at the camera. “Dammit, Jim. Stop them!”

Twenty-One glances at Lorena. “No, no, I’ll be good, yes, yes!” She pantomimes locking her lips, makes a choked roaring sound.

Claire pounces from behind. She whips Twenty-One around, clobbers her with a blow to the forehead that sends her crashing to the floor. The dragon brooch tumbles from her hand.

“Stop her!” Lorena begs the camera. She grabs for Claire, gets elbowed in the jaw, staggers backward. I side kick Claire in the flank. It should debilitate her, or at least slow her, but she barely flinches. She snarls, whips around, drills me in the sternum. I fall to my knees.

As I gasp for air, she straddles Twenty-One, hits her once, twice, then rears back with a banshee wail that turns into this terrible sob. Her shoulders slump, her eyes widen. She looks around frantically before her gaze lands on Twenty-One. Squinting, she grabs her by the shoulders, shakes her.
“Wake up! Wake up, Twenty-One! Wake up!”

Lorena, massaging her cheek, puts a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Let her sleep, Claire. She’s tired.”

“Nobody wake her then!” Claire says with a glare at the other girls. They all nod with deference, though Evelyn can’t keep from smiling. Claire returns to her bed, where she crosses her legs beneath her, rests her chin on her hands, and resumes watching
Kissing Dragons
.

I grimace. “She safe?”

“For now,” Lorena says, checking Twenty-One’s pulse. “It’s a damn game to them.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. . . .”

“A party every night around here.” She scoops Twenty-One into her arms and carries her to bed.

I’m retrieving the brooch from the floor when a soldier enters the barracks. He’s portly with shaggy hair. Definitely not your typical All-Black.

Lorena emerges from the bathroom with a wet rag and a bottle of painkillers. She sees the soldier, freezes. “Asshole.”

He taps his tablet and she spasms. “Watch it, Lorena. I have my orders.”

“They’re not guinea pigs, Jim. You knew very well what would happen. You should have incapacitated them.”

“Too dangerous. We almost killed Eleven the other night. Major A thinks the reconditioned are more susceptible.”

“Or maybe you just like watching too much. You sick—”

She spasms.

“Don’t push it. I did try to shock Claire several times. She didn’t feel it.” He waves a hand. “Whatever, Twenty-One’s fine. I am, of course, going to have to report this.”

She frowns. “What’s the situation on Big Bro?”

“I’m the only one monitoring you ladies tonight.”

“Shocking.” She rolls her eyes. “What’s it gonna cost?”

Jim nods at Twenty-One. “She’s already on the shortlist. Major Alderson will likely want to give her another dose of reconditioning if he discovers she instigated another fight.”

Her eyes narrow. “What’s it gonna cost?”

“Whiskey’s running low. Three freebs.”

“Two, but I want some minis. I know you’ve got them.”

“Three and I’ll bring you six.”

“Turn up the heat and you have a deal.”

“See you after lights out, princess.” He tips his cap and leaves.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Lorena shrugs, sits beside Allie, presses the rag to her reddened face. “Forget about it. I needed to resupply anyway.”

The heater ramps up.

Evelyn’s voice rises from the opposite end of the room. “Strike another deal, Two? Seems like Twenty-Five should be the one paying the toll.”

I clench my fists, step toward her. Five and Seven close ranks. I sneer. “Good dogs.”

A loud beep echoes through the room. A bed over, Sixteen ducks beneath her blankets, the playing cards from her game of solitaire scattering across the floor. Everybody else turns toward the screen, which switches from the hunt for No-Tail Nelly to news. An anchorman and a congresswoman from New York discuss a newly passed bill that authorizes the extermination of all dragons, regardless of color, age, or location. The congresswoman, who formerly opposed the idea, cites “the recent tragedies in the Midwest” as the reason for her change of heart.

The program shifts to silent aerial footage of Mason-Kline, post-stampede. I recognize the high school in the distance, but the rest of the town’s been churned into an undulating landscape of fractured ground, crumpled houses, and trampled corn.

I fully realize why Lorena calls the screen the message board when names and pictures of victims start scrolling down the side. Each familiar face drives the knife of grief a little deeper, but none so hard as
Major Amy Potter (Army)
, Trish’s mom.

The message is loud and clear: dragons destroyed this town, snuffed these lives.

As the list continues, Pam gathers her Bible trio, has
them join hands and close their eyes. She quotes scripture from memory, something about being at home with the lord. A couple of Evelyn’s girls cry. A sniffle here, a tear there. Along with several colorful curses.

Claire begins to moan.

“Watch Allie.” Lorena hands me the rag. “She can be a bit disoriented when she wakes from something like this. Just try to keep her calm.” She grins. “No more roaring.

“Hey, Victoria, the military killed those dragons. They’re all dead. They’re not going to hurt you . . .,” Lorena says as she approaches Sixteen’s bed.

I press the rag to the bruise on Twenty-One’s head where Claire hit her. Her left cheek’s puffy, her eyelid’s swelling. I peek beneath her shirt and find several bruises, half bluing and new, the rest yellowed with age. Yet her chest rises and falls with ease, her face is at peace.

She’s so young.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I place the dragon brooch beneath her pillow, beside a stash of chocolates.

“Go away!” Claire yells. I tense, but she’s not coming for Allie. She launches herself at the screen, smashes her fists against it over and over. Blood seeps through her bandages.

Lorena, in the midst of a card game with Sixteen, races over. “Frank and the others will be back soon, Claire. The dragons will die.” She restrains her with a hug from behind,
gets bucked about for a bit, but finally coaxes her into the bathroom.

The list of pictures and names end a few minutes later.
Kissing Dragons
returns. The intro music blares. Images of the fab four in action flash across the screen. Most everybody cheers.

“‘The house of the wicked will be destroyed, but the tent of the upright will flourish,’” Pam announces. After a group amen, her prayer circle returns to their beds to watch.

Evelyn cuts her a glare, then bounds to her feet with a syrupy smile. “We’ve got a new episode tonight. Remember, ladies, we must not dwell on the past, but focus on the future.”

She nods to Twelve, who uses several napkins to wipe Claire’s blood from the screen. The music crescendos. The show starts with a decade-old clip of a Green destroying Disney World. Boos cascade through the room.

Simon interviews a man whose wife and two children were killed on vacation by One-Eyed Willy. Then on to the hunt.

Midway through the fab four’s trek into the crocodile-infested swamps of the Everglades, Twenty-One stirs.

“Mom, it’s coming. It’s coming to burn us. It told me. They always want to burn us,” she mumbles. Her eyes dart beneath closed eyelids, she shudders. “We need to get away.”

She frees her arms from the blanket, paws the air above her in quick, rhythmic strokes. Her knees join in. Her breaths come fast and shallow. “We need to get away. They’re going to burn us. We need to get away! They’re going to burn us!”

I shake her, but she doesn’t wake. Her air-crawling accelerates. Like a bug turned upside down. I look for Lorena, but she’s still in the bathroom.

“You have to soothe her,” Twenty says. She and Twenty-Two sit huddled together two beds down. Twenty appears to be massaging circles on Twenty-Two’s forearm.

I mimic the motion. “It’s not working.”

“Try something else.” With a shrug, Twenty continues to massage Twenty-Two.

Thinking of Mom, I glide my finger from Twenty-One’s chin to her forehead. Calms her some. Onscreen, the fab four open fire. Gunshots echo around the room. Several girls clap. Twenty-One’s eyes spring open. She clutches my shirt. “Run!”

I pull her to me. Her knees push against the bed; jagged fingernails drive into my skin. One-Eyed Willy tumbles from the sky; the gunfire quiets. Twenty-One’s grip loosens, and she ducks her head through my armpit to watch.

“No bad guys, only victims?” I wonder aloud.

“Yes, yes,” Twenty-One says, then cheers with the others as the fab four hog-tie One-Eyed Willy.

While Kevin, Mac, and L.T. plant smooches, Frank drives a ceremonial sword through the Green’s skull. The Saint George routine must be a new addition to this year’s show.

“There are many rules critical for a successful dragon hunt,” Frank says, “but always remember this: no matter what a dragon looks like, no matter if it has one eye or none at all, that sonofabitch’s fire will scorch you dead in under a second. Never let your guard down.”

As the credits roll, Evelyn steps back in front of the screen. “Let’s put our hands together for Eighteen, who helped make the world a safer place by locating this abomination. This is her third televised one,” she says with an impressed nod. “She needs a few more to catch me, but let’s wish her the best.”