by E. L. Giles
“And this is why you asked your rebel friends to take down the convoy? And the Retirement Center? It was your work?”
“You’re crazy. I had nothing to do with that!” I cry.
“I’ve been honest with you. Why aren’t you doing the same? Tell me one truth. Tell me, where is she?” he asks.
“Where is who?” I ask, even though I know who he is referring to.
“The mother. His mother. Where is she?” he asks, compelling me to answer.
“I don’t know.” I know I will need to be convincing if I want to put an end to this madness. And I think I have an idea. “I escaped the convoy when it turned into a mess. Josh found me wandering in the woods and brought me back with him to this place where the soldiers found us. But there was no woman there. He told me she was dead some years before,” I explain. If I sound convincing enough, maybe they won’t try to trace her and find the real house where we lived. “That man, the one you ordered Josh to kill, I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before. I promise.”
President Nightingale rests his chin on his closed hand, calmer as he stares at me. The daggers have left his eyes, replaced by what I would define as hurt. Yes. He looks at me as if I have betrayed him. He sits back in his chair, taking a long look at the dark window still covered with blood.
“I guess this is yours.” He leans over his knees and picks something off the floor before placing it on the table.
I recognize the green leather book, my book, given to me by Dolores, the woman who gave birth to Josh, who he calls “The Birdman.” That is not who he is to me. Josh isn’t the Birdman to me. He isn’t an experiment of Kamcala’s sick mind. He is my Josh, born outside the walls of this madhouse. Free. President Nightingale is soiling this book, soiling Josh and Dolores by holding it with his dirty hands.
“I wished—I truly wished I could trust you,” says President Nightingale. “But I can’t, and this”—he jerks his head toward the book grimly—“is the reason why I can’t trust you. These pipe dreams you so fiercely worship, they only lead to wars and destruction. They are the very reasons why Kamcala was created. And the only reality of this world is that fear hinders chaos. A strong and visceral fear that makes you walk straight and do what you must do. No more, no less. And it is fear I am going to inspire tomorrow—no, that you are going to inspire. And it’s going to be one hell of a show.”
You. The word echoes in my head, along with images of Josh and me being tortured to death on stage for the sake of his “show” in front of the thousands of people crowded to witness our very last moments.
“Whatever you are going to do, do it to me, but please, spare him the torture. Spare his life. I beg you,” I plead.
I couldn’t endure the sight of Josh being bruised and beaten in the little room, how could I endure his torturing? How could I face it, with the heavy guilt weighing on me? Guilt for having let Josh sacrifice his life to save me so we could stay together no matter what. Tomorrow, a mother will be deprived of her son, and a son of his life.
“It goes far beyond the sole physical torture, my dear. I will engrave in the people’s minds a hatred toward you and your bunch of rebel scum, deep enough it will last for generations. I won’t let them ruin my presidency. I won’t let them ruin the work of my life. I won’t let them take my city or my reign. Tomorrow, I’m going to show everyone what the future will be made of.”
“I hope they will crush your freaking head under their boots once and for all!” I cry, unable to hold the words inside of me any longer. I want to jump on him, but President Nightingale snaps his fingers, and the guard who brought us the plate and the cups of tea enters the room and rushes to me, his arm immediately wrapped around me like an iron vice.
I fight hard, but the need to let go and succumb to this pressure in my head grows. I feel like I could melt into the cement of the floor as the pain I feel pushes down on me. I’m dragged down the hallway, past the first metal door, and I start to wonder which door Josh lies behind. Which door blocks me from sinking back into his arms? Which one?
I push the guard aside, propelling him off the side wall, and limp up to a door. I bang on it, crying, “Josh! Josh!” but no one answers. I step to the next one, bang, and cry again. The guard tries to stop me, but I shove him off again and step to the next door. I stand in front of the door and slam my hands on it. “Josh! JOSH!” I keep crying. I kick the door, hammering myself on it. My whole body aches, but I ignore it and keep slamming my life against this freaking door. I swear I will get inside.
I feel a soft pressure on my neck, like something is digging into it. Something cold fills my vein. In an instant, I feel calmer, more peaceful. The terror and anger leave my body. I lose my senses. I lose control over myself, and I can’t do anything about it. It’s too strong of a drug for me to resist.
“Let’s go to your room,” the guard says gently after a minute. He’s really kind.
“Sure,” I say.
I look at every metal door as we pass them. I can’t remember why I so needed to get inside them. We stop at the end of the corridor. The guard presses his thumb to the pad on the wall, and the door unlocks with a click.
“You know, you have some really nice fingers,” I say. I don’t know why I said that.
The guard shrugs and helps me into the room. He walks me to the bed, where he makes me lie down. My will to stay awake leaves me the moment I rest my head on the thin pillow. I hear the door close and lock in the distance. It seems far away, lost in the abyss of my mind. The moment after, everything goes black.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
What would I give to feel him one last time? Only one second, before it’s all over. Our fate is already sealed, and there’s nothing I can do about it—nothing. But I still hold onto hope that I’ll have a moment. It’s this hope that allows me to endure it all. As I wake from the drug-induced, dreamless sleep, it’s this hope that stops me from slamming my head against the wall until it cracks open. They can shoot me, they can whip me to death, they can do whatever they want to me, but I swear I will take this moment with Josh and kill anyone who stands between us.
The door of my room creaks open, and a white plastic plate materializes on my lap. Through my still-blurry vision I notice it’s food that fills the plate—two pieces of burnt toast and a cup of water, the very same meal they gave me the morning I was to be sent to the Retirement Center. The death meal, I guess.
The door closes again before I even notice who the person was who brought the food to me. The very last strand of drugs must still be holding on, because my senses are slow and imprecise. I listen to the heavy footsteps reverberating in the hallway until they disappear. The plate feels warm on my legs, a sensation I have forgotten here in the cold of my room in this awful place. It’s not Josh’s warmth though, so it’s not at all comforting.
Food is the very last thing I want to think of right now. In fact, thinking of it brings a nausea I can hardly contain. But toast reminds me of breakfast, and breakfast means morning, and morning means it’s today, the day of our execution.
An idea drives my hand. I pick up one piece of toast. Nothing lies underneath. I lift the other piece too, but still, nothing lies there. There is not even anything under the cup of water. I don’t know, maybe there could have been a note, a piece of paper under them. But how would there be? After all, Marcus is dead, the unificator-turned-guard too. No one remains in Kamcala who knows me. No one has ever known Josh. How would someone ever come to our aid if no one knows us? We’re both perfect strangers to the citizens. We’re both perfect strangers to the rebels, if they are even the ones who helped me out the first time.
Josh and I are two unfortunate souls, instruments of the tyranny that is this world. Separated from each other, sentenced for crimes we didn’t commit. The reality that is ours has left me empty, completely wrecked. Separated from Josh, I feel deader than dead.
I pull my knees to my chest, rest my chin on them, and as I wrap my arms around my l
egs, I start to rock back and forth on the bed. It eases the aching in my stomach. It helps me keep my head focused on joyful images and moments I shared with Josh, with Dolores, and with Anna. It helps me travel back to the places Alastair went. But not the dreadful ones that Josh and I had the misfortune to see. Rather the fields of wildflowers he described, the landscape surrounded by mountains, and the lakes that stretched out of sight. The places where life seemed so easy.
I must have fallen asleep because I wince as the door opens, framing the silhouette of two armed guards.
“Get up,” orders one of them. I recognize him—the tall, bulky guard from yesterday.
I get up from the bed and limp to them. My ankle is still swollen and throbbing. How I’d like to have more of those painkillers Adamus gave me yesterday.
When I get to him, the tall, bulky guard chains my wrists and my ankles and locks them both together with another long chain that hangs along my legs. By then, the other guard, a young man no older than twenty, with greasy black hair and smelling of stale sweat, wraps one arm around my back and helps me walk down the hallway.
With every step I make, the chain rubs against my ankle, which soon makes the stabbing pain nearly unbearable. I start jumping on one leg, but the pain soon worsens.
“Move faster,” grumbles the tall, bulky guard.
He’s already standing at an intersection of the hallway, looking at a point ahead from us that I can’t see. He’s statue-still, one hand caressing the barrel of his rifle as the finger of his other hand slides across the trigger. I don’t get why he is on edge suddenly. The other guard and I finally make it to him, my head surrounded by this cloud of stale sweat that makes me want to throw up. I lean back against the cold wall and lift my throbbing leg off the floor, letting the pain ease as we wait. I turn my head toward the place the tall guard looks, and I see another group of guards moving toward us. It must be Josh, and he must have made their lives hell on earth if he requires four guards. That would explain why the tall guard looks edgy then.
As they get closer, I notice the split lip and the blood on the lead guard’s chin. One of the other guards limps, and another bears a black eye. Finally, I see Josh, bloodier and paler than ever. His gaze is empty, his eyes dark, despite their pale color. His shoulders are slumped, his head lowered, and he looks like he’s already dead. Have they given him drugs? Because it’s not my Josh I see; it’s barely his ghost.
“Josh!” I cry, shoving the stinking guard aside and running toward him. The pain in my ankle doesn’t exist right now, and the chains that bind me can’t hold me in place. I have to make it to Josh.
Josh raises his head and straightens his posture in an instant. When his eyes meet mine, they lighten, as if he is reviving and coming back to life. Josh shoves the two guards who are holding him, throwing them off the floor with a simple flap of his wings as he pushes the lead guard out of his way. We meet halfway, as the lead guard loses his balance. I scan his good eye until I see it, the sparkle of white that tells me it’s my Josh who stands before me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, rising up on the tiptoes of my good foot as Josh grabs me by the waist. The chains hinder us from embracing as we’d like, but we are reunited. That’s all that matters in this moment.
Josh half smiles. “Still the same lines,” he says with a plain voice, free of any intonation.
“What have they done to you?” I say under my breath.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he says.
He lifts me off the floor and kisses my lips. They’re dry and cracked, and they have a metallic taste, but I still recognize their warmth, and their softness, as they press against mine.
“Get back, mongrel,” says the tall, bulky guard through gritted teeth. He rushes to us, rifle drawn at our heads, as the tall, bulky guard pulls me back by my hair, the lead guard gets to Josh and pulls him back into line.
“Leave her alone!” yells Josh, fighting the grip of the lead guard.
The tall, bulky guard shoves me toward the stinking guard, but I lose my balance and slump to the floor. I hurt my ankle on the way, and pain stabs at my heart with a violence that blurs my sight and makes me feel faint. The stinking guard comes to me, grabs a fold of my shirt, and puts me back on my feet.
“I told you to chain them, stupid!” yells the lead guard at the two others who hold Josh back, pointing at the wings. “Whatever. Hold him tight. It’s time. And the next one who lets him go will regret his weakness.” The lead guard caresses the grip of his pistol in a clear warning.
We turn around and head toward the hallway behind us, following a path of signs that leads to an elevator bank. There, we split in two directions. I stay with my escort, and we enter the right-side elevator while Josh and his escort use the center elevator. The tall guard presses the button for the main floor, and the sliding door closes. We start from underground level three and stop as the light illuminates on the main floor indicator.
The doors slide open, and we all step out onto the white marble floor of the Justice Building hall. This part of the building I recognize. A few seconds later, Josh comes out of the other elevator, and we head across the fully guarded hall up to a set of double doors that the tall, bulky guard opens.
The hallway is wide, and its white-tiled ceiling must measure at least twenty feet high. The only light here comes from encased fixtures that are spread along the right-side wall to provide a blue-white, cold light that gives our skin a pale hue and make us look like we’re all sick. I try to twist my head over my shoulder, to look at Josh, whose eyes are set on me.
We stop by another set of tall double-doors at the end of the hallway and wait for the tall, bulky guard to unlock them with a code he enters on the little keypad. The doors open, and at the same time, the anthem starts to play, rumbling loudly, shaking the walls and the floor. I turn to Josh, who stumbles on his feet.
On the left-side wall is a screen that broadcasts the execution stage. We see rows of people gathering in tight lines at the bottom of the screen. If they have allowed people to get that close to the stage, then it only means the square must be crowded beyond capacity. I guess President Nightingale didn’t lie when he mentioned a show.
The hangman stands at the back of the stage, and two guards are positioned at each end of the stage. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen that many guards onstage for an execution. Does President Nightingale anticipate an uprising, or is he that afraid for his own safety?
As the anthem plays, I can’t stop my fears from settling over me, from weakening me to the point I think I’ll fall to the floor. And when I feel I’m about to collapse, I turn my head and look over my shoulder. Josh—my Josh—is here. The very one I kissed. The very one I love. He’s here, and his steely-gray eyes set on me, sparkling. Josh only needs to smile and nod, and instantly I know I’m not alone. There is no more time for regrets, for apologies, or for guilt, but we can make the most of our very last moments. We can use this time to touch each other, to be as physically close as possible—but he’s too far from me. I want to touch him.
I rotate my waist and stretch out an arm. It’s useless, I know. The chains stop me from doing so, but I can't not try. Josh stretches out his arm too, as far as he can. There’s still quite a long distance between our fingertips. This distance is shortened greatly with the help of the lead guard, who grabs Josh by the shoulder, pulls him away from the grip of the two guards, and literally throws him into my arms.
“In a moment, they’ll be dead anyway. Besides, I’m not into fighting this morning,” he says casually, yawning, probably in response to the wild look the tall, bulky guard sends him.
“Till death do us part,” I say darkly. “I wish we were married.”
“It’s not too late,” he says, pulling from a wing a long, almost entirely black feather. He hands it to me.
“But I have nothing for you.”
He crouches and reaches for the hem of my shirt and tears a long piece off it.
“Oh, oh
. Flying Rat is feeling frisky,” mocks the tall, bulky guard who’s peering at the skin around my belly with too much attention. This scum won’t ruin our moment. I ignore him.
“Now I do,” says Josh, squeezing the piece of fabric into the waistband of his pants. I do the same with the feather. It may not be a proper piece he gets from me—it’s just clothes from Kamcala—but the shirt somewhat resembles the one I was wearing when he discovered me in the woods. I guess it should work.
I stretch out an arm and reach for his neck, pulling him toward me, and press my lips against his. The mocking intensifies, but I don’t care. I ignore them.
Our lips only part when the anthem stops. Our time has come. I know I should feel afraid, but for some reason, I don’t. Well, I do, but not the way Anna must have felt. I have Josh, and with Josh by my side, I’m stronger. I’m whole. I feel invincible.
I look back at the screen on the wall. A door opens on the back of the stage. A shape appears through it. At first, he is shadowed by the darkness in which he stands, but as he steps into the light, I see President Nightingale. The sight of him gives me chills, and I recall our encounter yesterday. Josh tightens the grip of his hand around mine, but it doesn’t stop the nausea that weakens me. Does Josh know the truth about himself?
“Have you met him already?” I ask.
“Briefly. He asked me some questions,” he says, his voice dull.
“What kind of questions?”
Josh shrugs. “If I could fly. How I feel. Who my mother is. Things like that.”
“What did you say about, you know—her?” I ask, concerned. I don’t want the guards around to hear me, but I absolutely need to know what he said.