Bad Bloods

by Shannon A. Thompson

  Sometimes, others risked their lives to bring them back.

  An explosion shook the ground, and all the loose cobblestones beneath my feet began to dance. Worse was the way the lock trembled and rattled, as if signaling the upcoming rain. The same rain that would drown everyone underground.

  Someone had shut all the bad-blooded fighters away and locked them in to die.

  “Hey!” I pounded on the wooden door, hoping someone could hear me from outside. “Anyone down there?”

  No one responded, but another explosion hit.

  This one was smaller, something I could only hear from a distance, and I hoped everyone back at the adoption house was okay. But hope was a fickle thing.

  A sound snaked out through the cracks in the door.

  “What?” I pressed my ear against the largest fissure I could find. “Someone there?”

  “What do yah think?” a boy shouted into my ear, causing me to fall back, and then an empty eye socket peered out at me. “You stupid crock.”

  “Skeleton?” Cutting his words off, I wrapped my hands around the doorknob. I pulled, but nothing happened. “Who locked you inside?”

  “Who do you think?”

  Connelly.

  I cursed the woman. “She’s Logan’s sister.”

  “Of course she is,” Skeleton countered, sounding bored. But of course he was. He didn’t know what kind of danger he was in. What kind of peril they were all in.

  “Who’s all down there?”

  Skeleton stuck one of his bone-fingers through the hole and rattled it around. “Just me.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Dunno,” he lied, “but if you want to bet, you’ll have to come back, preferably without the macho version of you. Your cousin, you said? He’s a mighty big—”

  “Listen.” I braced myself for his many insults. “Is there any water down there?”

  Skeleton raised the only eyebrow he had. “How’d you know that?”

  “They’re tearing down the wall.”

  “So?”

  “The inner wall.”

  “The one between the Highlands and—”

  “Yes,” I cut him off, “and it’s going to put the Highlands below sea level.”

  “And?”

  “It’s going to push water up,” I explained, “and it has to drain somewhere.”

  The Pits.

  Danger dawned on Skeleton’s face, but as soon as it registered, he covered it up with a toothy grin. “You better get outta here then, huh?”

  “Get outta here?” I repeated. “I came here for you.”

  Skeleton narrowed his eyes. “You don’t owe me a thing.”

  “I owe you everything.”

  The last and only person I’d killed in the Pits. The little girl who nearly killed me. Rosanna. Skeleton’s sister.

  “Let me help you,” I said, “and then you can do whatever you want when you get out.”

  Skeleton squinted, weighing his options, but I kicked the door.

  “Now,” I screamed. “You don’t have any time.”

  “All right, all right, fine.” He sighed. “There’s a key. Out by the third tree on the left. Near the fence post with a hole. Check under the stupid non-rock.”

  I darted away, hoping, praying, wishing for a place that nearly ruined me. And, for once, things went as planned.

  I found the fake rock, took out the key, and opened the door to the Pits.

  Skeleton waited right in front of me.

  I kept my eyes closed, ready for the punch I deserved, but nothing came.

  When I opened one eye, slowly, Skeleton watched me curiously—or as curiously as a skull could look. “You think I hate you that much?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Well, yeah.”

  “Well, yeah,” he mocked. “I don’t like yah, I’ll tell you that much, but I don’t hate you.” He paused. “You didn’t choose that fight anyway.”

  None of us did. But I wasn’t like Skeleton and Rosanna. They’d been born down there, collecting debts their whole life, and I’d volunteered to fight, because I already felt dead.

  No amount of life could make up for that decision.

  “Come on, you punk,” Skeleton said, then grabbed my shirt to drag me away, but voices echoed up the stairs.

  I dug my heels in to stop Skeleton from pulling me further away, turning to the blackness. Sure enough, sounds bounced up. Voices, too.

  “You said no one else was down there,” I accused.

  Skeleton hesitated. “You know how you worried about me killing you?” He pointed down the stairs. “They’ll definitely kill me—and probably you, too. Just for the fun of it.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Come on,” I ordered as I went down the stairs, but Skeleton held his ground. I had to force him.

  I wrapped my hand around his bicep, or what was left of it, and dragged him down into the depths of the underground.

  In all my years fighting there, I had never seen water on the floor. Today though, puddles took over. A couple of spots reached my ankles.

  “How long’s this been going on?” I asked, but Skeleton shrugged. “Forget it.”

  The cages appeared.

  During the year I fought, I never had to spend the night in the cages where the regulars slept—in the very places they killed and died.

  A reminder, Connelly had once explained, that escapes are for fairy tales.

  Today, the dozen or so cages were empty aside from metal chains that covered the dirt floor. A few had even sunk into the mud.

  “Connelly wanted everyone chained up,” Skeleton explained, “but Bardot released the ones he could. He didn’t exactly like me.” Then, he swallowed. “These are the worst of the worst.”

  As we turned the last corner, the cold atmosphere latched onto my skin, and so did the chill of the room.

  Four nameless fighters, all bad bloods, stood staring at us. For a second, I forgot which side of the cage I was on.

  I could still run, but Skeleton held his ground, owning my decision as if both of us had made it. “We’re here to save you,” he announced dryly.

  One kid growled, causing spiked fur to rise on his arms only to disappear back beneath his skin. Another spat acid. By the burns on her twin’s face, it looked like that sibling cried acid instead.

  I hesitated. “Will they hurt us?”

  “Dunno.” Skeleton tilted his ear—or the hole in his head—toward me. “But I’d love to hear your guess.”

  Most of the kids standing before us had been born and raised in the Pits. Most of them only knew killing.

  But I recalled every story Violet told me—how Logan II wanted the world to believe all bad bloods were monsters, not that those bad bloods were turned into monsters.

  Every monster could be saved.

  “Okay,” I started. “My name is Caleb, and—”

  “You think I don’t know you?” the tallest boy interrupted before spouting off my fighting name. “Dragon.” He sang the word. “You don’t even have powers.”

  Human versus bad bloods. That was protocol.

  “Ah, won’t you shut it?” Skeleton spat. “If I didn’t know any better, your superpower would be bull—”

  The cage began to rattle. Below us, the water shook.

  I stared at the floor, calculating how long the Pits would last after the explosion, but Skeleton patted my shoulder.

  “That was him,” he clarified. “The oversized brat.”

  And oversized was stating it lightly.

  The boy stood nearly seven feet tall and four feet wide. All of him looked like muscle. Used and practiced muscle.

  “If you listen to the guy, maybe I’ll let you out,” Skeleton continued, “before this whole place goes underwater.”

  The ogre remained calm, but when the scar-faced girl began to cry acid again—burning her face as the others tried to calm her—the ogre spoke. “I’m listening.”

  Skeleton studied the boy, but ultimately turne
d to me. “You sure about this?”

  I forced a nod, so Skeleton mirrored me and turned back to the cages. “You think I trust you, Scuttle? ‘Cuz I don’t.”

  “Scuttle?” I asked.

  “He sank a dozen ships off the harbor,” Skeleton explained. “With his mind.”

  “It’s called telekinesis, you sack of bones,” Scuttle said. Once again, the bars shook. “And if you knew anything about it, you’d know I could bend these bars and get us out any minute.”

  Skeleton spat at his feet. “I know what tell-a-knees is.” Although, it was clear he didn’t. “It’s exactly how I know you don’t have it, or you would’ve escaped already.”

  Scuttle pressed his face against the metal, scars along his cheek lining up with the rails. Claws, I realized. He fought someone with claws.

  “This cage keeps you out as much as it keeps me in,” Scuttle said.

  In a flash, Skeleton reached in and wrapped his boney hand around the kid’s throat. A boy in the back began to cry. Another one tried to spring forward, only for a girl to hold him back. All the while, Scuttle’s clothes began to smolder. It was then I recalled Skeleton’s other power. Other than looking like bones, he could emit a deathly gas. A burning one. One that had killed enough kids to earn him a freedom rank. He put in more time—more murders—than anyone else. And as far as I could recall, he’d been raised underground like the kids before us. He used to joke it was fitting. A skeleton underground, the Pits his permanent grave. But he had one person he used to live for. And I had killed her.

  “Listen here, you little—”

  I grabbed Skeleton by the bones and yanked him back. “We don’t have time to fight.” I looked at Scuttle. “This whole place’ll be underwater in minutes.”

  I explained what I could in the time given.

  Scuttle looked unimpressed. Skeleton looked irritated.

  “You want out or not?” he asked.

  “You have a key or what?” Scuttle retorted. When Skeleton nodded, Scuttle seemed taken aback. “What about the skylight?”

  “It’s already open,” Skeleton answered before explaining to me. “Skylight’s the front door.”

  For in-born fighters, the front door might be the only light they saw on a daily basis.

  Scuttle smiled at the thought. “We’re in.”

  “No hurting anyone,” Skeleton retorted.

  Scuttle agreed, but I had a feeling agreements meant little.

  As Skeleton walked me back to the nearest office—ironically, the same one I’d last met Connelly in—Skeleton spoke. “Scuttle’s all talk,” he said. “No one believes the kid has tele-whatever anyway.”

  “So how’d he sink the boats?”

  “Have you looked at him? His name should’ve been Anchor, but I think we already had someone like that.” He shook his head at whatever memory ran through him. “We’ll toss them the key, then run.”

  “Agreed,” I said, but the Pits buried my voice.

  As the floor shook, the walls shuddered, and the metal clanged, I held onto the nearest pole and tried to stay on my feet. I failed. So did Skeleton. The water level began to rise.

  “Well, will you look at that?” Skeleton said, then stood up, arching himself as if he could tower over it.

  “The wall,” I muttered as Skeleton grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet.

  “You don’t have to worry,” he said more to himself than to me. “We’ll all get out together.” Skeleton shoved the door open. “They keep keys in here,” he said, but was soon cut off.

  Metal grinding against metal pierced the air. Footsteps followed.

  When Skeleton cursed up a storm, I knew what happened.

  The kids had escaped.

  Scuttle definitely had telekinesis.

  “Let’s go,” Skeleton shouted, ditching the key search altogether. I followed him, even when the water began to rush around our feet.

  The Pit was filling up fast. Worse, the kids we hoped to free ran away from us. Soon, they’d reach the exit, too.

  “Wait!” I shouted, but the four kids waded toward the stairs. We fell over ourselves as we tried to catch up.

  When I tried to shout again, I fell into the water. Skeleton pulled me up. The water reached our hips before we got to the stairs. Above us, light flew down the stone steps, which were slick from their escape, but we surged forward anyway.

  Scuttle reached the doors.

  “Wait!” I screamed, but he didn’t listen. No one ever did.

  The door slammed shut, we smashed against the door, and the sound of a lock clicking sank my heart.

  “Screw you!” someone shouted. Not Scuttle. But Scuttle was gone, along with the others, and we were stuck in the Pits. As their footsteps echoed away, water skimmed our toes.

  Skeleton threw his head back and laughed.

  “What did they do?” I asked, then shouldered the wood. It didn’t budge. Not even a centimeter. Water met my ankles. I hit the wood again.

  “Hey, Caleb.”

  “What?” I snapped. Water met my shins.

  “You might as well stop.”

  I refused, but water met my knees.

  “My name’s Dante,” Skeleton said as I hit the door, “but my sister called me Ant. You know, because of the whole ‘death’ thing.”

  He laughed a broken laugh. I yanked him up.

  “Don’t,” I said, but my voice cracked. Water met our hips.

  I’d known Skeleton for years, even before most of his body had turned to bone. He had deep brown eyes, the kind poets wrote about, and equally tan skin. In the sunlight, he would look as if he stepped out of a magazine shoot—his hair perfectly tousled, his smirk irritatingly charming. He once had a dimple on his chin. Now, he only had bone.

  “You’re going to get through this,” I said. This time, I let him go.

  He stared at the door, wide-eyed, then leaned against the wall. “Only a superhero could get us out.”

  Another blast—one unlike the explosions—shook the cage we were about to drown in. As the water rushed over our knees, the door tore off the broken hinges, and a man reached through with one arm.

  When his hand grasped onto my jacket, I reached around and grabbed Skeleton’s.

  The tide surged, the water pulled, and the man yanked against it.

  Right when I thought I would succumb to a watery grave, I landed on my back and wheezed up any water I took in.

  Skeleton did, too.

  Next to me, he gasped in air and cursed the entire way. “Are you crazy, you old man?”

  “Must be,” he agreed, and I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

  Calhoun.

  The man who biologically gave me life, who thought I was dead, who saved Daniel and raised Adam and took in Violet, stood in front of me when I least expected it. At his feet was his infamous shotgun. His eyes reflected the Pits as it washed away.

  “Good riddens, too,” he spat on the ground.

  I sat up, slowly shaking off the cold, the water, and the near-death experience, then reached over to pick up his gun. The same one he used to blast the lock away with. “Riddance.”

  Calhoun raised his bushy eyebrows. “What?”

  “It’s good riddance, not riddens,” I said. “I don’t think riddens is even a word.”

  I handed over his gun.

  Skeleton bounced behind me. “Don’t give him that—” He stuck his boney fist in his mouth, but spoke around it. “Wait. You know this guy?”

  “Yeah,” I said, but I offered no explanation. Cal didn’t either. Instead, he looked over Skeleton as if Skeleton were any other kid—as if having bones for a body was perfectly normal.

  “Name’s Cal,” he said. “I’m showing people to a shelter.”

  Skeleton sighed, nearly folding in on himself, then stood straight up. “As long as you didn’t take those other kids.”

  Cal glanced around. “Other kids?”

  “Huge guy. As big as a bus,” Skeleton filled in. “Goes by S
cuttle. Had a posse of acid-spitting, acid-crying, acid-whatever kids.”

  Cal eyed me. I nodded. Cal answered his question. “Didn’t see them,” he promised, “but we should get going. The storm’s…” He looked up at the sky, and I questioned if Calhoun could read the sky like he supposedly read war back in the day. Was there a difference between fighting an enemy and fighting the world?

  Both seemed evil at times. Both seemed beautiful, too.

  “We should get going,” Calhoun finally said, but as he turned, Skeleton jumped in front of him and began whistling the way.

  For a while, I walked alongside Skeleton—or Dante—and wondered who he was. But I wondered about someone else more.

  I hung back, letting Skeleton walk ahead, as I waited for Cal to catch up. When he came up beside me, I walked with him, noticing we walked the same.

  “I don’t understand,” I confessed.

  Calhoun turned around, his bushy eyebrows raised, his dark eyes bright. “Understand what?” he asked, though he studied my expression. In one sweep, he seemed to understand. “You used to get the same look when we played hide-and-seek.”

  I lost my breath, not sure which was stranger—the fact I played hide-and-seek with Cal, or that Cal recognized my expressions over a decade later.

  “What look?” I asked.

  He chuckled, but his expression stayed grim. “When you thought I wouldn’t find you.”

  My heart ached for that boy—for the dad Cal could’ve been—for the memory I lost so long ago.

  “You think I didn’t think about you? That I didn’t leave an extra key on top of my door in case you came back? That I didn’t follow Adam when I could?” he asked. “I knew where he looked for you. I knew where I couldn’t go. I knew everything but enough.” Then he said them—the two sets of three words I’d wished to hear for years. “I am sorry, and I love you.”

  They were the same thing, really. And I had three words of my own to say.

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  Levi steered the boat as it soared over the crashing waves. Even the ocean warned us to go back, but we refused to give up on Plato.

  “Let me go ahead,” I insisted, but for the umpteenth time, Levi shook his head, then eyed the sky.