by Brenda Poppy
“Patience, Wight,” Cross said languidly, pausing to take a sip of his drink.
Wight. Her jailer had a name. Burn hurriedly rifled through her memories trying to place the name, but it was foreign to her. She filed it away with the rest of the bits and fragments she’d learned.
Cross continued, “Two days. Give me two days and everything will be in place.”
Wight sounded like he wanted to protest but stopped himself. It was clear that Cross had the upper hand in their dealings. He was in charge and Wight was simply one of his pawns – just like Burn.
“You still haven’t told me how it’s all going to work,” Wight ventured timidly. Cross remained silent, so he went on, gaining volume and speed as he spoke. “I mean, how does my ManniK fit into your war? We’ve done the tests, and it works well for small-scale disruptions, but one or two mutants on rampages aren’t going to do much damage against a quarter of the population.”
The mention of ManniK sparked something in Burn’s memory, and she flashed back to the night before. The papers in the desk, the ones about testing ManniK on mutants. It was all part of their plan after all. And she was going to be one of the test subjects. Her blood went cold at the realization. They were planning to dose her with ManniK then set her free in the city to terrorize innocent citizens, just as they’d done with dozens of people before her.
An image of herself blind with rage and hatred, unable to tell friend from foe, crept into her mind. Who knows how many people she would hurt before someone stopped her? Would some of them be friends? The Lunaria? Scar? Burn couldn’t imagine herself harming her own sister, but then again she wouldn’t truly be herself anymore, would she? The drug would take her over and she’d become someone else entirely – or something else. It was a chilling thought.
“One or two, Wight?” Cross asked, his voice bordering on amusement. “You think too small. You’ve always thought too small. That’s why your drug empire has never even made it past this godforsaken level.”
“So your plan is to use more of them?”
Cross sighed, obviously frustrated that Wight wasn’t quick on the uptake. “No, Wight. My plan is to use everyone. All these people. All the lowlifes and cretins and complete wastes of space down here. There are enough mutated humans in this cesspit to ensure mass hysteria and carnage.”
“But…I don’t understand,” Wight stuttered. “How…how will that even work? How can you dose so many people? And once you do, how can you contain them?”
A bark of laughter escaped Cross’ mouth. “Contain them? Why would I want to contain them? I want them to spread into every corner of the lower levels, leaving panic and bloodshed in their wake. I want them to destroy these poor, insufferable areas – and the people in them! And whatever they don’t destroy, we will. We’ll make the problem then use it as an excuse to cleanse the city of its demons.
“This city has been far too crowded for decades, the poor and downtrodden leaching off of us, bringing us down to their level. These people, they’re society’s burden, freaks who should never have existed in the first place. And once they’re gone, everyone will be better off. Cleaner air. More jobs. Less crime. It’s the perfect solution.”
A lengthy pause followed as Cross basked in his own genius. Wight, on the other hand, coughed and stammered, trying to make sense of everything Cross had said. Burn was in a similar boat, her mind overflowing with everything he had let slip about his plan – and everything that was about to happen in the city.
With the silence stretching, Cross spoke again. “And the best part is, they’ll blame it on the addicts and the dealers. ‘They should have controlled themselves,’ they’ll say. Or, ‘They deserved what they got.’ And we’ll be the heroes who put the whole thing to a stop, saving countless lives in the process.”
“But what about me?” Wight squeaked, concern apparent in his voice. “You’re not going to lay the blame on me, are you? I thought we’d agreed…”
Cross interrupted him, cutting off the end of his statement. “I’m a man of my word, Wight. You’ll be adequately compensated for your assistance and get a brand-new compound on one of the highest tiers. Unless, of course, you screw this up. In which case you get nothing.”
Silence again as both men drank heavily from their glasses, Wight downing his in a few long gulps. “Sir…” he began, then stopped. His voice was wavering, and Burn could imagine his fat little hands shaking as he gripped his empty glass.
“What?” Cross barked, nearing the end of his rope.
“It’s just that…I still don’t understand how you’re going to do it. How you’re going to dose all those people at once, I mean. I gave you an adequate supply, but not one big enough for an entire city.”
“Once again, Wight, you think too small. I’m tempted to make you wait and see. But then I wouldn’t get to see your face when you finally figure it out, and what a shame that would be.” He took another sip of his drink, enjoying the suspense. “Fine, fine. The truth is, we’re not dosing them at all. We’re gassing them.”
“Wha…What?” Wight’s stuttering was getting worse.
“We’re gassing them. We’ve made your lovely little formula into an aerosol, which my troops will take down in canisters to the lowest tiers. With the hideous amounts of pollution down here, no one will even realize until it’s too late. And we’ll have all the exits locked down so there will be no means of escape. Anyone who tries to flee…well, let’s just say we’ll be armed and ready.” He let out a self-important chuckle as he congratulated himself on his ingenious plan.
“Now, it’s time to get to work,” Cross said, standing. “I have to get to the station. And you have a job to do.” With that, he let himself out of the office and walked down the stairs and out the front door.
Back in her little room, Burn fumed. It was a massacre they were planning alright. A massacre of tens of thousands of innocent citizens – maybe even more. Their only crime? Not being born to wealth or privilege or being born “different” – different than the norm, different than the rich, different than their ruling class.
It was ironic, she thought, looking back on all she’d learned. She had tried so hard to figure out what they were planning and had discovered next to nothing. Now, here in this place, she knew it all – and couldn’t tell a single soul.
Burn sighed, inhaling a lungful of the polluted air, then coughed repeatedly to rid her lungs of the vile poison. Once again, just like in her basement cell, the sound bounced back at her from around the room, hitting its various surfaces and reverberating toward her highly attuned ears.
Her mind struck on that, abruptly changing course from Cross’ disturbing conversation. Burn could hear the room – not just the sounds within it, but the actual layout of the space.
Burn tested it again, closing her eyes and making a small clicking sound. As she traversed the room, a picture of it grew in her mind – where the furniture was, where the walls were, where the soft fabric sat on the table, absorbing parts of the sound.
This could work, she thought, a bubble of hope rising in her chest. She would have to be quick and precise, but it might work.
She didn’t know how much time she had until Wight came back, so she moved swiftly, getting everything in place as efficiently as she could. She tore a few strips of fabric from her now-ruined dress, tying them together to form a long rope.
Then she unscrewed the single light in the ceiling, loosening the bulb until its rays just started to flicker. She secured the rope of fabric tightly to the base, creating a makeshift cord with which she could yank out the bulb and extinguish the light.
Burn’s plan wasn’t perfect. So much could go wrong. But she had no other choice. She put herself in position, stowing her body as best as she could behind the door, and waited.
It seemed like an eternity. Wight moved sluggishly through the house, his girth no doubt impeding his progress. He walked with heavy footsteps first down the stairs then up them again, pausing on e
ach landing to catch his breath. Then he entered another room on the top floor – a room that Burn later gathered was the bathroom, based on the uncomfortable noises issuing from it.
Finally he started toward her. Burn waited with bated breath as he made his way down the hall, pausing to unlock the door with a touch of his finger. This was it, Burn thought nervously, mentally steeling herself for what she was about to do. This was her chance – her only chance – at freedom.
The door opened slowly and Wight waddled in, scanning the room for her. He took one step, then another, his eyes catching on the cloth rope affixed to the light bulb. Sensing that something was amiss, he began to back up, but it was already too late.
Burn slammed the door shut, trapping him in the room. At the same time, she pulled with all her might on the rope, shattering the bulb and sending glass flying through the air. The space was instantly consumed by darkness, and Burn gripped the rope hard in her hands as she began making a low clicking noise with her tongue.
Once again, an image of the room resolved in her mind – and Wight was in the center of it. She acted swiftly, almost without thinking, jumping onto his back and ripping off his goggles. Wight flailed instinctively, like a bronco trying to buck off a novice rider. Within seconds, he had grabbed hold of her arms and torn them from his neck, sending her sprawling backward.
Burn landed hard on the cold floor but didn’t have time to assess her injuries. She jumped back up, the rope still clutched in her hand. Her clicking revealed that Wight was headed toward the door, and she leapt again, vaulting onto the table and wrapping the cloth cord around Wight’s throat.
He clawed at it, but she held tight, steadily choking the life out of him. In an attempt to free himself from her grasp, Wight lunged forward, throwing all of his weight to the ground. It worked, yanking Burn off the table and sending her flying forward to land on top of him. She scrambled to her feet before he had a chance to grab her, positioning herself between him and the door.
Her rope, the only weapon she’d been able to fashion, was now in his possession, and he lumbered to his feet, unwrapping it from his neck. Burn froze in the darkness, trying to form a new plan as she stalked his slow movements.
Thankfully, the all-encompassing darkness was doing its job. Wight had no idea where she was, and he turned around cautiously, grabbing blindly at the empty air around him.
“Don’t make this worse for yourself, little girl,” he said as he moved. “I will find you, and once I do, you will regret this. I will make you PAY for this!” She didn’t respond, not wanting to give away her own position in the darkness.
Burn knew she was small, with far less power behind her than this oaf of a man. But she was quick and, more importantly, had the element of surprise on her side. She made up her mind and sprang into action, running forward and jumping into a kick, which she aimed at his midsection.
The move worked, sending Wight sprawling backward into the table before he collapsed on the floor. Burn recovered in an instant and ran around to his head, stomping with all her might in the direction of his face. She heard a loud crunching sound as his nose gave way under her foot. He shouted with pain and anger, grasping at his now-bleeding face.
With the rope now free from his clutches, Burn took possession of it once again, dropping to her knees as she wrapped it once, then twice around his beefy neck, pulling with all her might. Wight clawed at her, more feebly this time, but she kept her grip on the cord. She felt him scratch her face along one side, but she didn’t relent, the pain only adding fire to her anger.
Wight tried to cry for help, but all that came from his throat were small choking noises as he struggled to get air into his lungs. After a minute, his flailing arms slowed, then stopped entirely, dropping to his sides. Still high on adrenaline and panic, Burn kept her grip, fearing that the man would jump back to life and turn on her.
But he was still and silent, the fight gone from his body. Once she realized this, Burn relaxed, slumping back onto her heels. She had no idea if he was alive or dead and didn’t care to listen closer to detect signs of breath.
Instead, she crawled to one side of his massive form and felt for his hands, bringing the left one up to her neck. It took a few tries to place his finger correctly on the locking sensor, but she finally managed it, hearing a small beep as the metal collar relaxed around her throat.
Burn breathed deeply, enjoying the feeling of the air on her neck. She stayed there, panting, for several moments, trying to make her heartbeat return to its normal rhythm. She knew she didn’t have much time, that it was possible people had heard the commotion and were already on their way toward her. But for some reason she couldn’t move, trapped in a state of aftershock that sent shudders down her spine.
Finally willing herself to act, she ran her hands along Wight’s flabby waist until she found his pockets, which she emptied, stuffing the contents into her own. Then she tentatively reached up to his mouth, unwrapping his mask and tying it onto herself.
With that done, Burn began a quick search for his goggles, which she’d flung off somewhere near the door. On her hands and knees, she felt around for the leather of the band, hoping that they hadn’t been damaged in the fall. Near the entrance, her fingers closed around their worn fabric, and she brought the goggles up and over her hair. The goggles themselves seemed to be intact, and she adjusted the band to fit her much smaller head, enjoying the feeling of opening her eyes without the sting of pollution.
She carefully got to her feet, wincing slightly as her myriad injuries sprang to life and protested her movements. Inching closer to the door, she found that it had automatically locked, trapping both her and Wight inside. Guessing that his fingerprint would once again be the key, Burn gritted her teeth and returned to the body. She put her hands under his arms, dragging him to the door in rough, halting movements. Once there, she brought his hand up to the keypad, pressing a finger to the scanner.
The accepting beep was music to her ears, and she was about to push the door open when a thought came to her. She immediately backpedaled and grabbed the collar that had so recently held her captive. She clamped it around Wight’s neck, squishing some of his flesh together so his entire girth would fit inside the metal circlet. She put her finger on the collar’s scanner, imprinting her biometric data as the key code, and let his body fall back to the floor. If he was still alive, that would at least slow him down if he planned to come after her.
Listening closely to her surroundings, Burn heard no hint of footsteps outside the door, so she opened it gently, creeping out into the hall. The brightness temporarily blinded her, and she blinked as the house came back into focus. Making sure the door to the room was securely shut and locked, Burn made her way down the central staircase and out the front door.
Chapter 19
It felt like a miracle that she hadn’t run into anyone else – staff, family, drug-seeking clients – but she didn’t have time to dwell on her luck. She needed to get out of there, wherever there was, and return to the city above – and to Scar.
Scar. The thought made Burn freeze in her tracks. What if Cross had already gotten to Scar? She knew he would have no qualms about targeting her sister, even if Scar hadn’t had anything to do with Burn’s plans. Images of her sister bound and gagged, at the mercy of Cross and his cronies, threatened to break through Burn’s focus, but she held them at bay.
She had to hope, had to believe that Scar was safe, that Cross hadn’t had time during his busy schedule of drugging and murdering people to find Scar and punish her for Burn’s crimes. It was a small ray of hope, but it kept Burn moving.
The portion of the city in which she found herself was bleak, as were the people within it. Even worse than in Wight’s home, the pollution here was thick and heavy, making progress difficult despite her new goggles and mask. The roads were composed of packed dirt that swirled around the people as they walked, mingling with the smog to create a thick haze of filth.
The sto
ries she had heard about this place were right, at least in part. The road was flanked by makeshift homes and buildings comprised of boards or metal siding or even just thin fabric, anything people could find. But what she hadn’t imagined was the true starkness of the place, the lack of life or joy or even light. Lamp posts were staggered here and there, but half of them didn’t even function. The rest did their best to cut through the grime and darkness, but the meager rays weren’t enough.
Despite the desolation, this zone was teeming with people. Children sat, playing in the dirt, as adults swarmed past in herds, going to and from their menial jobs or searching for anything that would get their family through another day.
Burn merged with the crowd, blending in with her raggedy clothing. She had feared that someone would notice her wounds or comment on the blood still matted to her head, but she shouldn’t have worried. No one looked up. No one cared. Down here, she was just another faceless entity beaten down by life and trying to keep moving.
Without her tab, she had no way to search for directions back to the zones she knew. So she followed the crowd, hoping that the masses would lead her out of the darkness and up through the city.
As she walked, she considered her options. Hale had no doubt turned the Lunaria against her, whispering in their ears about her traitorous ties. Convincing them to listen to what she had to say, let alone trust her, was going to be a difficult feat. Maybe her sorry state and her sad tale would move them, but she doubted it. She would have to find a way to back up her claims, to prove what she had heard.
Maybe she could use something she’d taken off Wight. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the handful of items she’d managed to steal. An old-fashioned key. A wad of money. A vial of something white and viscous.
Burn looked closer at the vial, her curiosity piqued. Was this the ManniK that he’d planned to dose her with? If so, she might be able to use it to prove her innocence – or at least back up her claims about Cross’ plan. It wasn’t much, but it was something.