by Kyla Stone
Jericho slotted the magazine into his rifle and slapped the stock. “I suggest you follow me.”
30
Willow
Willow was thirsty, her throat parched. Her skin was hot and sticky. The smell of sweat and blood permeated the air. The Galaxy Lounge was crowded with bodies, both alive and dead.
López wasn't talking anymore. His gaze locked on some speck on the opposite wall. He rocked against the seat behind him. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Beside her, Yuri wept quietly. Grace lay draped across her lap. Her eyelids fluttered, her breathing ragged.
Blood was splattered across their faces, their clothes. It was on Willow, too, tiny droplets like a veil of freckles across her arms. She scrubbed them fiercely with the loose fabric of her dress. There were still faint smears of red on her skin she couldn't rub off. Just like she couldn't erase the screams in her head or the scent of death filling her nostrils.
Her throat was raw, her tongue thick and swollen. She imagined water droplets shimmering like some precious crystal. She thought about all the blue water filling the pools, flowing in the fountain in the atrium. She tried not to look at the body slumped in the orange chair, his head flung back.
Two terrorists clomped down the aisle past her, their black guns so shiny, so close. She imagined grabbing one out of their hands. She'd never killed anyone before, but it must not be that hard, if you were angry enough, scared enough. And right now, she was plenty of both.
She sensed movement toward the front of the Galaxy Lounge. Several voices shouted simultaneously. Bursts of gunfire exploded through the room. She rose to her knees to peer over the sofa in front of her.
The purple stage curtains yanked open and a dozen men poured through the gap. They launched themselves at the guards manning the front of the stage. Four of them had security officer's uniforms and handguns. A few others gripped fire axes, the kind affixed to the wall behind protective glass.
The first terrorist dropped to the carpet. The second lifted his gun, but a passenger with an axe reached him first, wedging the blade deep into his chest.
The rest of the terrorists guarding the sides and back of the Galaxy Lounge ran for the stage, rifles blasting. The passengers and officers on the stage dove for cover, but not before sending their own volley of bullets shrieking over the heads of the crowd. People screamed, throwing themselves to the floor.
A terrorist ran down the center aisle next to her. He stumbled and fell. A puddle of red soaked into the carpet beneath his chest. Willow stared at his body, unable to move, to breathe. She was close enough to see his eyes, wide and glassy, staring at nothing. His mouth was open, a gurgling sound coming from somewhere inside him.
“Get his gun!” someone yelled.
Fear gripped her belly. She couldn't move. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to stay where she was, sheltered by the sofa and all the rows of furniture in front of her. Just stay put. Do what you're told. Stay alive.
She couldn't. Zia. That single word, zapping through her. It was her fault Zia was alone. Her fault. It was her responsibility to find her sister. Her mom's voice spoke inside her head: Take care of them. If she didn't, how could she face her mom? How could she ever face herself? Guilt skewered her. No. She had to do this. She had to be brave.
Willow had to be brave right freaking now.
She scrambled to her hands and knees. There was a rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire to her left as she half-crouched, half-ran across the aisle. She stepped over the terrorist's body as a middle-aged man and a young woman crept forward and grabbed the assault rifle. A few others leapt from their seats and ran for the back exit.
Willow dove between a row and scrambled over feet and legs until she reached the furthest aisle along the far-right wall of the lounge. The men normally guarding this side were gone, part of the fray in the front center of the room. She tried not to think about what was happening—who was winning or losing the battle raging on the Galaxy's stage.
She moved down the rows, searching the stricken faces for her sister. “Zia!” she called as loudly as she dared. It was a miracle anyone heard anything over the din of bullets and shouting. “I'm looking for a Filipino girl, short hair dyed turquoise,” she said a dozen times, to anyone within reach.
“Wait,” said a silver-haired Indian woman in a sherbet-orange pantsuit. She was squeezed between a glass coffee table and the back of the curved sofa in front of her. “Turquoise hair?”
Willow’s heart stopped. “Yes! Please. She's my sister.”
The woman's expression was haggard, her eyes bloodshot. Her right earlobe was torn and crusted with dried blood, as if her earring had been ripped out. “She was right in the front, on this side. But honey, you need to know—”
Willow didn't hear the rest. She was already moving, scrabbling down the aisle, headed for the first row. Her pulse roared in her ears. She couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. Terror coursed through her veins, but somehow she managed to make herself move. Zia. She had to find Zia.
No one was guarding the front right exit. She could escape. Flee this ornate coffin and find some hole to hide in until this was all over. Other passengers had the same idea. They slipped out one or two at a time. Only a few moments more and they would be brave enough to flee en masse, and the stampede would draw the attention of the terrorists.
She reached the front row and crept forward. There were zero obstructions between her and the battle at the front of the stage. The bodies of terrorists, passengers, and officers littered the floor. Bullet holes riddled the stage curtain. A few men engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Shouting echoed from the balcony above her. Were they good guys? Or more terrorists coming for reinforcements?
A bullet punched into the stage only a few yards away. She ducked, flattening herself against the carpet. She turned her head, her cheek pressed against the nubby fibers.
She saw her sister.
Zia was sprawled beneath the coffee table, shards of glass scattered across her prone body.
It was like an ice pick plunging into her belly, a cold dread filling her worse than all the fear and terror that had come before.
Zia didn't move. Her head was tilted at a strange angle, specks of red around her mouth and the bright turquoise spikes of her hair. Her eyes were open. But they didn't see Willow.
They didn't see anything anymore.
31
Amelia
For what seemed like hours, Amelia did not speak. She stared at the black wall of water and the floating projections of sea animals reflected off the glass. Glowing phosphorescent bacteria swirled around her like stars.
What was going on above her? How many innocent people might be dying right this second? What was happening to her father, her mother, her brother? Helplessness and fear tangled in her stomach.
She licked her lips. “I'm thirsty. May I have a drink, please?”
Gabriel retrieved a water bottle from one of the opened boxes leaning against the far wall. He squatted down and tilted the bottle to her mouth.
She gulped it down, shame flooding her belly. She hated accepting this kindness from him, hated needing anything from him at all. “Thank you.” She said it automatically, instantly despising herself. If there was any time to discard social niceties, surely this was it.
Water dripped down her chin. Gabriel untucked the front of his uniform shirt and wiped her face. This time, she didn't say a word.
His walkie-talkie spat a garbled message. He strode back up the center aisle, out of earshot.
Her neck hurt. Her arms ached from being tied so awkwardly behind her back. She did this to herself. She allowed this to happen. With her arrogance, her stupidity. No wonder her mother never let her out of sight. No wonder her father only used her for one thing—parading her around like a prize to charm his business partners.
She'd wanted to take control of her life. She made her own decisions for a single pathetic night, and look where it'd gotten her. She was the idiot who fell
for a freaking terrorist.
And now here she was. Helpless. Just another pawn on someone else's board. Everything she loathed about how her father treated her, and here she was on the other side, playing a lethal version of the same game.
She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her ring finger stung. She'd sliced it when she freed Micah. The cut wasn't too deep, though. No permanent damage that would affect her music. If she ever got to pick up a violin again.
Tears pricked her eyes. She forced them back, focusing on Micah instead. Where was he now? Had he been captured? Killed? Or had he done what he said he would, and found a way to alert the outside world? Was someone coming to rescue them?
There is good in him, Micah said. Find it.
Even if the Navy or the Marines were coming, they'd be too late. Gabriel would take her to the bridge. And whoever was in charge would torture, maybe kill her, to get what they needed from her father. Would they waterboard or shock her? Pull off her fingernails? Chop off her fingers, one by one? Worse? The panic reared up again and her heart hammered so hard it almost burst through her ribcage. She took shallow breaths, willing herself to calm down, to think.
She was trapped, tied up, with no weapons. She had nothing. Nothing except herself. Use what you have. Her mother taught her that. Her father taught her how to read people. She had to read him, to know his moods, to anticipate his wrath. She’d been doing a version of it her whole life.
She could do the same thing now. She just had to think. Be smart. Use what you have.
But she couldn't act like she normally did. Flattery and charm wouldn't work on Gabriel, not like it did on fifty-something politicians, public officials, and CEOs blinded by their own bloated egos.
Find the good in him. Maybe his feelings for her hadn't all been an act. Or maybe she was thinking of her own emotions, her own reckless attraction. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.
Gabriel advanced up the aisle, the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, the gun in one hand and two snack-sized bags of chips in the other. “Thought you might be hungry.”
“Thank you,” she said as sincerely as she could.
He sat in front of her, cross-legged, and fed her several chips in silence. They tasted like salty cardboard in her mouth, but she ate them anyway as she studied him. His face was closed, his jaw set. She couldn’t read him. But he didn’t have to feed her. He didn’t have to give her water. That kindness had to mean something.
In the distance, more gunfire, followed by a rumble of thunder. The ship rolled sharply. Amelia slipped sideways. Gabriel grabbed her shoulders and steadied her. “Sorry.”
“It's okay.” She swallowed. Now or never. She might fail—most certainly would fail—but at least it was something. At least she tried. She’d spent her whole life too scared to try. She wasn’t going to die the same way. “May I ask you a question?”
He stared out the viewing window and rubbed the back of his neck. His jaw was clenched, his forehead furrowed.
“Was this—us—all just a ploy?”
“Of course.” The muscle in his cheek jumped.
“Even—even out by the hot tub? Even in here?”
His gaze didn't stray from the window. “That's what I just said.”
“Okay.” She tried not to feel the pain jabbing between her ribs. “But why? Why are you doing this?”
“You should stop talking.” His voice hardened.
“You don't think I deserve to know?”
For a long minute, he didn't speak. Maybe she'd misjudged him. Or misjudged her play. Already making a mistake before she'd even started.
“I'm sorry I had to deceive you,” he said finally. “I wouldn't have—I wish things were different.”
She kept her face blank, hiding the relief rushing through her. “I want to understand. I thought—I believed you were a good person.”
Something flickered across his face. “I am.”
“You've got a gun and a hostage. That doesn't exactly make sense.”
“Sometimes we have to do things we'd rather not. Justice requires sacrifice.”
“I understand that. What justice are you fighting for?”
His eyes flashed. “Justice in everything. Justice for all. For the people.”
“For what people?”
“For everyone, except for you in your glass towers or ivory palaces or whatever.” He nearly spat the words. “All you elites with your private jets and cancer cures and age regeneration procedures—what do you think pays for that? It's ours—bought with our blood, sweat, and tears.”
“That's not true—”
“Do you have any idea what it's like for the average person out there? Inflation spiking so high we can't afford fresh vegetables anymore—if there's even any for sale. Our rivers and lakes are toxic. Our crops are dying from the chemicals or that fungal rot epidemic. And jobs? No one can afford college anymore. You need a paper degree just to get a crappy manager's position overseeing metalheads at McDonalds. Jobs are a joke.”
Her fingers twitched, itching for her charm bracelet. Was it really that bad? She heard things on the news, sometimes. But no one she knew really talked about it, except as a problem to clean up, a scourge to get rid of. “You sound angry.”
He jumped to his feet and started pacing. “Yeah, we're angry. People are angry. Worse, people are sick. And dying. And no one does a damn thing to help. There is no justice. Not in this country. Not anymore.”
“How can I help? My father has power and influence. I can talk to him. I could—”
“The time for talking is over.”
She licked her lips. “What are you going to do?”
“Going to do? We're doing it now.”
“But what happens next? What do you get?”
This brought a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We bring down one leg of the corporate elite. We declare war and demand new leadership. We infiltrate and destroy this bastion of luxury, this symbol of despicable waste and excess, then we bring the whole bloated, corrupted system to its knees. The president, Congress, all the corporations—everyone will know. A second revolutionary war has begun.”
He was getting too agitated, his eyes bright and furious, the gun swinging wildly in his hand. She didn’t know him well, but this didn’t sound like him. It didn’t sound like his words.
This was the wrong tactic. She had to calm him down, not rile him up.
She had to make him see her—really see her, not his preconceived, distorted view twisting her into the enemy. To him, she represented everything he hated: excess, greed, corruption, vanity. She had to show him she was human.
There was one moment though, when his guard had dropped. When she fell. When her vision wavered, another vicious seizure thundering down on her. She'd been weak—a weakness she loathed, but it reached him. She'd seen real concern in his eyes. Compassion. And when he'd kissed her—that was real. She knew it.
She still felt it. In spite of herself, in spite of everything. That dizzy rush when he looked at her, that fluttering in her gut. Part of her cursed her own traitorous heart. She shouldn't feel a thing for him but hate and fear and disgust. But she did. She did and she couldn't stop it.
He was so different from everything she'd known her whole life, the endemic indifference, everything so shiny and fake and false. He was full of passion and intensity and desperate desire. Being near him made her heart beat wild inside her own chest, made her want to be different, too. Made her want to be more. To be someone he could respect.
It was her weakness—one of many—but she was sure that it was also his. She had to find it again, find it within him and push on it, wedge her fingers in the tiny gap and force her way in. “Your life sounds difficult.”
“Everyone's life is difficult.” His face filled with more than anger. Pain shadowed his eyes. “It's not a secret. It's on the news every night—well, their own twisted version, anyway. But you don't care. None of you care.”
“That's not true.” But it was, and she knew it. Now, it made her feel sick.
“Do you watch the news? Or flick to another channel because it depresses you? Because you can't deal with all the negativity?”
Amelia opened her mouth but found she couldn't speak. She thought of the day a few years before when she'd come home from orchestra practice to find her mother crumpled in front of the holoscreen, sobbing. Amelia dropped her bag on the kitchen counter and rushed into the living room. “What's wrong?” Someone important must have died, maybe Mema or—
Her mother looked up, tears staining her face, though her makeup was still perfectly applied. “No more elephants.”
“What?” Amelia stood there, staring.
Her mother gestured at the holoscreen. “The last elephant herd in the wild was just slaughtered by poachers. Every single one. Elephants are extinct.”
“But we just saw one at the zoo.”
“It's not the same. Those animals live in cages, like collector's items. They're not—they're not free.”
“Okay. But why are you crying?” Amelia was perplexed, but also anxious and slightly alarmed, like she was missing some important puzzle piece. But she didn't know which piece it was or even what shape. Her mother always got upset at stuff like this, like the three-toed sloths, black rhinos, and polar bears were these precious family pets she knew and loved, not pictures on a holoscreen or shambling creatures they visited on school trips to the zoo once a year.
Amelia had that same anxious, disconcerted feeling now. Only she was starting to see a fuzzy outline of the missing piece. Suffering always seemed so far away—the animals hunted to extinction, the children starving in Arizona, the rioting and fires in Chicago, the drowning cities in Old Orleans.
Only here was Gabriel right in front of her, pain etched across his face. “I'm sorry,” she said.