by Elle Park
"How long did I take?" he asks, shaking out his hair like a dog that has just been bathed.
The man, Otto, doesn't bother to check the watch strapped to his wrist. "Just under nine minutes," he instantly replies.
Nine minutes? That can't be right. Nolan has only been snooping through the statues' belongings for about three or four minutes, I'm sure.
But then again, it's hard to be sure of anything these days.
For what it's worth, Nolan doesn't profess any doubts regarding the declared time. "Good. Signal will be back up in two minutes, and the fire department will be here in five. Oh, and Milo will cover your tracks."
"You know I trust him—and you," he says, raising his brows until the lines on his forehead become more deep and prominent. "Which is why I won't ask any questions."
"It's probably best you don't know." Pausing, he chuckles. "For now, anyway."
"Thought so," Otto says, nodding. "Well, I should get going." Turning to me, he grins. "It was nice to officially meet you, Kaia."
I never told him my name.
Returning his smile with a tight-lipped one of my own, I make sure the question stuck to the back of my teeth doesn't slip between the cracks—mostly because I already have a good guess as to who his source is.
"Right. Thanks, man," Nolan goes in for a light hug, and they clap each other's backs before breaking apart, "I owe you one."
He snorts, already walking away from us. "You owe me about sixty-seven by now, brother."
Just as he approaches the main entrance, Nolan shouts, "Hey, Otto! What's the word on our good friend, Manny?"
"Trying to bark his way out of the cage," he yells back, laughing. "Too bad we threw away the key."
As soon as his frame disappears from our sight, the statues waste no time in coming back to life. Like pressing play on a paused video, both sound and picture instantly fill the static air, but the previously panicked voices are now dripping with confusion.
Fortunately, they seem to think that the deleted footage is a result of water damage—an explanation that, if given more thought, would probably be deemed illogical. To be fair, though, their illogical theory does make more sense than the reality they have no memory of.
Within minutes, we're being evacuated from the building, and everyone is all too eager to trudge their way through the contained flood. Our clothes practically freeze the second we make it outside, but at least we won't have to feel the puddles in our shoes for any longer than the few steps it takes to reach the Zinger I didn't know—but should have known—Nolan already ordered. Along with the fact that, technically, we got the job done—albeit, not as quickly or cleanly as we hoped—our waiting ride is the only good thing to come out of this draining, unlucky day.
Once the car begins to move, I begin to talk, as Nolan is too busy clacking his teeth together and audibly shivering to do much else. "So," I start, waiting a few beats before continuing, "why does Otto seem to know me?"
"Because he does," he replies, rubbing his hands to create an invisible fire. "He was there when I brought you to my house. It would've looked suspicious if I just carried an unconscious girl on my own—someone might think I kidnapped you or something."
Instead of reminding him that that's exactly what he did, I ask the other question that has been pressing on my mind. "And Manny?"
"What did I tell you, babe?" There it is—his Cheshire grin. "You have nothing to worry about. No tide is big enough to rock our ship—not when I'm behind the wheel. It's nothing but smooth sailing when Captain Drake's on board."
I wouldn't describe our... journey thus far as smooth sailing—more like volatile, to say the least—but I don't bother correcting him. It's not worth it when I know he'll just ramble on and on, using different words to say the same thing over and over again—mainly, that he's right—until I cut his speech short and tell him what he wants to hear—which really doesn't take me long to do at all.
I know how to pick my battles.
We've driven less than three blocks, but Nolan is already immersed in his nth round of I Spy—a game that he will gladly play by himself, so long as I nod or hum or do something to indicate that I'm an active spectator.
"I spy with my pretty, blue eyes... a vorak that is short, scrawny, and about to have its next warm meal if a tracker doesn't kill it within... approximately... well, right about now."
Alarmed by his casual statement, my head snaps in the direction of his gaze—just in time to spot a red mane of curls vanishing around a corner and behind the building we are seconds away from passing.
That hair.
There's no way...
"Stop the car."
Surprised by my sudden outburst—which really wasn't loud at all—the driver, John, slams on the breaks and sends our bodies flinging forward, though we're immediately caught by the straps now digging into our chests.
Fortunately, the road we're on is practically deserted.
"What? What is it?" Nolan's breathing heavily, his eyes wide as he stretches his torso to peer over the windshield. "Did we hit something? What did we kill this time?"
Ignoring the implications of his last question and the stuttered apologies from John, I undo my seatbelt and unlock the door. "Nothing."
Nolan sighs, evidently relieved. "Thank God. I thought we ran over a squirrel or something."
"You're worried about killing a squirrel, yet you don't care that a person is about to be killed?" I say incredulously, flinging my door open.
"There's probably a tracker around here—we're practically everywhere—that will save her, but who's gonna save the squirrel?" he says, as if there's nothing questionable about his logic—or his morals.
"We're here."
"Wait! Kaia! Sweets!"
I don't respond to his shouts, choosing to save my breaths as I run toward the scene I hope I don't find.
My socks are still far from dry, and while my coat and jeans are weighing me down, I refuse to let them slow me down, too. Wet leaves become squished and torn as I stomp on them relentlessly, leaving behind a trail of scattered color. I sprint through the wisps of fog that follow my breaths, and I try to ignore the fall chill that is digging its claws into my skin and sinking its teeth into my cheeks—which only reminds me of what the short, scrawny vorak might already be clawing and biting into.
Of who it might already be clawing and biting into.
Then the image in my mind manifests right before my eyes.
It's her.
She's lying on the ground, limp and boneless. Her hair is the exact same shade as I remember, and it blends in effortlessly with the growing puddle bordering her crumpled frame. Like a rag-doll, her limbs flip and flop as the vorak hovers above her, making a sinister mess as it shreds through flesh to feast on blood.
I've seen this before. I've lived it—survived it.
But I don't know if she will.
"Sweets, I told you to—oh."
Nolan's voice breaks through my trance and propels me into motion. Too consumed by its lust for blood, it doesn't even notice me approach—nor do I wait for it to look up and greet me. With a hard kick to its skull—which I'm sure I heard crack—I deliver a bullet to its chest just as it turns to face me.
A few flecks of ash are still floating in the air when I crouch by her side, swallowing the urge to vomit as I study the extent of her wounds. It's difficult to believe that the crimson pond she's currently bathing in is anything less than every last drop of her life, but blood continues to gush from her body, coating what's left of her intestines as it spills out of her stomach and slides down her ribcage.
"Kaia?"
My name comes out as nothing more than a whisper, but the shock of hearing her say anything at all has my heart skipping a beat—and it feels as if it has stopped completely when her eyes meet mine, cloudy and dazed as she stares at me from below her heavy lids.
"Melanie." Tears are flowing down her nose, her temples, her cheeks, the clear drops gaining color wi
th every crimson freckle that they meet. Tearing my gaze away, I turn toward a strangely silent Nolan. "There has to be something we can do," I say, the frantic note in my words not going unnoticed by either of us. "The SOS app on my phone—we can call for help, can't we?"
"We could," he nods, "but they won't be able to help her."
"Why?" I snap. Feeling panicked and helpless, my head fills with pressure, and my lungs drown in cement. "Because she's not one of us?"
"Oh, she's one of us—that's the problem."
Confused, I follow his line of sight, nearly choking on the gasp that escapes my lips. "What—how—I don't understand."
The veins on her hands, her face, her neck are sticking out, engorged and threatening to burst. Her pupils have lost their previously rich, green border, and the two black dots bloom across the white of her eyes, drenching her world in darkness.
"I'm sorry to break it to you, Kaia," he squats down beside me, "but your friend is dead—and now we have to kill her."
Is that what she was—my friend?
I wouldn't say so.
Sure, we would chat and greet each other in the halls and in class, but none of it was real—at least, not on my side. I know she was a dancer, I know she wanted to become a doctor, I know she loved animals and helped out at the shelter—but what did she know about me? What did I care about her?
I didn't.
But that doesn't mean I disliked her.
I never wished for her to die—and definitely not like this. Maybe if I ran faster, maybe if I didn't hesitate, then, maybe, I could have saved her. And if I did, would she have kept dancing? Would she have become a doctor? Would she have continued to help out at the shelter? I know she would have, because that's just who she was.
And now, she's a monster.
A monster that has to be killed because it couldn't be saved.
She's still on the ground, but her movements are becoming more erratic by the second—like a mummy trying to break free from the paralyzing hold of its bandages. Raising my arm, I activate my gun and settle the tip of the muzzle against her writhing chest, just above the orb she never even knew existed.
"Stop!"
I vaguely recognize the familiar voice, but it's too late for me to obey his command.
The trigger has already been pulled.
And the earth begins to tremble.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE EARTH IS literally shaking.
My crouched position topples to a kneel as the ground rumbles beneath my feet, and Melanie's remains scatter about like bugs about to be squashed, only to be caught by the wet, sticky web of her own blood. I would have fallen flat on my face if not for my instinctively outstretched arms, but now my hands are heavily plastered with red, slimy ash.
"You just killed my recruit!"
That voice again.
Wiping my palms against the tops of my thighs, I crawl away from the revolting grime and toward the other building that sandwiches this alley. A steel set of stairs runs up the brick wall, and I make sure I have a firm grip of the rail before straightening my knees, coming to a wobbly stand as the narrow lane continues to throw a tantrum.
"Actually, she got herself killed," Nolan says, and I don't have to look up to know who he's talking to.
Brandon Daley.
Dressed in a combination of tattered denim, plaid flannel and, of course, a dark, knit beanie, he still adequately fits my mental label of Hipster Boy—though, I'm not sure what he was thinking when he decided to keep the whiskers he sprouted. I also notice his familiar scowl as he stomps his way toward me, but the fact that he can even walk in a straight line has me more impressed than anything.
He was never one to impress for long.
Tripping over a freshly formed crack in the road, he uses his hands, knees and elbows to brace the brunt of his fall, groaning loud enough to mute the thud of his own weight. Although I don't mind the view of him bowing down to me, my view is abruptly blocked by the darkness that blankets my eyes.
I tighten my grip on the rail, shaking my head until my vision clears—but I didn't expect the world to be breaking when I finally had it back in my sight.
The fissures in the ground have now multiplied, growing wider and deeper with every rumble from below. Even the buildings have begun to quiver, and the ladder I'm holding onto is rattling dangerously, making it harder for me to stand still and upright. A particularly intense quake forces the rocking dumpsters to skid this way and that, the corner of one clipping Brandon in the ribs when he fails to react as quickly as Nolan.
I faintly register Brandon's whimper, and I'm sure I hear Nolan call out to me, but the sudden rush in my ears drowns out everything but the thumping bass of my heart.
Once again, my eyes shut down.
But then, so does my mind.
My sense of perception has abandoned me. For all I know, my eyes could have been gouged out, my nose and ears could have been sliced off, and the nerves beneath my skin might as well have fried and burned—because I can't see, hear or smell anything. The only thing I can feel is the numbness that separates me from my body and tethers me to my soul.
I'm falling—no, spiraling into oblivion.
And without warning, I'm exiled from my own realm of limbo.
It's as if the world took a fall, and I'm looking through its eyes, vision blurry and lying on my side. The ground has stopped shaking, but I have not. However, it's not the tremor in my hands that capture my attention, but rather the blood that coats my fingers like loosely wrapped, torn gauze.
I try to get up, but my limbs give out, and it's then that I notice the cavities in my legs, smeared with gore and nailing me in place. A groan pierces the eerily still air, and having assumed it came from Brandon, I'm surprised to see that Nolan, too, is sprawled out on a carpet of red, clutching his shoulder in evident pain.
That surprise turns to shock when he rolls onto his back, offering me an unobstructed view of whom I'm having a hard time believing is Brandon. Like a zebra that has been mauled by a pack of starving hyenas, his crimson stripes are grated raw and draining him of life, rendering him too weak to even lick his wounds—but, evidently, not enough to stop him from pressing a trembling finger against the screen of his phone.
"Wait, don't!" Nolan shouts, jumping to his feet. He picks up the device, only to hurl it back to the ground—though it doesn't so much as splinter. "Damn it."
I meet Brandon's gaze just before his eyes flutter shut, and even as the state of my body begins to make itself known, I'm unable to look away. The burn in my legs comes second to only the pain I felt that day in the alley, when what felt like the end was really just the beginning. And as I lie here in the middle of ruin, surrounded by blood, trash and broken foundations, I'm reminded of the life I thought I outlived, realizing it's one I never stopped living.
"Kaia," Nolan kneels before me, wincing as he lowers his face to mine, "Sweets, are you okay?"
I open my mouth to reply, but whatever I was about to say doesn't even make it past my tongue. The words drown in the swamp inside my mouth, gurgling gruesome, metallic bubbles as they try—and fail—to break the surface. I nearly choke when some of it travels down my throat, instantly prompting me to cough, spit and puke it all out. The action leaves a bitter aftertaste that I instinctively recognize as blood.
And it's not the kind that comes from flasks.
"Never mind. Don't try to talk," he says, hauling my arm over his good shoulder. I almost bring us both down when he pulls me upright, the stress on my legs too much to handle even with his full support. "We have to get out of here. I already called another Zinger—should arrive any second now."
Just as he says that, a car pulls up to the mouth of the alley.
But it's not the one we were expecting.
The black SUV comes to a smooth stop, one man and two women—of course, all dressed in black—rushing out in a surprisingly synchronized order. Within seconds, a vacuum disk has been thrown onto the blo
od-soaked concrete, erasing every last trace of the carnage that took place. The man is already holding up an unconscious Brandon, and he deposits him into the vehicle as if he isn't the dead weight that he is.
"Oh, thank God, you're finally here," Nolan says, practically dragging me as he hurries our steps. "We needed medical attention, like, yesterday. Seriously, guys, was it the traffic? You know what—never mind. Just get us out of here."
I'm not sure if its because they know who he is or if he's really that convincing, but they immediately offer their assistance, no questions asked—no words spoken at all, actually. Even without a formal introduction, though, I manage to deduce that they're maevons when they just about fly us into the waiting car.
I briefly wondered if we would all be able to fit—which probably proves that I'm not yet fully coherent—but, naturally, as with all things related to The Corporation, not everything is as it seems. The inside of the SUV is about four times the size of a regular ambulance. Perhaps that's why there are four tall, white cots stationed into the floor of the car—two of which Brandon and I are now occupying. The lighting is also brighter than a hospital in here, providing us with a perfectly clear view of the outside—and of the Zinger we effortlessly zoom past.
Hopefully, the driver won't wait around too long.
Within minutes, thanks to the expertly manipulated traffic—yet another thing The Corporation is able to do—we reach the main entrance of The Liberty. Why we're here, I don't know, but instead of stopping at the front doors, we drive around the building and toward a private garage.
Once we reach the gates, a screen pops up from the center console. The driver doesn't hesitate to press his palm against the surface, and the steel wall immediately slides open, allowing us to enter what I'm assuming is just a highly secure parking lot.
This time, I'm half right.
It's more of a parking stall than anything, really—one that is actually more narrow than the garage door itself. The walls are a dark, slate gray, and they border the car so tightly, that I can't help but wonder how we're supposed to get out. My question is soon answered, though, when the vehicle begins to break apart and unfold, eventually sinking into the ground without us.