by B. C. Tweedt
Distant shouts were muffled blasts without an echo. The sizzle of fires was behind them, but the thuds of helicopter blades were coming closer. Soon the shouts were stronger, peppered with discernible words, calling out to one another. There were cries, too, but quiet.
Their group approached the parking lot and took in the mayhem one part at a time. Bullet-marked Humvees, spent shell-casings, a downed Hive drone. The crushed car. Its front half was a crumpled mess, as if an anvil had fallen from the sky onto its hood, leaving the other half to witness its destruction unharmed. Asher’s feet scuttled over the Bradley’s tread marks, still visible in the snow as they made a path over the car’s corpse and down the road.
Then there were bodies.
Asher’s throat clenched shut with a gasp. His eyes averted elsewhere, but had to come back. This was too real for Asher – worse than any of the images he’d seen in books about war. The dead bodies he’d seen in books were long gone –ancient – in times where wars were stories with an ending. Because he had known how they had ended, all was okay. There was no fear in those stories. But this. This was altogether different. He knew the man there. He’d seen him in the cafeteria line. Passed him on the boulevard, saw him swimming once. Why had StoneWater killed him? What had he done?
The girl they’d had on the stretcher hadn’t done anything to them. She had been running away.
It began to overwhelm him.
Emotions were piping hot. The flakes melted on his forehead. The back of his neck tingled and cold air bit at the inside of his nostrils.
“I have to…” he muttered, trailing off as he left the stretcher with Drake’s squad.
They struggled with the shift of balance and Beep called out first. “Asher!”
He stumbled down the ditch and up the other side, entering the parking lot where the first of the bodies lay. He felt as if he was pulled on a string, but it was fragile. If he turned back, it would snap, and he would be lost. So he went along, standing over the body with a painful gulp. It was a man. Facedown, arms at his sides. He wore a blue sweater. It was stained in the back where the bullets had hit.
“Sir?” he asked, gripping his fanny pack with white knuckles.
His chin wavered as the man didn’t respond. Kit sniffed at him, letting out a whine.
“Are you okay?”
“Uggh…”
The sound hadn’t come from the man. Kit’s head perked up and he set off, sniffing at the snow. Asher bolted after him.
“Asher, hold up!” Beep shouted.
He turned to watch Drake’s squad as they hauled the stretcher up the ditch. A group of men were calling to them from the Convention Center’s entryway, but they didn’t stop.
“This way!” Asher called back. He had to find the sound.
He crunched through the snow beside a row of cars covered in white. Another body lay in the center where Kit was sniffing, but there was too much red around it. He took a cautious step into the middle of the aisle, but flinched at the distant rattle of gunfire.
“Hello?” he asked into the falling snow, his breath rising along his face.
Quiet.
“Ugh…help,” came the groan.
Kit barked and raced off. Asher darted after him into the next row, toward the sound. “You there? Where are you?”
“Here…”
The sound came just feet away, but a parked car was all that he could see – with a bullet hole in the windshield. When Kit began pawing at the snow under the car, it came to him. He looked down, saw the disrupted snow, the blood.
Asher dropped to his knees and bent his head all the way to the ground. Beneath the car’s undercarriage was a man on his back, his hands covering a wound on his stomach.
For a moment they just stared at each other. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. Neither did the man.
“Get help…” the man coughed.
Asher turned and called out. “Here! Hurry!”
-------------------------------
Sydney hadn’t recognized the man in the black overcoat at a distance, but now she was a bit embarrassed of her initial fright.
“Where’d you get the coat?” Greyson asked Forge as he walked them down an empty hall with a limp.
“Borrowed it from the hangers, where I found these.” He pulled Greyson’s vest and goggles from underneath the coat and handed them to him – then he threw the coat to the ground.
Sydney still walked behind them, embarrassed of her tutu rising from beneath her puffy red coat. She felt like a cupcake. A stupid cupcake. What made it worse was how good Greyson looked – different, in a good way. His face had changed. Sharper. Jaw-line straighter – more like a man’s. And his body, too. He was fuller, stronger. He even walked different.
He turned and caught her watching him walk.
Confused, he shot her a look. “Yes, I kept the fanny pack.”
She smiled. “And the hat.”
He nodded.
At least everything hadn’t changed.
“This way,” Forge said, opening a janitor’s door and leading them through the boiler room to a metal ladder.
After a short climb, they exited to the roof, boarded the helicopter, and buckled in. In a hurry, Forge piloted them up fast, beating away the snow in a twirling mess behind.
Startled by the sudden rise, Sydney had grabbed on for dear life. It was only after her stomach returned to its normal place that she realized she had grabbed on to Greyson’s hand. When she looked at him, he was looking at her, a worry plaguing his brow.
As the helicopter climbed and the open door revealed the shrinking roofs, she only gripped his hand tighter. Her fear was not just of the heights, but of saying the wrong thing. There were too many words urging their way out, but his eyes were not giving her permission. Maybe he was struggling with the same thing. Or maybe he was still angry with her for leaving. No matter what it was, he was the first to look away, examining a tower of black smoke making a column from town to clouds.
“I’ve left a lot of places burning,” he said, his voice deeper and raspier than she remembered it.
She leaned over him to see out the door on his side. When she saw the smoke column, a lump rose in her throat. “Wait. Is that?”
“It’s your place,” Greyson said, only inches away. He was whispering despite the beating blades.
Sydney sat back down with a thud, her face one of exasperation. Her eyes searched for an explanation, but it was Greyson who provided it.
“Nick betrayed us. The camp, too. There were two bodies inside.”
The words bit into her, gnawing at first, then taking large daggered bites. The pain and the shock were relentless even as she fought it for control. She wanted to be strong in front of Greyson, because she knew she was. She’d grown a lot in a year. She just had to prove it. Something inside her was still trying to win his approval even after so long.
Even when she had kept the welling emotion contained, Greyson knew better. He released her hand and put his behind her back. Immediately she was crying in his arms. Her control went down, the notion of impressing him or proving herself subsided to the flood of memories of Jeremy and Harper intensifying a new, boiling hatred for Nick.
There was immense regret, too. She regretted that she had seen it coming. Months had gone by with her suspicions lacking any resolve to do something about it. Their parents’ lack of progress made sense now. Nick had been protecting Mr. Tomlinson at every turn. He had tried to stop her from infiltrating, not because he cared for her, but because he was afraid for his ally. All of Nick’s comments, his doubts, his teenaged rebellion now made sense. She would never understand his decision, no matter how passionately he had felt it was right.
She didn’t know how long she was in his arms. It had felt way too long, but Greyson had only rubbed her back with his thumb and pulled her hair away from her face with an awkward “there, there” that almost made her smile. And now he
held out a tissue, his own eyes a little glassy.
She rose and took the tissue. “Sorry,” she whispered, ashamed as she wiped her dripping mascara. Then she blew her nose and asked for another tissue.
He took another from his fanny pack. “It’s okay.”
When he turned back to her, his face told her that he was done with her crying, and so was she. Without any words, he spoke to her. It was over. Done. Gone.
“We’ll get him, Syd.”
Sucking in a swath of cold air, she nodded in agreement, feeling no need to add anything to his point. But then she jerked up, recalling Greyson’s words. “Camp. Is it okay? Is everyone okay?”
“StoneWater attacked,” he began, staring past the cockpit to the landscape beyond. “We fended them off until Rubicon came. Jarryd, Avery, Asher, Rachael – we’re all okay.”
“Thank, goodness. Geez. StoneWater? Not the Plurbs?”
“Nope. They are probably too busy preparing the attack. Hired ‘em.”
Sydney lost herself in thought, pushing her tutu down. When she eventually decided what to say, it turned out not to be much at all. “I…I have so many questions. So many things to ask you. It-it’s been a year.”
Greyson looked at her. A tiny barrier had fallen.
“I-I don’t know where to start,” she continued, hoping for his input.
He shrugged, introspective.
“How about ‘hi’?” she asked.
A hint of a smile worked its way to his lips. The barrier had grown weaker. The real Greyson was breaking through.
“Hi,” she said. “Good to see you again.”
“Hi,” he said back. “Good to see you, too. I got you something.” He reached in one of his vest pockets and pulled out a mashed up cookie. “From the caf’. They keep ‘em frozen for weeks, but they’re good.” He glanced toward Forge in the cockpit as he said it.
She smiled and ate the cookie fragments he handed her. “Thanks.” He’d never gotten her anything before. Ever. But now was the time? Had he actually been planning on giving that to her? If it was any indication how he felt about her, she had to know. “So, you’re not still mad at me for leaving?”
His barrier visibly returned to full-force. “I wasn’t the mad one. I wanted you to leave – well – you know what I mean.”
Her barrier flashed up, too. “Do I? How am I supposed to? You’re like, the most confusing boy I’ve ever met.”
“How? How am I confusing?”
“Are you sure you want me to tell you?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think you’ll want to hear it.”
“I dare you,” he said. “Say what you want to say.”
Diablo cleared his throat behind his mask. Sydney had almost forgotten that he was sitting across from them. But in the heat of the moment, she ignored him. “You dare me, huh? Okay. Then here it is.” She took a deep breath and rushed in. “You look all strong and hard on the outside, doing all that’s brave and good and heroic or whatever – daring. And I admire that – yes, admire – but then you get with me and you’re all afraid. You’re afraid to tell me what you really feel. You’ll take all these risks with your life to save people, including me, but then you don’t risk getting hurt by asking me to stay. Why’d you save me if you didn’t want to be with me? And what’s with the language? Do you need to prove yourself to these people? What are you trying to prove? That you’re a follower? That you don’t care about being good anymore? But I know you do because you’re loaded with regret, even when you’ve done so much good. It’s like your afraid of doing anything wrong – but everyone does wrong things. Why does it hurt you so much when you seem so strong? Are you that fragile? Which are you? Strong or…or weak?”
When she stopped, a lingering silence took control.
Greyson had been staring at his fanny pack, playing with the zipper the entire berating. But when he finally looked up, Diablo was staring at him. He looked back down as Sydney collected her breath.
“You dared me,” she whispered, a little embarrassed.
Diablo cleared his throat again and Greyson jerked up, exchanging some kind of look with him as if the ghost-like man with a skeleton mask could communicate after all. Maybe it was a guy-sympathy thing. Or maybe Diablo was on her side.
“Well?” she asked, starting to feel bad for having unleashed that on him.
But somehow he emerged with a smirk. “You been holding that in for awhile?”
She scoffed, taken aback. But then she couldn’t help but to smirk back. “Maybe. Just a year or so.”
“Thought so,” he said, widening his eyes.
“But what’s your answer?”
“I don’t know,” he answered with a shrug. “I’m not good at this.”
“At what? Talking?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. Well, kinda, yeah. But this…you know?”
Another scoff huffed out. She would have to stop that. “Arguing? Talking about feelings?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t give me that ‘I’m a boy and can’t talk about feelings’ excuse.”
He shrugged. “Then what other excuse can I give?”
She had to laugh. And then she groaned in frustration. “Just stop being confusing. Tell me what you really feel. Don’t hold anything back. No filters. I can take it. I’m strong.” She regretted that last part. What, did she have to prove it?
She could then see him wrestling for words. His chest was heaving slowly, his chin tucked to his neck. Letting him have his time, she looked away, getting lost in the clouds beneath them. They were over the storm now, reducing it to a dark, fluffy blanket below that stretched for miles ahead.
What did she want to hear from him? Was she being honest? Did she really just want to hear his true feelings? Or was she, deep down, just hoping that he’d remove the same filter that had been removed after his surgery. She wanted to hear it one more time, while he was totally awake. I love you. She knew it was true – or at least it had been. And it had kept her going for a year. But now she needed to hear it again.
“I dare you,” she said when she couldn’t wait anymore.
He immediately puffed up. “Fine. I’ve missed you. You’re good. Just…good. In like every way. And I’m not. You’re a good dancer. A good spy. A good person. You make other people good, too, and that’s another reason I missed you. Things I suck at, you’re good at them. Like doing this stuff. That’s why you’re like the best choice for my friend. You’re my squad. Drake has his squad, and you and Jarryd and…Avery are my squad. And squad mates look out for each other, you know? So I need to look out for you. And if you like Jordan, that’s cool, as long as he won’t hurt you. If you want to go on a mission, that’s cool, too, because you wouldn’t stop me if I wanted to go. We can’t hold each other back…what is that for?”
Greyson was eyeing Diablo as he tore off a piece of black duct tape. He stood over Greyson, holding the tape in one hand and reaching for Greyson’s face with the other.
“Wait!” Greyson yelled.
But Diablo was too quick. Fending off a flurry of Greyson’s hands, Diablo stuck the tape on his mouth, pressing it to his cheeks. When Greyson tried to peel it off, Diablo slapped him across the face and wagged his finger.
Greyson got the picture, but Diablo wasn’t done. He was unrolling another piece of tape.
“Diablo likes it quiet,” Forge said from up front.
Sydney gasped and looked at Greyson. Out came a flurry of words while she had the chance. “I don’t like Jordan at all. He helped me out – that’s it. He might like me, but eww. And…wait! Mmmmh!”
The tape was on secure and Diablo glared at her, daring her to try to take it off. She glared back, contemplating a quick kick to his shin, but wisely choosing against it as he sat back down, leaning his head back as if reclining in the afternoon sun.
“We’re meeting at our staging area in half an hour,” Forge explained, tr
ying to defuse the situation before things escalated. “I suggest taking a cat nap. Things are going to get crazier before they get any better.”
Sydney shrugged at Greyson. His eyes glimmered with a hidden smile before he shrugged back, turned to the side, nuzzled in, and fell asleep.
She grunted at him, but he didn’t respond.
Really?
Boys.
She rolled her eyes.
Chapter 64
Asher and Drake’s squad had made three trips to the Med Center and back when the fourth helicopter arrived with a team of medical personnel. Seeing them sent a final wave of relief washing through the group, lifting a heavy burden from their shoulders.
With a silent agreement forged between them, they dropped the bloody door on the snow and swallowed long breaths. Wiping sweat and melted snow from their faces, they meandered to the Convention Center’s main doors and came inside to a flush of heat.
There were least a hundred people spread about the rows of discombobulated chairs – evidence of the panic that had ensued not long ago. Some of the people were racing about and some of the helicopter teams were calling out evacuation procedures, but others were simply staring toward the stage where a screen and speakers blasted the feed from a national news channel. Drake paid no attention to the screen. He was searching for a water fountain; when he found one, he guided his friends there, letting them drink first.
He removed his hat and wiped at his hair, relishing the warm air filling his lungs. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t want to admit it. He’d been tense so long, the adrenaline’s effects wouldn’t wear off so soon. It’d take time.
When the fountain was free, he took long draughts and washed dried blood from his numb forearms. In fact, his whole body was numb. His thoughts were numb. All he could do was think about where to sit – where to rest.
His friends were well ahead of him, hiking to the first row of chairs. Finally, when they’d all sat down, he was able to see the screen and listen to the anchor. It was “Breaking News”. The station was officially calling the race.