by Sarah Noffke
Nona starts for the door on the other side of the room, her shoulders high and back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I say, racing to her and blocking her path.
She rolls her eyes, a small smile on her face. “I’m going to go be efficient. I’ll start on the doctors’ offices, while you two knock out the supply in here.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I don’t need to be electrokinetic to destroy stuff, Em. My hands work fine for demolishing tiny, fragile glass vials.”
“Fine,” I acquiesce after a brief deliberation. “But I want you to dart back here at the first sign of trouble. Clear?”
She nods, looking more like she’s humoring me than actually trying to follow my orders. “Have fun,” she says and swings open the door and disappears at once.
“What am I going to do with her?” I say, spinning around, my hands on my hips. And then my heart fractures. Rogue is gripping his head, his back half to me. I know the signs too clearly. The shaking of his hands. Grimace on his face. The way he presses his hands into his temples, trying to press against the unrelenting pain.
“Rogue,” I say, rushing to his side.
And then he does something he’s never done before. He stands straight. Drops his hand. And fakes a smile. “I’m fine.”
The stubborn expression hardly covers the pain I know he feels. “No you’re not. You’re having a headache. How long?”
“It’s fine, Em. Let’s get to work.” And he moves, but his actions don’t carry his trademark grace.
His shoulders are pinned up high, like he’s carrying the weight of the Valley on his back. Rogue has never dared try to push through the pain. It’s not that he didn’t want to, but usually that he couldn’t. The resilient expression in his eyes pauses on me when I move around him and place a hand on his chest. “You sit.” I motion to the barstool next to a work station. “Relax.”
He presses against my hand, but there’s no real force to it. None of the power that I know Rogue owns. His eyes narrow, but not at me. From the way his face contorts I know he’s trying to pretend, trying to operate through the pain. “You’re beautifully ridiculous if you think I’m going to sit and watch you have all the fun.”
He’s right. This is something he should be a part of. If anyone should have the morose pleasure of ruining these drugs it’s Rogue. The very headache that plagues him now is a result of these deceptive formulas. I nod. “Fine. Just don’t overdo it.”
I head straight for the locked cabinet where Parker swore the largest supply outside the warehouse was stored. The lock, which would have deterred me before, is disabled in seconds with the tools we brought along. Rogue opens the large cabinet doors and in front of us stands row after row of one-and-a-half-inch bottles of pink liquid. Poison. The drug that my father ordered I have injected into me starting at adolescence. The drug that for three years suppressed the gift given to me by the gods. And now thousands of bottles of the drug wink back at me. A hundred rows. Each one pristinely organized. Each bottle neatly stacked in front of another.
“I think this one is yours,” I say to Rogue. He doesn’t look much better, but he’s doing a good job of hiding the pain I know screams in his head. And instead of brandishing the usual rebellious smile at me, Rogue simply nods, a slow movement.
Hesitantly I turn in the direction of a row of cabinets, their contents supposedly all full of cerevitium. Again the lock is a sad deterrent that doesn’t hold up to my flathead and hammer. I’m unsurprised this time to lay my eyes on hundreds of shiny bottles of pink fluid.
I kind of hoped their destruction would take a little while. That it would hold a satisfying release when the bottles exploded and cerevitium oozed out on the shelves, now useless. The electricity I expel from my hand blasts the hundreds of bottles at once, causing a spray of tiny shards of glass. My arm whips up to shield me, but the explosion is already over by then. In a matter of seconds I destroyed every drug in the opened cabinets. It doesn’t give me the pleasure I expected.
Behind me the scene is quiet. Not filled with the tell-tale sounds of destruction that I expected. I turn, my eyes landing at once on Rogue’s limp figure. He’s not slumped like usual when he has a headache that makes it tough to stand. Instead, he looks like he’s passed out.
“Rogue,” I cough out, darting in his direction, the fear accidentally making me leech his speed. He doesn’t stir when I grab his shoulders. His arms and legs lay splayed out, his face to the side. Usually he convulses from the headaches. Hunches over. Grips at his head. Groans in pain. Now he’s lifeless. “Rogue,” I say again, my face close to his, my hands on his sweltering cheeks. “Can you hear me?”
He mumbles something incoherent. And then unexpectedly grabs his head and rolls over on his side, knocking into me. “Rogue?” I say again, entirely too loud. His eyes don’t peel open at the sound of my voice and he gives no indication that he’s aware I’m here beside him. Violent shivers rip from him like he’s suddenly freezing, although sweat continues to pour from his forehead. Afraid to shake him, but growing increasingly worried each second he remains incoherent, I grip both his shoulders and rock him slightly. “Wake up, Rogue! You can’t do this here!”
Not here.
I search the giant lab, aware that we are prisoners here as long as Rogue is incapacitated. Sitting ducks.
At the first sight of her I flinch, fearing she’s another guard. She rounds the corner, her hair flaring around her from her speed. First her eyes land on Rogue’s lifeless form and then on my worry-crazed face. “What’s happened to him?” she asks, rushing forward.
“He had a headache, but then I don’t know,” I say, my words a jittery mess. I lift his shoulders and Rogue’s head slumps back and then suddenly, he begins to convulse again, like he’s having a mild seizure. His limbs flay in the air, a hand knocking me so hard across the face that I wince from the assault, tears prickling behind my eyes. Instinctively I back away, but Rogue has already gone still again, his hands now cradling his head as he lies on his side.
“What do you usually do when this happens?” Nona asks, her frightened eyes shifting between Rogue and me.
“He’s never passed out. Not like this. He’s always lucid.”
Nona spins around, eyes scanning. “Maybe there’s something in here or a nearby lab that can help him?”
I’ve pushed into a standing position beside her now. “How am I supposed to know what random drug will help him?!” I yell, all my anger shooting out of me as I whip around to face her.
“Well, maybe I can find the meds he’s used to taking,” my sister says, not at all flustered.
“And how am I supposed to get him to take it?” I say, throwing one arm in his direction. Nona isn’t the problem here. She’s halfway to a solution, but my frustration has erupted with no way to easily control it now. “What he needs is someone who can help him. And there’s only one person who I know of.”
Nona nods, seeming to understand my plan immediately. “What about that?” She points to the case of cerevitium that Rogue was supposed to destroy. All bottles sit neatly in the cabinet. Not one destroyed.
I direct my hand at the case, careful to regulate the amount of electricity I unleash on it. I don’t want to blow up the wall, only the case. A neat voltage springs from my palm, assaulting the cabinet. An explosion of glass, pink fluid, and splinters of wood sprays through the air in a mist of smoke. A small fire now burns in the case, but nothing that looks like it won’t be contained by the metal walls and tile flooring. The explosion, though, could have caused some attention.
“Help me with Rogue,” I say to Nona. Thankfully he’s quiet and still now, not jerking uncontrollably. Wrenching him to a sitting position, I drape his arm over my shoulder and wait for Nona to do the same. Even after the explosion and all the movement, Rogue remains unconscious. Unaware that he’s chosen the worst place in the world to pass out.
Gods, I need to get him out of here.<
br />
“On the count of three,” I say to Nona, squatting down low, encouraging my feet to be strong under me. “One. Two. Three.” We both haul to our feet, bringing Rogue up with us. It feels like we’re lifting an oversized sofa, although he’s much more pliant than a piece of furniture. The first step brings a grunt out of Nona’s mouth, but she doesn’t dare complain. Rogue’s feet drag behind him, making each of my steps harder than the last.
“Hold up a second,” I say to Nona as I slump at a nearby countertop. It’s impossible to fathom the idea of carrying him through multiple hallways with only the help of my little sister. He’s too large, too heavy for us to manage like a deadweight.
Left with little choice, I raise my hand and bring it across Rogue’s face with a loud smack. Nona gasps, letting more of Rogue’s body weight fall on my shoulder. His head pulls back after a moment’s hesitation and then he shakes his head. Groans. A sound like a reluctant cow being forced into a small space. Finally he half opens one eye, then the other joins it.
“Rogue,” I say, gripping the sides of his face. Grateful to finally see his green eyes.
He starts from my quick motions, seeming to wince from pain or the dim lights or the strangeness of his surroundings and position.
“We’re still in the labs,” I say, forceful but delicate with each word. “You’ve passed out, but I need you to help us get you out of here.”
I expect a cute quip or a smile or at least a look of surprise. Instead, Rogue gives a tired nod and then pushes himself off the counter, swaying as he does. I stabilize him, bringing his arm around my shoulders, and Nona does the same, catching him just before he wavers from my grasp. His feet are finally under him, but I feel his unsteadiness like a sinking ship under us.
“Let’s go,” I say to Nona, as Rogue’s eyes drift closed again. “Stay awake, Rogue. You’re too big for us to carry you.”
He straightens reflexively, his weight only partially on us as he trudges forward. Each movement is a chore for all of us. Each step brings questions to my mind. I don’t know what’s going on with him. By the confused look he wears between the grimaces of pain, I can tell he doesn’t either. I’m stunned by how suddenly this all has struck him. And also by the incoherent edge Rogue keeps drawing close to. I rattle him each time, at least twenty different occasions between the giant lab and the door we entered through. Seeing the “EXIT” sign above that door fills me with only partial relief. There’s no way we can carry Rogue through town to Zack’s house. And there’s absolutely no way we’re getting him back to the camp or to any usual place of safety. With Rogue only half conscious and not truly in control of his limbs I think we’re running out of options.
I start in the direction of the Dumpster where we found Nona an hour ago. “What are you doing?” she says, confusion blanketing her face.
“We’re going to hide,” I say, angling my head at Rogue’s, which partially rests on my shoulder. “And you’re going to go get Zack. You’re stronger than most, but you and I can’t get Rogue to safety. We’ll hide out until Zack can come help us.”
Nona helps me half drag Rogue behind the Dumpster, moving it to accompany his larger size. Then she pushes it back, opening the lid on top and bringing it back until it catches on its hinge. It perfectly shades us from the overhead light. A sour odor instantly hits my nostrils. I suck in short, sharp breaths through my mouth, but can still taste the garbage.
“After you tell Zack where to meet us, I want you to go home. Don’t come back.”
“But Em, I need to—” Nona protests.
“Rogue will be fine and I need you to protect your reputation. Go to the hospital and tell Zack to help us. Then stay or go home, but don’t come back to us. Okay?”
She nods reluctantly, backing up as she does. Then she turns and sprints through the streetlights.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The prickly concrete wall at my back instantly makes me itch. Nevertheless I press more firmly into it to ensure I don’t take space that Rogue needs. Nona had helped me prop him next to me, against the wall, but that didn’t last long. He lost consciousness again and I let him slide over until his head was resting in my lap. Thankfully his body is curled up, lying cleanly behind the Dumpster. None of him exposed.
Irregular breaths rasp from his mouth. Again and again I stroke Rogue’s black hair. Trace the contours of his face. Several times he awakes briefly, but each time he looks at me with a disoriented expression, like he doesn’t quite recognize me.
“It’s going to be okay, Rogue,” I whisper into his ear at least one time each minute, until an hour has passed. The explosive would have gone off by now. It’s encouraging that I didn’t hear it. That it was small enough not to rock the building, only big enough to destroy ten thousand units of cerevitium.
I keep hoping Rogue will stir into a sitting position, but this headache appears to be more debilitating than the others. He probably hasn’t been taking his meds. Stubborn jerk.
The putrid smell of the Dumpster seems to be thicker than before. My back aches from my position hunched over Rogue. I’ve given up keeping watch and now all my focus is on him. Many times I’ve had to clap my hand over his mouth to muffle his groans of pain. It feels so wrong to stifle him right now, but since I know he’d rather not be caught, I willingly do it. But he moves only through an instinct to fight the pain. His consciousness lost in a battle against this headache.
“You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay,” I say, but then startle upon sitting up. A figure sprints in our direction, through the streetlights, not even trying to hide in the shadows. And the smile that breaks across my face surprises me. It’s one of relief. Zack’s suit jacket whips around him as he moves. Even from twenty yards away I spy the look of unmistakable worry overwhelming his face. I’ve never seen him move so fast. Didn’t know he could.
“Rogue,” I say, a hint of hope in my voice. “Rogue.” I shake his shoulders. “Zack is here. We’ll get you help.” And my heart, which lightened the moment I saw Zack approaching, ready to help, sinks suddenly. Rogue is unresponsive to my attempts to awake him. Lightly I slap his cheeks. Blow on his face. Tap on his chest. And he remains frozen. Unmoving. His pulse beats slow but steady.
Zack’s leather shoes clap against the pavement with each of his steps. He isn’t concerned for his noise or presence. I know that firmly when he arrives and throws the lids back on the Dumpster, sending the overhead security light raining down on us at once. I squint, my eyes adjusting to the brightness as Zack heaves the Dumpster away in a swift movement. He doesn’t say a word, but the anxious look in his eyes is enough to express all his current concerns. Bent on being efficient, Zack kneels down, pulling Rogue’s arm over his shoulder and hurling the both of them up to a standing position. I’m quick to rise and take the place on the other side of Rogue. Like before, I wrap his arm around my shoulder and urge him forward. The good news is that although Rogue appears to mostly be unconscious, he has his feet under him now and although his steps are wobbly, he’s able to walk with our assistance. Most of his weight Zack bears, but together we’re able to make quick progress, pulling Rogue back the way Zack just came.
At the corner, Zack’s eyes finally connect with mine, a new weight in them. “Where to?” he says between breaths.
“Parker’s house. It’s only a block down this street,” I say, rounding into the alley behind the shops, enjoying being back in the dark.
“But Rogue said that—”
“Rogue said to take him to Parker as a last resort,” I interrupt. “And since he’s passed out, I think this qualifies.”
Zack doesn’t protest or agree, only moves forward.
***
My knock on Parker’s back door sounds as loud as thunder in the quiet neighborhood. I swing around to the yard we came through, which is shrouded in darkness. Hopefully his neighbors are getting ready for bed, which Parker is probably doing too. Soon it will be curfew and all Reverians will need to put on the
ir sleep cuffs. If Zack and Parker don’t then they’ll be in trouble. Again I knock.
A scratchy shuffling greets my ears, brings hope to my chest. The door opens a crack, the old woman behind it gives me an inquisitive grin. “You’re back,” she says, sounding amused. Her sparking brown eyes slide to Rogue and then Zack.
“And as you can see we need help. Will you please let us in?” I say, repositioning Rogue on my shoulder.
“Ji-hoon isn’t going to like this,” Parker’s mother says, seeming to enjoy the idea. She steps back, opening the door wide, and regards Rogue with a skeptical expression. “Is he drunk?”
I can’t hide the eye roll that follows her question. “Of course not,” I say, stepping in first, angling sideways to allow for Rogue’s broad shoulders. Zack does the same, bringing up the rear. “He’s sick and Parker can help. He already said he would.”
The commotion must have brought Parker barreling into the kitchen. He halts at the sight of us and slaps a hand over his forehead with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
“We need your help,” I say. “And you said you’d see Rogue.”
“What I said was I’d meet you somewhere,” he says, his voice frantic, eyes wide. “You promised not to come to my house again.”
“Things changed,” I say, continuing to move forward, half dragging Rogue with me.
“I told you he wouldn’t like it,” the old woman says, turning at once, bustling off, a smile in her voice.
“We’re here now. I want you to examine Rogue,” I say, only pausing when we’re two feet from Parker. “He needs your help.”
Parker studies his face, both looking contemplative and shocked. “He’s changed a lot, hasn’t he?”
“Do you not see that he’s passed out?!” I say so loud that Zack punishes me with a glare. “A headache did this to him.”
Parker gives a quick nod. “Of course. I’m merely trying to piece together all of this. It’s quite a shock to have a patient brought to my house.” He turns and flurries down the darkened hallway. “Bring him to my room and I’ll examine him there.”