by Kody Boye
I do. Which means that we have to reach her, no matter what it takes or how much effort will be expended as a result of it.
Swallowing, I focus my gaze on Dusty’s and says, “I think she will.”
“Thinking isn’t doing, Kelendra.”
“If we’re going to die, we might as well die fighting.”
To this, Dusty says nothing. He simply lifts a hand and calls, “Ashton! Where’s Ashton?”
“He’s in here, Dusty!” the man named Jeremiah calls.
“Send him out here!”
A few moments later, Ashton comes hobbling out—a brace along his arm and shoulder, a grimace on his face. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“We need to figure out how to arrange an audience with Capitol City News.”
“Capitol City News?” He frowns.
“Yeah,” Dusty says. “You have any ideas?”
Ashton appears to consider this for several long moments. Then, afterward, he says, “I… I honestly don’t know.”
“Think, Ashton. Think.”
“I’m thinking!” he says. “My head’s just muddled because of all this pain medication.”
“Can you contact a person directly?” I ask. “You said you knew how to find information on people. Couldn’t you just find her?”
“I don’t see why I wouldn’t be able to,” Ashton replies. “I mean… the news organizations were considered high priority in terms of security. Her information should be there, in theory.”
“So… that’s what we need to do. We need to contact her, set up a meeting, then stage a public meeting wherein the three of us are revealed.”
Ceyonne and Wu look at each other, then me before turning their attention to Ashton.
The young man merely sighs before saying, “They could trace our signal.”
“Underground?” Ceyonne asks.
He nods. “Yes. Underground.”
“So contact them elsewhere,” Wu says.
“That’s the problem. All my equipment is set up here. To move it, I’d have to be able to function. I can’t do that with my arm like this.”
“We’re going to have to take a risk,” I say.
“And risk our people?” Dusty asks. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re making this harder!” I snap, spinning about to face him. “You honestly think I want to put people in danger? That I want people to die?”
“It would seem so, considering all you’ve done.”
I can only stare.
Ceyonne says, “That’s uncalled for.”
To which Dusty replies with, “It’s only true.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not.”
“Are you going to chicken out?” Wu asks. “After everything that’s happened? After all we’ve risked to get the First Lady here?”
“It’s not chickening out, girl. It’s survival.”
“Fine,” I say, starting forward. “I’ll find her myself.”
“You can’t leave,” Dusty says. “You’ll get taken into custody faster than you could ever imagine.”
“Then help me!” I call back.
“I—I—”
I spin to face him once more. “If I go,” I say, “they’ll ask me where I’ve been. If we contact them here, they’ll know where you are. There’s no in-between anymore, Dusty. We have to make a decision, and soon.”
Dusty balls a hand into a fist, turns his head to look at Ashton, then sighs before saying, “How long would it take to locate the woman? What’s her name?”
“Demiro. Cynthia Demiro.”
“Nuh… not long,” Ashton manages. “But, sir. You’re sure you—”
“I’m sure,” Dusty says, then lifts his eyes to look at me. “It appears I’ve been driven into a corner.”
I merely nod.
With trepidation that can only come from fear, Ashton turns, then says, “Follow me.”
So we do.
An old office at the back of one of the abandoned storefronts is where Ashton keeps his computer equipment. Here, there are monitors across the far wall, and wires snake along them from console to monitor, machinery to power plug. It makes for an incredibly intimidating appearance, especially since most of the computerized equipment I have seen previously did not possess any wires.
“Why the wires?” I decide to ask.
“Easier to kill connections if necessary,” Ashton says, stepping forward. He begins flicking switches on a metal panel, inspiring life within machinery that otherwise appears sentinel. “If something happens, we can try and disable the security networks before they realize where we are.”
“So… how are we finding the lady?” Ceyonne asks.
Ashton draws a chair out from the corner and seats himself before a keyboard. “Like this,” he says.
A moment later, the monitors before him come to life. All are populated with various diagrams, information streams, and maps.
“Give me a moment,” Ashton says.
He begins to sort through the information on the screen at an alarming rate. His speed is uncanny—rivaled only by what I imagine the artificial intelligence computers within the city can do. I have to turn my head away to keep from feeling dizzy.
“I’m hacking into the mainframe,” Ashton then says. “Dusty—be prepared for anything.”
“All right,” the man says.
With a deep breath, Ashton begins typing on the keyboard.
Then, slowly, I lift my eyes.
I see a streamlined base of information, within which Ashton takes hold of a circular device to his right and begins to sort through it. He slashes one window away, a second to the corner, a third before him, then begins to sort through names of what I realize are likely businesses. When he comes to the one that says Capitol City News Employees, he scrolls through what appear to be hundreds of names.
Then, in a moment, he finds Cynthia Demiro.
“Do you want to contact her directly?” Ashton asks. “On her personal mobile phone?”
“Whatever gets the direct access to her,” I say.
“There’s no camera equipment here. We’ll have to pray that she’ll answer on faith.”
“She’s a business woman,” Dusty replies. “She’s always waiting for a good story.”
Wu and Ceyonne draw forward.
I gesture them to remain back.
Then, with a single click of a button, Ashton is patching a connection between us and the news anchor of Capitol City News.
“Come here,” Ashton says, “and speak into this microphone.”
I nod, and wait for whatever it is to happen to happen.
In moments, a connection is made.
Something clicks. Then a voice that is undoubtedly Cynthia Demiro’s asks, “Hello? Who is this?”
“Miss Demiro?” I ask, swallowing.
“Yes?” she asks. “Who is calling me?”
“You’re not going to believe me, but… this is Kelendra. Kelendra Cross.”
The woman goes silent on the other line.
“Ma’am?” I ask. “Can you—”
“How are you calling me?” she asks. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“I’m alive, ma’am. And I need your help.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, and I hear the sound of wind rushing in the background, then through the mouthpiece, distorting her voice. “How do need my help?”
“Something terrible is going to happen if I don’t get the word out about it. But… I can’t talk about it over this connection. I need to meet you somewhere—somewhere they won’t recognize me.”
“Ke—I mean, ma’am—how am I supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I—”
The woman clears her throat and says, “Prove to me you’re her.”
“How?” I ask.
“Tell me something only you could know. Anything. Anything that will let me know that you’re the real her.”
“My mother’s name is Wynonna Byron. She lives in th
e Sandstone Hills. She works at a sweatshop. She has green eyes just like me. And… and…”
“What?”
“Daniel was shot through the head. That’s how he died.”
She remains silent for several long moments. Then she says, “They pulled Mr. Cross out of the rubble with a hole in his head.”
“Yes, ma’am. He… he died saving me and my friends.”
“There’s more of you?” she asks.
“I’m not at a liberty to say, Miss Demiro. All I need to know is if you’ll help me.”
She stays quiet for a bit longer. Slowly, however, she clears her throat, then exhales before saying, “There’s a place I can meet you. But it has to be quick. I’m likely to draw attention in any business I enter, so… it’ll have to be somewhere nearby, somewhere quick. Can you tell me where you are?”
“I—”
Dusty narrows his eyes.
I shake my head and say, “No.”
“Then meet me at South 7th Street behind the building with the frog at midnight tonight.”
The building with the frog? I think. What is she—
“Did you hear me?” the woman asks. “I don’t have time to discuss this further, ma’am. I need to know if you want to meet.”
“I want to meet,” I say.
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
She ends the call before I can say goodbye.
I turn my head to face Dusty and says, “What was she talking about? The building with the frog?”
“It’s an old graffiti site,” Ashton says. “A historical landmark of sorts.”
“There’s an alley nearby,” Dusty says. “It’ll give us the perfect opportunity to meet her in private.”
“I’m going alone,” I say.
“You can’t!” Ceyonne says. “You need one of us there with you.”
“I won’t be recognized,” I reply. “My hair is dark, I’m covered in bruises. Most of all… I look nothing like the girl she’ll be expecting.”
“Do you think we can trust her?” Wu asks. “I mean… she did try and sell you and Daniel out on regional television.”
“I know, but…” I pause. I look to Dusty, Ceyonne, Wu. Then I look back to Dusty, who offers me an unsure look and an even more doubtful sigh. “We have to risk it.”
“We’ll go at midnight, then,” Dusty says. “Just me and you.”
“But what if she wants proof?” I ask. “What then?”
Ashton turns his head toward a single drawer. After a moment’s consideration, he withdraws a single black device from within, and says, “I can make a copy of what the Countess said on this drive.”
“And that will convince her?”
“Yes,” Ashton replies. “It will.”
I nod.
Dusty says, “Do what you need to do, Ashton.”
In moments, the connection to the city’s security system is cut.
And I, not knowing what else to do, simply stare.
Twelve
I don’t know what to expect, how she will act, how she will behave. The truth is: she could have just led us into a trap. But I know—somehow, someway—that it won’t be.
No.
I can make Cynthia Demiro’s career, all by saying a few choice words. That will be what saves us all.
As I stand at the threshold leading out to the tunnels we originally entered through, I look back at Dusty, only to find that he is heatedly discussing something with Patrice.
“We’ve no choice,” I hear Dusty say. “We have to act now.”
“But you’re sure this is the right way to go about it?” Patrice asks. “With just two of you?”
Dusty nods, and says, “Yes. I’m sure.” Then he lifts his lantern and begins to walk toward me.
I stiffen under his gaze, and draw my coat tighter about my shoulders as he approaches.
He asks, “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I am.”
And then we are off.
We walk for an indeterminable period of time. Throughout, I try to gauge what I will say, what I will do, how I will act. To most people, I am Kelendra Cross, who was born of the Process and died through my Purpose. To others, though, I am simply a girl—one whose path throughout this world has been forged in destiny and paved with bad decisions.
You can’t help it, I think. You did what you thought was good. What you thought was right.
But was it, though? Was it really, truly right? I can’t seem to think it is, because so many people—so many poor, innocent people—have died, all because of me.
The women at my wedding—
The people at the Rita Blanca—
The girls in the Spire—
My husband—
My father—
I struggle not to tremble in light of everything that has occurred. A part of me knows that I am not at fault for what happened, but another part of me feels that I am.
Your actions, the dark part of my brain says, forged those links, severed those chains, paved that road, brought forth that wasteland.
I shake my head.
No, I think. This wasn’t my fault. This wasn’t my doing. And it most certainly was not my intent. For if it were my intent to kill people—and to change the world as I know it—then surely I would have found a more destructive way to do it.
I shiver as I consider this idea, as I dwell upon this thought, then lift my eyes and train them on the back of Dusty’s silver-haired head.
“We’re almost there,” he says.
“Will we have to walk far?” I ask.
“7th Street is a block over from where you entered this place.”
“Oh,” I say, then lower my eyes.
Dusty comes to a halt.
I almost run into him.
He pats his side and says, “I have a gun.”
To which I reply by saying, “In case something goes wrong?”
“In case anything happens.”
Anything.
I can only imagine what will happen if Cynthia Demiro has brought SADs with her.
With a nod, I gesture him to continue forward.
Within moments, we are stepping through the passage and maneuvering through the thin access entrance that leads into the subway system.
When we come to the iron door, Dusty turns the lever, opens it, then peeks out.
“Is it—” I start to say.
“Clear?” he asks, and nods. “Yes. It’s clear.”
He opens the door and ushers me out.
It is there, at the bottom of that stairwell—in the threshold to another world—that I gaze up and look upon the door that will take me to the one place I no longer wish to be.
The Glittering City.
Once a home, but no longer such, it offers little more than terrible memories in which my past, my present, and my future were inexplicably altered.
“Are you ready to leave?” Dusty asks.
“I… I think so,” I manage.
“Good. Let’s go.”
As we take the stairs, and as we climb each step, I struggle to recall why I ever wanted to be here, then realize it was to escape a life I had always wanted to leave behind.
Mama, I think, and close my eyes.
Within moments, we are at the stop of the stairwell.
Dusty opens the door.
Warm air filters in.
We step out.
He closes the door.
Outside—in the warm and seemingly-forgiving world—he turns his head back and forth, as if to determine whether or not we are safe, then turns and starts down the alley.
I am quick to follow.
As we make our way out of the alley, and as we step onto the street whereupon we will make our way to our destination, I am quick to think that the people will pay us mind, but find that is not the case at all. Rather, they keep their eyes set forward, their gazes set, and barely even acknowledge either me or Dusty as we make our way forward.
“This is too easy,�
� I mumble, drawing up alongside the man. “It has to be.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks.
“It’s just… why would we get out of there without anyone noticing us?”
“They’re going to notice us if you keep talking like that.”
“Still—” I turn my head to face the world in front of us. “It just doesn’t seem right.”
“Do you want to turn back?”
“No.”
“Do you truly believe something is wrong?”
“I—”
“This is your last chance. If you want to turn back now, say it. We’re coming up on 7th Street.”
“We are?” I ask, and wait for Dusty to nod before turning my head back to the road.
In seconds, we are approaching an intersection; and beyond that, a giant concrete wall.
Decorated along its surface is a simple caricature of a frog—looking out, staring back at us.
Three words decorate its surface.
How r u?
How are you? I think, and frown.
Is this really where she wanted us to meet? Where she wanted us to speak?
Though I don’t know now, I know that the answer will come soon enough.
Dusty glances over my head and considers the first alley we come across. “No one,” he whispers.
“There’s another,” I say, nodding in the direction of the street in front of us.
The second proves to be empty.
“All right,” I mumble, looking to the third and final alley before us. “She has to be there.”
“And if she isn’t?” Dusty asks.
“We assume this is a trap.”
“All right.” Dusty comes to a halt and nods. “You go first.”
“Why me?”
“She’s expecting you. If I go looking into the alley first, she’s going to suspect something’s wrong. We don’t want to spook her, do we?”
“I…. I guess not,” I say.
After taking a deep breath, I draw my coat more tightly around myself, secure the hood over my head, then turn and enter the alley.
A single flame from a woman lighting a cigarette is enough to draw me deeper into the alley.
She lifts her head to regard me and says, “Is that you?”
And I, scared out of my mind that I will soon be trapped, can only nod.
She says, “Come closer.”
So I do. Terrified out of my wits, but knowing that this will either be my greatest relief or my stupidest mistake, I take several steps toward her, drawing my hands out of my pockets and brushing them idly along the artificial fur arranged around my waistband.