by Jenny Moyer
“How hungry are you? Enough to come at me while I’m still standing?” It caws and flaps its massive wings. The wings I want.
This creature has armor of its own. Protection born of the burnt sands, and I intend to take it. It hops away and performs another dance, bobbing its massive torso and holding out its wings. It’s waiting for me to die.
I collapse on the ground, grunting when the pieces of cirium dig into my back. My heart thunders in my chest, but I force myself to lie still. I let my mind slip back to Wes. To lying beside him, telling him stories until he fell asleep. The vulture flies closer. It takes everything in me to leave my bloody arm exposed, a vulnerable offering for a carnivore. I imagine I’m back in nine with Dram, that we’re hugging the walls of a gulls’ nest, waiting for the mothers to leave.
A beak pecks my arm, and I roll and seize the bird. One hand wraps around its leg, and the other drives my pointed shard of cirium through its body. It flaps wildly, screeching and pulling me along the dust. My hands slip over its protruding ribs as I wrestle it beneath me and shove the blade through its skull.
“Don’t think about it, don’t think about it,” I mutter, wedging my blade into the cartilage between the creature’s wings and body. I seize one of the tough, leathery wings, set my foot against the body, and pull. It tears free with a popping of bone and tendon. I carve the gristle off the large wing bone to make myself a handhold, grasping it like a shield. The fiery debris touches it and slides away. I waft it before me and the air clears. I will be able to see past the particles and ash as I run.
The humid winds carry the scent of blood, inviting more flash vultures. Four of them circle above me, drawn by the carnage. I wipe the blade and stash it in the arm holster I fashioned. A screech just above me draws my attention; at least a half dozen vultures circle. I hold the wings against my body and run.
Half the vultures drop and tear into the carcass. The others dive after me.
I no longer avoid the horrific beauty of the flash curtain. It stretches before me like a living, seething being. I run past broken road supports and hollowed-out buildings. The vehicles Gabe calls “cars” and “buses.” The bones of Mother Nature’s feast. My lungs burn, and I push myself harder, until everything passes in a blur of empty nothingness.
Just over my head, the vultures screech, spurred by the scent of blood. These creatures aren’t waiting for my death; they are eager to make it happen. Talons tangle in my hair, knocking me off my feet. If I stay down, I’m dead—before I’ve even reached the curtain. I slash out with my shard of cirium and fight my way to my feet. Pushing past beaks and bodies, I run. One by one, they turn back. The hope of a meal is not enough to draw them past their boundaries.
I have reached the perimeter of the flash curtain. It is too bright, even with my eyeshields. I lift the vulture wing in front of my headpiece and peer between the feathers. Emberflies swirl around me, so many I can barely distinguish them from the flaming particles. I sweep the wing through them and run blindly forward, knowing that I will be either consumed or saved in what happens next.
The curtain pulls me. Its colors shoot like light from a prism, around me—through me. I am fuchsia, emerald, a thousand shades of violet.
I am still alive.
I drop to my knees. No one tells you about the weight of the curtain. Its radioactive heat presses down on me like the rock walls of nine.
It emits a sound, thrumming with a rapid pulse that I feel down to my core. It tunes me like an instrument, tightening my strings until I am part of its discordant vibrations.
I force my watering eyes to search the ground and turn my scout’s senses to the dirt and rock beneath my hands. Seven years of caving, of learning the heartbeat of the tunnels, comes to the surface of my awareness. I push my hands through the sand feeling for the pulse of matter that is unlike any other. It is alive. I am drawn to it, and it to me.
And I know I must go farther still.
I crawl, weeping, dragging myself closer to the curtain.
I feel it before I see it. Flash dust glitters before me, sparkling over an expanse of ten meters. I strain it through my sifter and pour it into my pail. Human lives made this—mothers and fathers and children whose lives were destroyed when the flash curtain fell.
The weight of the curtain presses, presses, and I breathe as if Cranny has assigned me another defective air tank. There’s less than a handful of flash dust in the bucket. Not enough.
I force myself to my feet and stagger along the perimeter of the curtain. I am a dragon, breathing fire, only the fire is inside me. I am burning, my blood boiling—but no—it is just my cirium suit, breaking away in fragments of ash and dust.
I will be dust.
I collapse on the sand.
“Did you really think … let you … do this alone?” Dram says in my earpiece. His face appears above me, and he grasps my arm, pulling me over his shoulder. I cry out, but the sound is not a girl’s. It is a dragon’s. A dragon breathing flame into herself.
“Knew you’d … find it,” Dram gasps.
I catch a glimpse of his bucket swaying from his belt. He has as much as I do.
Together, we have enough.
Sounds peal from my mouth. A keening wail that is relief and pain at the same time. It is a cry for the people whose lives were taken here, who will never in this life see the sky again.
But because of them, I will.
We will.
I am going to be free.
EIGHTEEN
28.4 grams flash dust
SOMETHING IS WRONG. We’ve stopped moving. Dram staggers. I grip his arms.
“Dram?”
He collapses, and we both hit the ground. I groan and push myself up.
My hands are painted with Dram’s blood.
“Dram!” His suit is spotted with holes. He doesn’t have my cirium armor.
“Sorry,” he slurs. I smell his skin burning before I confirm it with my eyes. He groans when I examine his arms. “Wish we had Serum 129.” He gives me a soft smile.
I search the perimeter, trying to get our bearings. The white bars of the corral rise in the distance, but we are far east of our sector—of any of the assigned sectors.
“We’re close, Dram,” I murmur, fastening the vulture feathers over his forearms. He studies the leathery skin.
“Was this thing dead when you found it?”
“No.”
“You hunted a flash vulture?” A smile breaks over his face, bigger than the first. He catches my head and presses his forehead to mine. “Fire, I love you.”
I love him too much to sit here a second longer. He’s growing delirious—the flash fever Dad warned me about—and I’m not strong enough to carry him back.
“Come on,” I say, pushing myself up. “Let’s go.”
He climbs to his feet. “Your friends are back.”
I’d heard the flap of wings, a few caws and calls, but it does nothing to prepare me for when I finally look up and see just how many have gathered.
“Fire,” I whisper. They swarm like a dark cloud, too numerous to count. “Where did they all come from?”
Dram stares at the swooping vultures as if they are of no more consequence than a cloud of shifting ash. Under his burns, his skin is white as bone.
“Hand me your bucket,” I whisper, looking away from the birds only long enough to empty my dust into the weapon. I set aside just enough for us to get back inside the gate tonight.
“What are you doing?” Dram asks.
A dozen vultures drop to the ground. They hold out their wings and bob up and down, their beaks so wide I see their tongues. I step in front of Dram.
“See those black things?” I ask softly. “Tell me if they move closer.” I force my hands to still as I carefully pour Dram’s flash dust into the wand’s reservoir, trying to remember everything Gabe told me. Once the canister is full, it’s combustible. If I do this wrong, I’m going to blow us both up.
“They’r
e closer,” Dram says.
I look up. The vultures surround us in a half circle, less than two meters away. I could take one, maybe two with my knife, before the others overwhelm us. Even if Dram is able to defend himself, we are outnumbered.
“They moved closer again,” Dram says.
“Yes, I see that,” I mutter. “Stop talking.”
What else did Gabe say? I stare at the flash wand, at the silver cylinder we’ve pinned our hopes on. If I use this to save us now, I am only ensuring our deaths later. This is our only leverage to get free.
Dram tugs on my sleeve. I look at him and he points. Past the clouds of the flashfall, more vultures descend. If Gabe is right, the flash burst will only take care of what’s in front of us. If I wait any longer, we’re dead either way.
“Close your eyes and cover your head,” I say. Dram eyes me curiously. “Do it!” He drops his head in his arms, and I hold the flash wand as far from my body as possible, gripping the tube like Gabe showed me. It was always our plan that I’d be the one to detonate it—just not yet.
I’m not sure I’m holding it right. What if I didn’t seal the reservoir properly?
“Why are you breathing like that?” Dram asks.
I meet his eyes. The way the flash glow hits his face, I can see them clearly. As blue as the sky I’ve always told myself I’d see.
“Because we’re going to see the sky,” I tell him, then I press the trigger.
* * *
I lie on my back, spread-eagled, staring up at Cordon Four’s nightmarish sky. The kick from the weapon thrust me back and sucked the air from my lungs. As soon as I regain the use of my body, I’m going to check on Dram. He lies in a heap a short distance away.
“Dram!” He’s as still as the charred vulture corpses around us. Not even their special wings could protect them from the force of that blast.
“Dram!” I roll onto my stomach. I have no fresh burns or injuries. Dram must be suffering the effects of flash fever. I reach his side and roll him over.
“Rye.” His eyes are glassy, his skin still white, but the blast seems to have roused him from his stupor. He looks past my shoulder. “What is that?”
I turn and look. The blast tore through a pile of debris. Beyond it, a metal structure protrudes from the ground.
“It must be a shelter,” I murmur breathlessly. “It’s cirium-plated.”
The thing is cirium-plated in the way that I am—awkwardly, like it was an afterthought, the armor adapted from something else. We stagger toward it, searching for an opening.
“This is a helicopter,” Dram says, his voice raw from particle dust. “Gabe told me about these.”
By the look of it, helicopters were as effective against the flash curtain as cars and buses.
“I think this is a door,” I say. “It’s partly buried, but I think we can pry it open.” I grip the lever, and together we tug the door up out of the ground. We clamber inside and force the door closed. Inside, all is dark and quiet. We push back our headpieces and drag in the musty, particle-free air.
Dram cracks a light stick.
“Where did you find that?”
“This craft is loaded with gear,” he says, holding the light up.
My breath hitches. The things filling this structure are not from Outpost Five. They are not like the things at Cordon Four, either.
Weapons. Not flash wands, or the guns the guards use, but I’m sure that’s what these black metal objects are. I study them, considering. Dram catches my eye and shakes his head.
“We need a flash weapon,” he says, his voice hoarse. He’s right. It’s the only way we’d overpower the cordon guards.
“Rations,” I murmur, smoothing the dust away from a box with pouches. I lift one out and tear it open. My spirits dive. Whatever it once contained is nothing but a film of dust. The water, too, has evaporated. I’m desperate for liquid on my parched, burning throat. We need to get back to camp. But first …
I crack another glow light and push toward the other side of the space.
“Where are you going?” Dram asks.
“Looking for serum.” I dig through overturned crates and boxes. Cracked vials glint in the dim light, and I follow them to a container flipped on its side. “Found it!” I lift a vial. “What do you think Serum 456 does?” I put it back and search the box for a number that I know.
“Look.” Dram points to a placard attached to the inside of the box. It lists the medical supply contents, along with a list of ailments and treatments. I scan the list.
Flash Fever = Serum 854
I paw through the box, but Dram stops me. He’s already holding a syringe of 854.
“Who were these people?” he asks.
I snatch the syringe from his hand and prep it. “Right now, they’re the people saving our lives.” I tug his glove off and press the needle into his hand.
He sits against the fuselage, eyes closed. I watch him closely, listening as his breath evens out. Color returns to his face. I can’t believe how quickly Serum 854 is restoring him.
“You should take it, too,” he says. I inject myself, then tuck the remaining two vials in my undershirt, safely hidden beneath the layers of my clothes and suit.
We sit in the stillness of our shelter, clinging to life with climbers’ grips. I can’t help but think how similar this is to the air cave down nine. Only this time, help’s not coming. We’re on our own.
“Well,” Dram murmurs, his voice a croak, “at least we haven’t tried to drink our pee yet.”
I laugh. Fire, I’ve missed his outpost humor. I smile at him, at the light in his bloodshot, flash-fevered eyes.
He holds the light up and looks around. “Look at this,” he says, taking a placard off the wall. “I think it’s a map.” He turns it so I can see. “It shows all the cordons along the flash curtain.”
This isn’t like any map I’ve ever seen before. It has numbers—coordinates, I assume, that don’t make sense to me. Some of them I recognize, and I point to the markings. “Depth coordinates, like we use in the tunnels.”
“What do you think these Xs are?” Dram asks.
All at once, the diagram clicks in my mind, as if someone just handed me goggles and now I can see through the particle dust. “The Xs are outposts,” I say. “There’s Outpost Five, all the way south.”
“Then what’s this, beside Cordon One?” Dram points to a mark I learned when I was nine and Graham taught me to read the markers that cavers draw. I know what this means, and so does Dram.
“It’s a way out.”
I wait for Dram to lift his eyes. His mind is muddled with fever, but he’s making the mental leap right along with me.
He traces the twin slanted lines with a shaking finger. “So it’s possible,” he says. “Subpars have gotten free.”
I study the map, committing it to memory. “We have no way of getting to Cordon One.”
“We have hope.” He grins, swaying slightly. “It’s a start.”
I stand and hang my glow stick from the topmost point of the tilted fuselage. It illuminates the packed hold of the flying machine. Dram and I reach for more light sticks at the same time.
“How’s Serum 854 treating you?” I ask.
“Well enough,” he says, cracking the lights. He’s sounding more like himself again.
“Let’s do some exploring.”
Dram holds the light aloft. “Lead the way.”
I turn toward the shadowed nose of the fuselage, my heart racing as it always does when I head down a path full of unknowns. Only this feels more dangerous somehow. It also feels right.
The buzzer sounds, distant, but distinct.
My wide eyes find Dram’s. In all that’s happened today, I completely forgot about Cordon Four’s time limit, and everyone else waiting for us to complete our part of the escape plan. Everything has changed now.
“We have to go back,” he says. “We won’t survive the night without rations.”
“W
e’ll never make it in time. If we could run, maybe.”
He sorts through the box of serum. “We can run,” he says, tossing me Serum 61. Adrenaline.
I give the helicopter’s shadowed hold one last glance. “We’re coming back.”
“Of course we’re coming back,” Dram shoves the needle into his thigh. “But not if we don’t live past today.”
I drop the light bars with a sigh and inject myself. I count down from ten and feel my heart kick into double time. Dram forces the door open, and the burnt sand and all its horrors intrude on the sanctuary of this half-buried tomb.
I look at the place where the nose of the craft hit the ground—where the pilot and crew probably lie buried.
“We’re coming back,” I say again, this time for the unknown people who died here, but who saved us from the fate of the curtain. I think they would want to know that their mission was not in vain.
That maybe their timing was perfect.
* * *
We collapse before the turnstile. The deposit box opens.
“Deposit your collection for processing,” an automated voice says.
I laugh bleakly. We’re half dead, and our only chance of escaping blew up with a bunch of birds. But we have just enough to get back inside our prison. I pour my flash dust onto the scale with aching arms. I feel every place a beak stabbed past the cirium.
“Proceed through the turnstile,” the voice says.
A light beside the scale glows green, and the turnstile trembles with the sound of a bolt sliding open. I push through, and it locks behind me. I grasp the metal bars and wait as Dram repeats the process. We stagger past the fence a moment later, the last cordon miners to return for the night. The camp is oddly still and silent.
Dram and I lean against each other. His arms are the only things keeping me from hitting the ground. We collect our rations, drag our suits off, and collapse inside our tent.
“Tomorrow,” Dram whispers. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” He tucks his arm beneath his head, but not before I catch sight of his Radband. I pretend I didn’t see it. My throat is too tight to speak—and what could I possibly say?