Burn (The Pure Trilogy)

by Julianna Baggott

  “Don’t you see the death toll on either side?” Partridge asks.

  “Do the deaths of wretches count for less?” Bradwell says.

  “None of you can understand. I’m going to be a father. I’ve got a baby on the way—you don’t know what it’s like to worry about raising a child out there.”

  “Partridge,” Bradwell says, “we were children out here. We know what that’s like, and you never will.”

  “My own child!” Partridge says. “My own child has to be able to breathe and grow and thrive. He can’t do that out there.”

  “Your child?” Iralene says, as if it’s just now dawning on her how much this child means to him. Does she think she’ll be the mother of the child? Or is she talking about Lyda?

  Pressia says, “The baby isn’t just yours. In fact, right now, the baby isn’t yours at all.”

  “They’ll kill me—you know that. I’ll be the first to die. They’ll kill Iralene too. Pures and wretches—it doesn’t matter who. They’ll kill us. You know what we represent.” He presses his hands against the wall. “He’s in me. He’s inside of me. My father. He’s not just in the air all around us. He’s inside of my body. His blood is my blood.”

  Pressia watches his hand, the one with the pinky that’s now fully grown back, the one dangerously close to the command button. She can’t rush Partridge with the spear. He’s been coded for strength and speed. He’d overtake her easily.

  But she glances at Iralene. She’s a Pure—she’s the weaker race; that’s what Willux came to believe. And so Pressia reaches for Iralene’s pale wrist. She grabs it and spins her around, twisting her arm and jamming it up between her shoulder blades. The letters and photographs that she’d collected in her arms fall to the floor, a spray of faces, birthdays, bicycles, Christmas trees, and handwritten notes—pages and pages of them. Her skin feels thin and chilled. Pressia shoves Iralene’s face against the wall, pinning her other arm with Pressia’s hip and holding the spear tip to her throat.

  “Walk away from it,” Pressia says, “or I’ll kill her.”

  Partridge glares at Pressia. He clenches his fists and stands completely still. “Hastings,” Partridge says. “Get Bradwell.”

  Partridge’s voice is tinny and cold. Get Bradwell. The words are a sick echo in Pressia’s head, a ringing that won’t stop.

  Hastings has no choice.

  He pushes Bradwell to the ground, puts his good foot on Bradwell’s chest. Bradwell’s wings splay beneath him. Hastings aims one of the guns lodged in his arms at Bradwell’s heart.

  There’s the red bead of light.

  Bradwell stares into Hastings’ eyes, but he’s only talking to Pressia. He says, “I’m sorry.”

  Pressia can’t breathe. She knows what he’s sorry for—not what’s happened, no. He’s saying he’s sorry for what’s about to happen.

  “No!” she screams, still holding Iralene tight. “No!”

  And then Bradwell starts to fight back. He bucks. He kicks Hastings and tries to wrestle himself up from the dirt. His wings beat against the dirt, filling the air with more dust and ash.

  The screen darkens. Bradwell’s face is lost in the dark cloud.

  “Stop resisting!” Hastings orders. “Stop now!”

  Pressia shouts at Partridge. “Do something!”

  But Partridge doesn’t understand, does he? Bradwell is fighting to the death. He’s fighting, knowing he’ll die.

  The screen goes black.

  Hastings has shut his eyes.

  And then there’s a gunshot.

  Just one.

  A few survivors scream.

  And then silence.

  And then there’s a cry—loud and long.

  It’s followed by another cry—just as loud and just as long.

  An echo of the first.

  Pressia drops the spear. She loses her grip on Iralene, who remains completely still, her body leaning against the wall.

  “He’s dead,” Pressia whispers.

  * * *

  Hastings is stiff, his guns poised on the crowd. He is a soldier. He stands his ground.

  El Capitan kneels next to Bradwell. He’s terrified of all of the blood, so sudden and quick, spreading across Bradwell’s chest. Helmud holds on to El Capitan’s neck. He grips his shirt in his skinny fists.

  “Bradwell,” El Capitan says breathlessly. He’s supposed to check his heart. But the blood has soaked his shirt. There can’t be much left of his heart.

  El Capitan’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely get hold of Bradwell’s shirt. But when he does, he rips it wide open.

  The wind gusts.

  Small sheets of bloody paper lift.

  El Capitan sits back as the wind collects the papers and sends them out over the dry dirt.

  Hastings’ boot steps on one, its edges soaked red.

  El Capitan picks one up.

  We are here, my brothers and sisters,

  to end the division, to be recognized as human,

  to live in peace. Each of us has the power

  to be benevolent.

  There is no cross on the bottom of the message. Only random splatterings of Bradwell’s blood.

  The survivors pick up the sheets. They gather around Bradwell.

  His body lies on a blanket of his black-feathered wings. The bloody white sheets of paper keep fluttering up from his chest like an unending ribbon pulled by the wind.

  His arms are spread wide, his hands open—and from one of them, Freedle appears. Nearly lost in the spinning, swirling sheets of paper, Freedle spreads his mechanical wings and takes flight, heading toward the Dome.

  * * *

  Pressia can’t breathe. She can’t cry. Bradwell is dead. He knew that he was going to die. If we don’t see each other again…She should have stayed with him. She shouldn’t have left. He knew, and he didn’t tell her—not the whole truth. He said if… if, if, if… She thought it was just the beginning.

  She can still remember his kiss. Will she always remember it? Is it burned onto her lips? This is why he made her promise to be together here, now, and beyond—in case there’s a heaven…in case of what might lie ahead.

  She puts her fist to her heart. She and Bradwell are still locked together. There is no better church than a forest. In the end, a wedding is between two people—what they promise in a whisper.

  She isn’t sure why, but now she feels fear. It seizes her chest. She knows what it is to feel the shock of grief, what it’s like to mourn. But what she feels is terror. He is gone. The realization that the world still exists and he doesn’t—this is what she’s been most afraid of. And here it is.

  She looks at the ground littered with the photographs of Partridge’s happy childhood.

  Partridge walks toward her. “I killed him,” he says.

  “Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me.”

  Partridge is a ghost.

  Iralene says, “You didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t. You didn’t kill him. Hastings did it!”

  “Shut up,” Pressia says. “Shut up!”

  Iralene slides down the wall and sits on the floor. She stares blankly.

  “Pressia,” Partridge says, “I did the right things. I swear. I didn’t know that Hastings was going to kill him.”

  “Hastings was programmed to kill anyone who resisted. Bradwell knew it. It’s why he fought back.”

  “I gave the order,” Partridge says, his voice so hoarse it’s barely audible. “I could have called Hastings off. I could have done something.”

  “You got us here,” Pressia says. “You drove us all to this moment. You’ve done worse than not calling off Hastings.”

  “I wasn’t going to push the button,” Partridge mutters. “I wouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t have.”

  “No,” Iralene says. “You wouldn’t have. I know you wouldn’t have.” Then, with hope in her voice, she adds, “Maybe that stopped them. Maybe they’ll turn back now.”

  “Freedle,” Pressia say
s. “Didn’t you see him? He’s carrying the bacterium. It’s coming. It works fast.”

  There’s pounding on the door. They hear Beckley’s loud, urgent voice. “The people are rising up in the streets! They want blood!”

  “They’re coming for us,” Iralene says.

  “They’ll find us here,” Partridge says. “I know they will.”

  The screen is still playing out the scene. Hastings’ eyes are wide open. He scans the crowd of people. El Capitan is shouting, “We keep going. This is what he wanted. We move forward. Together!” His face is streaked with black ash. He’s wiped his bloody hands on his shirt.

  And then Hastings turns. He walks toward the Dome and stands in line between two other soldiers.

  “The Dome is coming down, and when it does, I’m getting out and going home,” Pressia says. She walks to the door, opens it, and stands in the conference room. Beckley is standing next to Pressia’s grandfather, who sits in one of the leather chairs, Lyda at his side.

  “You’ll come with us,” Pressia says to her grandfather. “We’ll keep you safe.”

  He’s scared, but he nods. Once upon a time, he was the stranger who took her in. This time, she’ll be the one to take care of him.

  * * *

  Partridge stares at Lyda, still shocked that she’s here, so close, and yet she’s still distant. Things have changed between them. What has this been like for her? He remembers Pressia telling Lyda that they were going to take the baby from her. Did she believe that? Was it the truth? He doesn’t know what’s true anymore. Maybe he never has. Pressia will tell her what happened in that room. She’ll tell Lyda that he could have saved Bradwell and that he failed. His friend is dead. Partridge hesitated. Why? Out of anger, spite, or did he really think he was doing the right thing, trying to save his people? Deep down, is that the way he thinks of the Pures—as his people? He may never know his own truth. Maybe this is how it began for his father—one act that he couldn’t ever take back and he had to decide what kind of person he was. Partridge wants to be good. He’s always wanted to be good, hasn’t he? Right now, he has to decide how they’re all going to try to survive. “You could have run. You probably should have. Why’d you stay?” Partridge asks Beckley.

  “We’re friends. Friends stay.”

  Partridge didn’t realize that he’d been waiting for this, but now that he hears it, he’s happy. He grabs Beckley and hugs him. “Thank you,” he says.

  “We have to move now. If you don’t go,” Beckley says, “they’ll find you here. You can’t lock yourselves away. They’ll only wait you out if you stay in your father’s chamber.”

  Partridge looks at Pressia. He knows that he doesn’t deserve to come with them. He shakes his head. “They’ll just tear us apart out there,” he says. “One way or another…”

  “We have to move now,” Beckley urges.

  “Come with us,” Pressia says. “We can find a way to get you out of the Dome; then we can find a hiding place for you on the outside.”

  Beckley and Lyda help Pressia’s grandfather. They move to the door. Pressia follows. “Come on, Partridge. Bring Iralene. Getting out is her only chance. Let’s stick together.” He can tell that it pains her to say this. He knows what he must seem like to her. He hates himself. He hates both worlds—inside the Dome and out.

  Iralene and Partridge walk into the hall, following the others to the elevator, Lyda and Beckley supporting Pressia’s hobbled grandfather.

  Then Iralene stops. She looks at the door to the house she designed. It’s still open—just a crack. Light is pouring from it.

  She grabs Partridge’s arm, holds it tight. “Remember,” she says, “you still owe me a favor.”

  “Iralene,” Partridge says softly.

  “You made me a promise,” she says. “Will you stand by it?”

  “Please…” he says.

  “Are you a man of your word?” she says. He knows what she wants, and he doesn’t want her to say it aloud, but she does. “I built a home for us.”

  Pressia holds the elevator door open. “Hurry,” she calls to them, as the others turn and look back.

  He shakes his head. “I can’t.” Iralene lets go of his arm and heads toward the door filled with golden light. He grips Lyda’s letters.

  “Don’t, Partridge,” Pressia says.

  Lyda says, “There’s nothing real in there. It’s emptiness.”

  “I can get you out of here,” Beckley says pleadingly. “Iralene, tell him to come with us!”

  “One minute,” Partridge says to Iralene. She gives a nod. He walks down the hall to Lyda. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the stack of his letters, and hands them to her. “Here. These are yours.”

  Lyda takes the stack and holds the letters to her chest. “I can’t stay and you can’t go?” she says to Partridge.

  “You never know what will happen. One day…”

  “If you come looking for me, you know I’ll be out there…”

  “Both of you,” he says. Mother and child. “This is a ship. I think if it goes down, I should go with it.”

  He walks back to Iralene, takes her by the hand, gives one final wave. He and Iralene step into the glowing room, into its blinding light—and he closes the door behind them.

  * * *

  A group of survivors stands watch over Bradwell’s body as El Capitan and Helmud lead the others. The circle grows tighter and tighter until only ten yards stand between El Capitan and the Special Forces soldiers, Hastings among them. El Capitan gives a shout, and the survivors around him stop. His command travels around the circle, and soon all of the survivors are locked in place. Hastings looks at El Capitan. Has Hastings lost contact with those inside? What’s going on in there?

  No one moves. No one speaks. They stand there in the wind, Bradwell’s sheets still spinning in the ashen air.

  And then it happens.

  A creaking noise, low and deep, like something heard on a massive ship.

  There’s a pop, and then a crack shivers up the side of the Dome like a crack through the ice of a frozen lake. It shoots across the surface, sending out fissures.

  And then a piece of the Dome shifts, tilts, and then falls into the Dome itself.

  * * *

  Our Good Mother walks uphill, protected on all sides by mothers. The cross of the window casing in her chest keeps her posture stiff. She holds her head high. When she sees the splinters run across the white surface of the Dome, she whispers to the baby mouth lodged in her arm, “Let’s go find Daddy, dear one!” And she tightens her grip on her spear. “Let’s go find your papa.”

  * * *

  The lights flicker then fade. Arvin waits. He holds his breath, closes his eyes—and when he does, he sees his parents’ faces. He’s followed orders so that he could stay alive. He’s made himself valuable, indispensable. But now, he’s finally free. The generator hums to life. The lights brighten overhead, and he hears the buzzing noise of the laboratory being sealed. He won’t leave until he has a cure.

  * * *

  When the lights flit out, the hum of machinery dies inside of each chamber—up and down the halls. It’s deathly silent. Peekins has been working in this one chamber, trying to save a family—four stiff infants, the pale blue tinge fading from their skin. He fumbles in his pocket for a flashlight. He pulls it out and shines it on the babies before him—the Willuxes. One set of eyes flutter. The eyes open. It’s the little girl. Partridge’s mother. Maybe she’ll be the only one to survive.

  * * *

  The orbs light each room. Iralene has chosen the music—the same song they danced to at the picnic, which seems so long ago. It seeps in from unseen speakers. They hold each other in the living room—they’re swaying more than dancing. There are voices in the hall now, thudding footsteps.

  Partridge whispers, “The sunlight isn’t warm. It’s not real.”

  “What is reality anyway?” Iralene says.

  “They’re coming for us.”

>   “Let them come.”

  “Iralene,” he says. He cups her face and touches her cheeks with his thumbs.

  There’s banging on the door, a heavy body throwing itself against it again and again.

  * * *

  By the time they reach the street, they can see the sky through the gaping hole. The ash swirls in.

  Pressia says, “It’s happening.”

  “Ash,” Lyda says.

  Beckley is carrying Pressia’s frail grandfather on his back. “I will remember what it was like, won’t I?” Beckley says.

  Pressia’s grandfather lifts his hand in the air and catches light flecks of ash in his palm. He looks at Pressia, a shocked expression on his face, and says, “My girl.”

  Pressia starts to cry. “Yes,” she says. “I’m here.” Her mother is dead. Bradwell is gone. And Partridge has chosen his own ending. But she has gotten one person back.

  There are others on the streets. Some are screaming and crying. They grip their children to their chests. Some are holding on to their valuables—gold candlestick holders, boxes of memorabilia, their guns. In fact, at this distance, they’re holding on so tightly that they look fused to their earthly possessions.

  Some start to run—but to where? There’s nowhere to go.

  The electrical grid has been compromised. The lights flicker and die. The monorail has come to a grating stop. Beckley leads them to the set of hidden stairs along the secret elevators, now stalled like everything else.

  They get to the ground level of the Dome and walk through the vacant grounds of the academy, past dormitories, the darkened windows of classrooms, even across a football field—its white lines striping the fake turf—and by a basketball court behind a chain-link fence. Once upon a time, she’d been told her father was a point guard. Her real father—she’ll probably never hear his voice…He’s out there.

  Finally, they come to the soy fields, which are green and leafy. The rows curve with the shape of the Dome. They walk and walk. Pressia can feel the wind sweeping in from somewhere unseen.

  Lyda pulls out her spear. The soot is thicker now, whirling in the wind. She says, “It’s snowing.”

  Close to the ground, a triangle of the Dome has fallen onto the soy fields, onto the plants with their green leaves and yellow seedpods. The ground, littered with broken shards, crunches under their boots. They walk toward the hole itself and to the edge of the Dome. Pressia looks out into that ashen world, her homeland. Trudging up the hill are the survivors, coming to claim what’s theirs. She starts to run toward them and searches the faces for Bradwell, knowing he won’t be among them.