Still, she carried the box back to her cot and set it on the mattress, lumpy from years of use. She opened the storage trunk beside her bed, regarding the folded stacks of clothing stored inside. Deciding that she would have no need for a jacket, she left it behind. She took one shirt and one pair each of underwear and pants. When she reached the bottom of the trunk, she came across the jewelry that Reynard had given her. Rings, necklaces with glass beads, and bracelets. She had once thought that they were pretty, but in the sullen light cast by the bare bulb above, she saw their true value. They were valueless. Worthless junk made out of the same metal as the bedframe or the nails in the floorboards, some already tarnished.
After the first bracelet, Reynard’s gift-giving had begun disturbing her, and she had shoved the trinkets into the bottom of the trunk, where she had forgotten about them. Now, staring at the jewelry, she thought about the gun that Two had stolen. He had told her that he had taken it from the armory, but what if he had been lying? It had looked an awful lot like the pistols the guards carried. Guards like Reynard.
All guns look alike, she told herself, but she knew that wasn’t true. Even though her knowledge of firearms was limited to the infrequent lessons she received to complement her political education, she was positive that the guns at the armory were different. Besides, how could Two sneak a weapon out of that place when he had to walk through a metal detector to leave?
Maybe the thought of killing hadn’t disturbed him because he had already killed before.
As the thought occurred to her, she slammed shut the trunk lid. She would have broken the jewelry if she could, crushed the glass beads and melted the chains into lumps like spent bullets. She felt a deep loathing toward herself for keeping the malicious gifts in the first place, all because she had liked the way they looked, even if she hadn’t liked the man who had given them to her.
I just wanted something of my own.
And now she would have everything. A home. A family who loved her. A name that wasn’t a number.
“Elizabeth Hawthorne,” she whispered. When she had first heard the name, it had struck her as the most beautiful-sounding thing in the world. Now, the syllables came to her as cruel and guttural, like a curse used to wish harm upon another.
Home, a family, personal belongings. Who cared about any of those things, if the most important person in her life couldn’t be there to share them with her? She didn’t want a name if she couldn’t hear Two’s low, melodic voice transform it into something lovely. As for a mother and father, she had survived without either one for so long, so why should she need parents now?
She would give it all away if it meant seeing him just one more time.
Tears of frustration stung her eyes. It seemed wrong that she couldn’t rewind time and step back to the moment she had decided to expose his escape plan. She had thought that she was protecting him, but she had hurt him instead. Why hadn’t she trusted him?
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Looking at the floor, she noticed a mysterious object wedged between her wall and the bed. She sunk to her knees and reached into the space, groping around until she touched a dry husk that crinkled beneath her fingers.
With a low cry, she yanked her hand away, thinking that she had touched the desiccated remains of a snake that had curled up by the radiator and died. Then, realizing that the object had felt more like dead leaves than shriveled skin, she reached for it a second time. With some wiggling, she got it free, and felt her heart sink as she recognized the flattened circlet for what it really was.
A flower crown.
In the heat of the radiator, the forget-me-nots and evening primroses had shriveled into brown crisps overnight, and their stems were as stiff as straw. Even though she handled the flower crown with infinite care, the circlet fell apart between her gentle fingers. Petals littered the floor as she turned the crown over in her hands, remembering how Two had so deftly tied stem to stem.
He could create such beautiful things, but she did just the opposite. She destroyed them with good intentions. She had ruined everything for the both of them, and now nothing would ever be the same.
In her mind’s eye, she visualized his slender white fingers and remembered how they felt on her body, lovingly stroking her. It had always surprised her how rough his fingers were, in spite of their elegance and precision. Years of training had marked him with calluses, and there were scars on those palms, too, from scratches and scrapes. Those old wounds had never repelled her. If anything, the minor blemishes tamed his ethereal beauty, softening it into something more worldly.
But the wounds he had received yesterday weren’t minor, not by a long shot. The wounds would be like the trenches of an old battlefield, existing once they healed as a memorial to a terrible, disfiguring rebellion. If he even survived long enough for the brutal cuts to scab over.
She shoved the thought that he might die from her mind, refusing to consider it. Two was a valuable subject. There was a reason he had been encouraged to assume the role of commander. The instructors thought he was leadership material, and surely this single foolish act of resistance wouldn’t change their minds.
Nine set the desiccated circlet on her cot. It was ruined now, as gnarled and spindly as a crown of thorns. She didn’t want to throw it away, but she was afraid that if she put it in the cardboard box, it would arrive at her destination as a splintered pile of dead stalks and fallen petals. A perfect metaphor for what her relationship with him had become. Rubble.
She turned her attention to the pencil drawing taped to the wall. She peeled off the tape, being careful not to damage the portrait he had given her for her fifteenth birthday. As she freed the final corner, she sensed a presence behind her and swiveled around.
An auburn-haired girl stood at the front of the room, her arms crossed over her chest. She was an inch or two shorter than Nine, with a lean, athletic build. Nine recognized her as the girl that Two sometimes played against, the same one who had yelled at him about D-12’s death. Another military prospect.
“It’s A-09, right?” the mil asked, stepping closer.
Nine nodded, but said nothing.
“I’m Subject Five of Subset D,” the girl said, going to her side. She glanced at the flower crown, then the drawing, and finally looked into Nine’s eyes. “I, um, I know A-02. Two, I mean. We’re not friends, not really, but we’re in some classes together.”
“I know,” she said, placing the drawing in her box, atop the folded clothes. She couldn’t bear to leave it behind, not when he had spent so much time on it.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” D-05 said, fiddling restlessly with the sleeve of her shirt. “When Twelve died, I wanted to believe that it was Two’s fault. I wanted to blame him. But after last night…”
Nine’s eyes watered at the memory. She had known something was bothering Two, but she hadn’t realized how deep his internal conflict went. Maybe if she had spoken to him more, tried to break through the facade he erected for himself, things might have turned out differently.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I wish I could see him just one more time.”
“Look, I can’t make any promises, but I might be able to get a message to him,” D-05 said. “Is there anything you want me to tell him?”
She thought about it for a moment, and then nodded.
Case Notes 14: Subject Two of Subset A
When Two awoke again, he could not determine how much time had passed. The room remained unchanged, and if there was a clock on the wall, he couldn’t see it.
He shifted back and forth on the mattress, testing the cuffs. The cloth straps were lined with fleece. While they were loose enough to be comfortable, there was not enough room to slip his hands or ankles free.
As he moved his arms, the lacerations on his wrists and knuckles radiated dull pain. It was nothing compared to the anguish that flared inside of him, let alone the agony of his tortured back.
Nine had be
trayed him.
He would never forgive her. Not for as long as he lived.
Laying there, stewing in his rage, he thought about the future. Since the doctor had bandaged his injuries, the Leader probably wanted to keep him alive, at least for a while. D-12 had been irredeemable the moment his spine had snapped, but as far as Two could tell, his own wounds weren’t disabling. He could wiggle his toes and lift himself an inch or two off the mattress, until the tug of the straps forced him down again. His mind was fuzzy, but he sensed that painkillers were to blame, not brain damage.
He thought about the sewage pipe. No matter what happened, the Leader must never find out about that. Murder was a far more serious crime than attempted desertion, and no mercy would be given. Besides, if he was eventually allowed to return to his subset, he could leave through the tunnel and escape on his own.
I’ll find her, he thought. Wherever she goes, I’ll find her.
Suddenly, he realized that even though she had betrayed him, he wasn’t ready to lose her. He couldn’t foresee a life without her. She might not love him as deeply as he loved her, but that didn’t matter. She could hate him for all he cared. They were still meant to be together, and nothing would ever change that.
Hearing the echo of heels against tile, he twisted his head to the side and squinted, trying to see through the gauzy curtain that separated his cot from the rest of the infirmary.
“Ma’am, is that you?” he asked, wondering if the footsteps belonged to the black-haired woman from before. He couldn’t remember much about last night, only that she had given him ice when he was even thirstier than he was now.
The curtain swept open. He tensed at the sight of the two guards from last night, suddenly hyperaware of his vulnerability.
“Here’s how this is going to go, kid,” the blond guard said, pushing a wheelchair up next to the bed. “I’m going to untie you, and you’re going to sit down, nice and behaved. Yes?”
“Okay, sir,” Two said. He no longer felt an urge to fight. Running was worthless. It would just end with truncheon blows or a Taser to the neck. Better if he behaved and bided his time. Then he could find Nine.
The guard undid the straps around his wrists and ankles and eased him into the wheelchair, while the other man stood nearby, watching with one hand on his pistol. After unhooking him from the IV, the blond handcuffed his wrist to the wheelchair’s arm. He did not fight back.
“Where are we going?” Two asked as they took him from the infirmary. He sat up straight, afraid to rest his back against the chair. The lacerations ached with even the slightest motion.
Neither man answered. They just kept moving.
They entered the mess hall. Lunch was in progress, and the moment he passed through the doors, the clatter of silverware against dishes was replaced by stunned silence.
Two refused to look at any of the subjects, though he felt hundreds of eyes on him. He kept his own eyes directed at the floor, counting the concrete slabs. He felt humbled and broken down, reduced to an object of pity and contempt. He would never be viewed the same way again.
As he passed the pole, he was not surprised to find that the floor beneath where he had stood was smeared with dried blood. In his struggle to remain standing upright, his boots had left distinct, sweeping treads. It looked like someone had given up halfway through a half-hearted attempt at mopping up the spill. The stain would probably be left there for a while, as a reminder of the price for harboring hopeless ambitions. The price for trusting in other people.
He averted his gaze from the mess. In the corner of his eye, he saw D-05 rise from her seat. She didn’t pick up her tray, just stood there, watching him as he was pushed closer. Her brown eyes drilled into his own, unwavering in their focus.
Humiliation gnawed away at him. If not for the handcuffs that tethered his wrist to the wheelchair, he might have stood and walked on his own, just to keep her from looking down on him as he passed. But the painkillers restrained him even more effectively than the chain did, and when he tried to rise from the wheelchair, he fell out of it instead.
The handcuff yanked at his wrist, twisting his arm back. His knees slammed into the concrete so hard that he felt the impact all the way into his teeth. His jaws snapped shut with a jarring clack, cutting off his breath mid-gasp.
Even though his back didn’t strike anything, his wounds tore away at him in violent agony, as if the bandages had been replaced by barbed wire. He had barely recovered from his fall before a guard grabbed him under the arms, pulling him into the wheelchair again.
Whispers replaced the silence. It was impossible to discern more than a word here and there, but Two thought the other subjects must be mocking him. Laughing at him behind their blank expressions and glazed eyes.
He gritted his teeth, burying his shame beneath toxic loathing. Damn them for just sitting there, clustered around their untouched meals, watching him. Damn their muted conversations obscured behind raised hands and their following eyes. Damn them all, he hated them, these numb voyeurs, he wanted them to suffer. He wished they were all dead.
D-05 took one step toward him as he drew closer, then another step back, like she wasn’t sure whether to approach or leave. She shoved her hands into her pockets and sat down again, staring at him.
He met her gaze, challenging it. He refused to cower like this, cradling the fragments of his ruined pride. Even if his future had fallen right through his hands, he was still Subject Two of Subset A, the same person he had been before yesterday.
After a few seconds of unwavering eye contact, she averted her gaze. Good. Let her look away.
At the last moment, as the guard wheeled Two past her table, D-05 turned back to him, nearly jostling his wheelchair with her elbow. Her hand brushed against his own, and instead of feeling her soft touch, paper crinkled against his skin. His anger receded into shock at the pity in her doe-brown eyes. He caught only the briefest glimpse of her solemn nod before she disappeared behind him.
He sank against the wheelchair, clenching the note in his fist. Whatever message she had delivered to him, he didn’t dare open it until he was in private.
As the mess hall’s doors creaked shut behind him, dread replaced his shame and frustration. An icy sweat broke out on his back, making his wounds sting. He expected the guard to take him to the Leader’s office, where the man would surely subject him to an interrogation more painful than his punishment had been. Instead, they emerged into the cold rain.
The sky was as bruised as the skin on his back, swollen with heavy storm clouds. He shivered in the miserable drizzle, curling his fingers tightly around the note to protect it. The water dampened his thin cotton gown, plastering it against his skin.
A long black car idled by the wooden tables in the middle of the courtyard, where subjects in his classes sometimes sat for outdoor lessons when the weather was nice. Now, there were only three other people gathered nearby—a guard, the Leader carrying an umbrella, and, standing between them, Subject Nine of Subset A.
His stomach plummeted at the sight of her pale face. Wisps of flaxen hair clung to her cheeks. Even with the distance between them, he could see how her expression changed as she noticed him.
First, she just stared. Then her mouth opened, and for a moment he thought that she would speak. She might have spoken. He couldn’t tell. If she did, the rain and rumbling thunder stole her words before he could even hear them.
She took a step toward him, but the guard grabbed her shoulder and held her back.
He didn’t want to see her anymore, so he bowed his head. He was stunned by how pale and fragile his legs suddenly looked, though his muscles couldn’t possibly have atrophied overnight. He felt like a child again, shrinking by the moment.
He couldn’t ignore her for long. When he looked up at her again, she was gone. It took him a moment to realize that she had gotten into the car.
Wisps of steam hissed from the exhaust pipe as the engine purred to life. Nine pressed her face ag
ainst the back window, staring at him.
The rage he felt toward her decayed into desperate yearning.
“Don’t go,” he whispered.
The car began moving.
“Please don’t go.” He wanted to shout it, but his throat shrunk to the size of a pinhole. He could hardly breathe, much less speak. When his numb tongue managed to form words, they came out wrong, all thick and smothered.
“Please, don’t leave me…”
She stared. Her lips moved. Then the rain misted the back window, and he couldn’t see her anymore.
Within moments, the car was gone. She took his strength with her, and he sunk against the wheelchair, trembling and as weak as a newborn.
The guards took him back to the infirmary and cuffed his arm to the bedframe. No straps this time. Two didn’t fight them. He waited for the guard to leave before opening his hand.
The paper itself was nothing special in particular. It appeared to have been torn from a spiral-ring notebook. Spots of dampness bloomed across the paper, blurring the lines. Unfolding the page, his chest tightened at the sight of the dried blossom enclosed inside the folds. Five blue petals surrounded a yellow center.
A forget-me-not.
He stared at the two sentences written across the page in Nine’s familiar cursive until the smeared words were carved into his mind as deeply as the wounds on his back. Until tears flooded his eyes and he began to sob.
This is not goodbye. I will always love you.
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Case Notes 1: Apollo
Tyler Bennett stood in front of the white marble vanity, staring at the mirror—or rather, what was left of it.
Hades Rising Page 10