Burn

by Julianna Baggott

  “Beckley. What is it?”

  “Glassings.”

  “What about him?”

  Beckley looks at Partridge. “He died in the night.”

  “What do you mean? Was Foresteed involved? Did he do it?”

  “Blood clot. In his heart. Foresteed’s men were moving in to interrogate him about Lyda and Pressia, but he was gone.”

  Partridge wonders if he knew on some level that they were coming back for more, if he willed himself to die because he couldn’t take another round. “I should have gone to see him. I went to the Personal Loss Archives to see my brother’s box—it was empty. I could have been there. Maybe I could have…”

  “He’s gone, Partridge. Now you have to concentrate on the living.”

  Partridge feels fatherless—an orphan who’s been orphaned again. “But I need to see him. I need Glassings. I can’t do this alone…”

  “You’ve got to have some faith in other people.”

  Partridge sees a man running diagonally down the street, a rifle strapped to his back. Militia. Partridge looks up and sees his own reflection. I’m not my father, he wants to tell the hazy image of his own face. I’m not my father. But then he remembers the clerk’s vibrating hand again. Yes, his brother is everywhere. His mother is everywhere. But so is his father. He says, “I’m Willux’s son. What have I ever learned about having faith in other people?”

  Beckley walks over and grabs him by the arms. “Get Iralene. We have to go. Now.”

  Partridge walks quickly down the hall to the bedroom. He feels robotic. He can’t process Glassings’ death. He grips the cool knob. He opens the door. He thinks of life and death—a thin membrane that separates the two. A doorway…sometimes closed, sometimes open.

  Iralene is sleeping peacefully, her light curls covering the silky pillow.

  He walks to her, sits on the bed, and gently shakes her shoulder. “Iralene,” he whispers. “Iralene, wake up. Iralene.”

  She opens her eyes and rolls to her back. “I was having a dream,” she says. “I’m still not used to how real they are, Partridge. It was so real.”

  “A good dream this time?”

  She nods.

  He rubs his fists together—knuckles bumping over knuckles. “I’m scared, Iralene. Foresteed’s told the people that there’s an uprising coming.”

  She sits up and puts her hand on his chest. “We’ll be okay, Partridge. No matter what.”

  “No,” Partridge says. “If they come at us, people are going to die, Iralene. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  She wraps her arms around him. She whispers, “In the dream, we were happy. We had a house, and it had flowered curtains. You built the house, Partridge. It was in a field, and the wind blew through the grass. I think it was the future.”

  “I don’t think that’s how dreams work, Iralene.”

  “It was so real. It was better than the orb. We walked from room to room and peered out the windows. What would you say if I made a place like that real?”

  He likes the sound of Iralene’s voice. He closes his eyes for a moment and imagines the house.

  “Tulips,” she says. “That’s what was stitched on the curtains. Tulips—thousands of them. I could touch the stitches with my fingertips, and then when I looked outside of another window, there was a field of tulips, bobbing their heavy heads in the breezes.”

  “It wasn’t just an orb?”

  “No, it was real. Do you think I haven’t heard about the home that Lyda made for you, that dark ashen world from the orb? She’s not the only one who can make a home for you, Partridge.”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “I know things—more than you give me credit for.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I just… What home are you talking about making for us?”

  “What if they could create a home for us where we’ll all be together? All of us. Even those you’ve lost, Partridge.”

  A world with his mother and Sedge? Not his father—not him, no. “Glassings died in the night.” He can only whisper the words.

  “Glassings could be there too,” Iralene says, as if she’s not afraid of death, and maybe she isn’t.

  “That’s what they call heaven, Iralene.”

  “But what if it could be here, in the Dome?”

  “It’s not possible. You’re still dreaming.”

  “We could be happy there. It’s the future that we could walk into one day, if we want. Lie back,” she says. “Lie back with me and dream a little.” She looks dreamy. Her eyes are so crystal clear and beautiful.

  He can’t dream—not even a little. He has to bring Pressia’s grandfather back up for air. He has to find Pressia and Lyda—that’s who he’s supposed to walk into the future with. “No.” He’s already wasted too much time. “You can’t be here alone. It’s no longer safe. Come with me.”

  “Where else would I want to be?”

  “I’ll let you get ready,” he says.

  She promises to be quick.

  He walks to the door, closes it quietly, and jogs down the hall, hoping Beckley’s found a way to get them out of here without being seen.

  As he walks into the suite’s living room, he sees a stretcher, covered in white sheets. It’s not logical, but he thinks of Glassings; this stretcher can’t be for him. He’s dead…

  The door to the suite opens. Beckley’s talking to someone in the hall, thanking the person in a hushed voice. He shuts the door and, holding two lab coats on hangers, turns to face Partridge, who says, “What’s wrong? Who’s sick?”

  “Not sick,” Beckley says. “Dead.”

  “Who?”

  “For now,” Beckley says, “you.”

  PRESSIA

  ANOTHER SKY

  The air in the bin is close and warm because of their bodies. Pressia and Lyda have shifted so they’re sitting side by side. They hold hands like sisters. Pressia would have liked to have had a sister. She remembers what it was like to hide in the cabinet in the back of the burned-out barbershop, alone.

  As Chandry pushes them along, Pressia tells Lyda about Ireland—the boars; the blind, vicious creatures in the woods; the thorned ivy. She confesses what she did to Bradwell, and as she does, she can see his large, dark wings. She says, “I want to get back to him.” In fact, right now, trapped in this bin, moving to some unknown location, she would leave if she could. The vial, the formula, saving lives… Sometimes she wishes someone else could take over for her. Maybe she’s just being a kid, but she misses being protected, watched over. She misses her grandfather.

  She doesn’t tell Lyda that she and Bradwell are married. It’s not something anyone else would understand. Can a forest be a church? Are two people’s whispered promises enough?

  Lyda squeezes her hand in the dark. “I understand,” she says. “Right now, it’s like I can sense my other self still out in the woods—running through the trees. I want to be her again…”

  “It’s not the same out there,” Pressia says, and she explains the effects of the most recent attacks from the Dome—the fires, the destruction, the Special Forces who are younger and rawer and easier to kill. And the soldiers who are like Dusts. The deaths on both sides of the battles.

  “And the mothers?” Lyda whispers.

  “They’ve survived better than most. Mother Hestra wanted me to tell you that she misses you, that you’re like a daughter to her.”

  Lyda sighs. “I can’t live in here for the rest of my life, Pressia. You have to understand. This place has to be stopped. You remember me when I first made it out—pale and weak. I was bred to be pale and weak,” Lyda says. “I was raised to be quiet and sweet. I didn’t know what I was capable of. You go around thinking that it’s not fair that the wretches have to live out there. But I know that it’s not fair that the Pures have to live in here—behind glass, batting around in our little fake world. If the Dome fell, it would be a mercy—not for the wretches, but the Pures.”

  “I don�
�t know…” Pressia says. “Are you sure about that, Lyda? Do you really believe it?”

  “It’s something you might never understand. But that’s my truth. Mine.”

  “I have the cure, Lyda. I have what they need to help survivors, to save them. Can’t we try to…”

  Lyda squeezes her hand in the dark again and tells Pressia about the inner chamber in the war room. “There’s a button. It can release a poisonous gas and kill the survivors. All of them.”

  “Who has access to it?”

  “Only Partridge.”

  “He’d never do it,” Pressia says.

  “Even if he thought he was saving people in the process?” Lyda says. “Don’t you think he might be able to rationalize it?”

  Pressia says, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I promised the mothers I would try to get you out. That’s what you want?”

  “More than anything.”

  The bin comes to a stop.

  “One more thing, Pressia. Partridge can communicate with other people in distant places. If your father is out there…”

  Pressia isn’t completely surprised. The communication system is how Bartrand Kelly knew that Willux was dead and Partridge was in charge. “If I could talk to my father, I’d want to hear his voice. I’d want him to know I’m here. But I can’t think of any of that now. I can’t.”

  “I want to think about what it was once like between Partridge and me—how we loved each other. But I can’t think about that either.”

  They hear the squeak of door hinges. And then they’re moving again down what seems to be a ramp.

  The cart stops once more.

  Chandry pulls open the lid, and there, overhead, are stars—thousands of them. Miraculous, inexplicable stars like bright pinholes into other distant worlds. They both stand up, and Pressia expects a gust of wind.

  But no, they’re not outside. The image overhead is not the sky. They’re in a theater with curved rows of seats. The sky is only a ceiling—darkness dimpled with bulbs of light.

  EL CAPITAN

  WORD FROM ON HIGH

  The playground where El Capitan and Helmud were strung to a swing set frame and beaten is part of an elementary school, and El Capitan is lying on his side on a moldy handmade cot in what must have once been the library, now roofless with just the beams and rafters left behind. They’re surrounded by metal bookshelves, some of them still clotted with hunks of char and dust—what used to be books? Helmud is taking up most of the flat, dank pillow—so foul it’s not really worth the slight comfort. Sometimes an ex-OSR soldier comes in, gives them sips of water, and quickly leaves.

  El Capitan hears voices, smells the smoke of campfires. How many people are out there? He hears sheep. No—a baby crying. His eyes are nearly swollen shut.

  Where’s Pressia gone? To the Dome. Where’s Bradwell? Not here. Did he just leave them, surrounded by shelves of dead books? El Capitan gets tired again. He dozes and dreams.

  He remembers the way his mother read to them, remembers the big wide pages in the books. El Capitan on the top bunk, Helmud below. Each of them cocooned in white sheets. Summer. A box fan in the corner chopping air—a constant whir. The moon locked in the window.

  When she got sick, he wanted to save her. When she was gone, he took over. He sat in her chair and read books to Helmud. One cocoon empty above. When Helmud slept, El Capitan put his face in front of the revolving fan, let it stutter his voice—singing into it from behind.

  He’s being prodded. Helmud shifts on the cot behind him.

  “A few broken ribs. Mostly contusions. All the cuts have been stitched. Hopefully internal bleeding has stopped.” The voice is rough and low. “Maybe a few fractures in the legs. Hard to say.”

  And then there’s Bradwell’s voice. “How soon before he’s able to get up and move?” El Capitan can barely see their faces through the slits of his eyes.

  “They suffered dehydration. But they’re taking fluids. They should be on their feet soon—or his feet, I should say.”

  The dust in the air—the char of pages, bindings. How much time has passed? El Capitan can’t tell if it’s been hours or days.

  Bradwell is at his side, kneeling. The other person leaves. Bradwell straightens El Capitan’s jacket. “How you doing?”

  “Fine,” he mutters.

  “Helmud? You okay?” Bradwell says.

  El Capitan feels the bob of Helmud’s head.

  “Good,” Bradwell says, and he backs up and takes a seat on his footlocker.

  “Where did that come from?” El Capitan asks.

  “I had to go and get it from headquarters. You know how I am about it.”

  “One day, you’ll let it go,” El Capitan says. He’s let go of his own past. He’s clean of it.

  “One day.” Bradwell raps his knuckles on the top of it. “In this footlocker, my parents are still alive in a way. I started rewriting their manuscript. We have more proof. I wrote a lot of stuff, Cap. I needed to. I’m glad you’re better.” Bradwell stands up and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I was worried.”

  “You’re still worried,” El Capitan says. “I can tell.”

  Bradwell looks around the room, crosses his arms on his chest. “I went back to the vault.”

  “Why?”

  “I hid the bacterium there in one of the slots that used to be a safety deposit box.”

  El Capitan feels like a balloon has erupted in his chest. “Thank God!” He feels like crying. “I thought…” He decides not to confess to losing it. Why admit such utter failure? “That was smart.”

  “I got the bacterium off you while you were drunk. Didn’t think you were in the best shape to keep it safe. And I had just enough time to hide it as they came storming in.”

  “Thanks and sorry about that,” El Capitan says.

  “Well, there’s just one more thing,” Bradwell says.

  El Capitan knows he doesn’t want to hear this. “What?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Helmud says.

  “Are you sure you checked the right slot?” El Capitan says. “The wall was filled with slots.”

  “I checked them all.” Bradwell runs his hands through his hair. “Someone took it.”

  “Gorse?”

  “I’ve talked to all of the people who were in that vault. They’re on my side now. They’re acting like I’m a god. It wasn’t any of them. I’m sure of it.”

  He’d like to reach out and choke Bradwell—an ancient instinct. But, of course, he thought he was the one who’d lost it. He can’t really blame Bradwell, and he doesn’t have the strength to choke anyone right now anyway. And then he realizes how he really feels about the bacterium. Maybe he actually wanted it gone. “I’d be relieved that it’s out of our hands,” he says, “except that means it’s in someone else’s.”

  Bradwell looks at him, confused. “Why would you be relieved?”

  “We can’t take down the Dome.”

  “What?”

  El Capitan wants to tell him that he’s been forgiven. He’s clean. “I can’t go back.”

  “Back to what?”

  “Who I used to be.”

  “We have to do it, Cap.”

  “Why?”

  “So there is no divide. Aren’t you tired of being nothing? Of being something left to die?”

  El Capitan can’t look at him. He’s been nothing for so long he can’t imagine anything else. “There will always be a divide. There will always be us and them. And if this divide disappears, there will be another us and them.”

  “They have to face up to what they did.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re all waiting for me—Dome worshippers, revolutionaries, OSR, even some of the mothers. Solidarity will save us—you said that. Even the Dome worshippers believe that this could be a way for them to join the Pures, in their own screwed up way. They’ve come down from headquarters and up from the city and out of the woods and Meltlands. They want m
e to lead them.”

  This hurts. El Capitan has been trying to amass an army all these years, and Bradwell comes along and takes it from him. He knows it’s not the point, but still. “How many are there?”

  “Too many to count. And now I’ve got nothing.”

  El Capitan sits up, leaning Helmud’s back against the wall.

  Helmud says, “Count.” Maybe Helmud thinks they need to know exactly how many they’ll have if they end up heading into some kind of battle.

  “Now is the time,” Bradwell says. “We need the bacterium. How else will the Pures learn?”

  “Do you mean how else will you get a chance to punish them? Are you really playing God?”

  “Willux played God—not me.” He grinds his boot heels into the dirty floor. “Pressia’s locked in there, Cap! You want me to just abandon her?”

  “Are you doing all this just to get her back?” Will Bradwell be the hero in all of this? Pressia has pushed El Capitan to do the right thing. Isn’t he finally doing it? Isn’t that worth something?

  “I’m doing this because it’s the mission. Up until now, it was your mission.”

  “You said you taught Shadow History because we had to learn from the past so we wouldn’t repeat it. Isn’t this just another apocalypse, a smaller one—on your own terms this time?”

  Bradwell sits on the ground, lowers his head into his hands. His wings fan out on the floor around him. He rubs his eyes. Is he about to cry?

  “What?” El Capitan says. “What is it?”

  “I lost the bacterium. We got drunk, Cap. We got drunk. We woke up. We got captured. I tried to hide it. It’s gone.” He looks at El Capitan. “What am I, Cap?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I a human being? An animal? Am I even still my parents’ son? What do you think I am?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “It does to me.”

  “You’re a prophet. That’s what some say. An angel, maybe, with those wings. You believe in the truth. That’s why Pressia loves you.”