Authors: Sarah Crossan
“Get your hands up,” a steely voice demands. When we turn, a broad figure in full army regalia is standing less than five feet from us, pointing a rifle in our direction. Behind him, ten soldiers stand with their guns aimed at us, too. I’m sure this is it, and I try to think of something calming so that when I die my last thought won’t be a violent one.
“I know you,” Silas snarls. “You murdered my friend.” He steps forward but Dorian and Bruce manage to restrain him.
“Shall we shoot him, General?” one of the soldiers asks.
Maude snorts and spits at the soldier’s feet. “Shoot me, why don’t you, you little runt,” she says.
“General?” the soldier presses, waving his gun between Silas and Maude.
“Little runt,” Maude repeats.
“No. We need a few of them alive, so we can make examples of them.”
“Didn’t they make an example of your son?” Silas spits.
The general lowers his weapon and steps forward. Could this be Quinn’s father? It must be. Silas continues. “I’m surprised they didn’t publicly execute him, once they realized he lied to everyone. How many days did you waste down on the beaches? I hope you had fun making sandcastles.”
“What do you know about my son?” the general demands, taking Silas by the shirtfront and pushing him into the wall.
“Your son saw you murder Inger. His name was Inger. Did you know that? Did you care?” Silas’s eyes are full of fury. “Your son knows you’re a murderer. That’s what I know about your son. So, tell me, what do
you
know about him?”
I step forward. “Quinn knows what you did, and he’s ashamed of you. He knows what you are and he knows what we are. He chose us.”
The general turns abruptly and scrutinizes me. “You must be the infamous siren. You aren’t half as pretty as I imagined,” he says.
“General?” The soldier looks behind us at the corridor, which is filling with black foam. Regardless of which side we’re on, if we don’t all get out of here, we’ll be eaten alive by it. Bruce and Dorian work on unbolting the door again and no one stops them. Maude tries to pick up her gun but a soldier spots her and steps on the barrel.
The general’s radio sputters to life. Keeping Silas pinned with one hand, he pulls it from his jacket pocket and shakes it roughly.
“General Caffrey, General Caffrey. This is Sergeant Delaney from the pod
,” a scratchy voice calls out. “Speak,” the general commands, talking into the radio’s mouthpiece. “
We need the army back at the pod immediately, General. There’s civil war breaking out here. I repeat, it’s civil war. We need backup.”
The general looks at the remaining soldiers and points to the door. They move forward and help Dorian and Bruce get it open.
“Are the bombs in place?” the general asks one of the soldiers.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Out that way. Quickly. Get one of the zips down here this minute. We’ve done our job. By dusk this place will be a ruin.”
Suddenly an explosion rocks the stadium and the general topples to the floor with Silas as the rest of us do our best to stay standing. I am yanked by the arm and bundled through the exit together with the soldiers as plaster, bricks, and shards of glass rain down on us. Looking over my shoulder, I see Silas and the general scramble to their feet and follow. Another loud bang unsettles the walls and we back away from the stadium as thick black clouds devour the sun. The soldiers are no longer aiming their guns at us but instead at the stadium, as though it is a giant creature about to attack. A final explosion shoots debris skyward and we have no choice but to run because the stadium is collapsing, every outer wall giving up its fight. We turn and watch as the walls fall away and all that remains standing are the oaks, birches, willows, beeches, and other trees, covered by syrupy, spiraling black foam. Several of the soldiers look aghast at the shrinking, dying trees and then at the general, who is now on his feet. He merely lifts his chin in defiance.
“Sir?” one of the soldiers says. The general just shrugs. Several soldiers decide not to hold their positions and turn away while the four or five who remain aim their guns at us once again.
“To the tanks!” the general orders, and then these soldiers, too, are lumbering away.
“What now?” Silas asks, glaring at the general. Silas is pointing his handgun directly at the general’s head. The general doesn’t flinch or call anyone back to defend him. “I should finish you,” Silas says.
“You should run, son,” the general says, and without even looking at Silas, walks off through the snow and is gone.
“How much did you see?” Old Watson wants to know as he falls through the front doors, but the look on my face is enough to tell him I saw everything. And the look on his face tells me I wasn’t wrong about what I thought I saw. “There’ll be time to grieve later,” he says, picking up my bag and stuffing it with the few things I’ve left lying around the apartment.
Old Watson goes into his bedroom and comes out with an armful of clothes. He walks toward me and covers my head in a coarse beret. “Now is the time to escape.” I don’t move from my spot by the balcony doors. I’ve been watching the anarchy through the glass. Windows have been smashed. The tram has been hijacked. There are riots in most of the streets. Everyone has gone mad and yet my body feels like it’s been filled to the brim with liquid calm.
“We have to get a move on,” Old Watson says. He turns off the screen, which is nothing but static.
“Let’s go.”
“I have nowhere to go,” I tell him. Less than an hour ago, I became an orphan. It’s a word I always thought of as romantic. Only girls in bonnets and boys in short, threadbare trousers can be orphans. How can this word have anything to do with me?
“You have to get out of the pod. It’s chaos out there, your perfect chance. I know a way.”
“What about Quinn?” I say.
“Quinn can look after himself.” Still, I don’t move. I examine the shape of my hands. Dad always said I had the same hands as my mother. He said I have slender hands that should play an instrument. I never played though; we couldn’t afford it. “Bea, it won’t be long before they start pumping halothane gas into the pod instead of oxygen. It’ll knock everyone out. They did it before—years ago. Then it won’t be safe to escape. Even if you have an oxygen tank, you’ll be spotted. You don’t have a lot of time.” Old Watson forces me up and pulls me out of the apartment.
The streets are pandemonium. Swarms of auxiliaries are heading toward Zone One, moving past us in frenzied droves carrying makeshift weapons, and those who aren’t marching that way are trying to stop those who are. There are mothers and fathers trying to hold back their children and children trying to restrain their parents.
“This way,” Old Watson says, cutting through the crowd and dragging me down a dark alley. I follow him, but my knees buckle and I am on the ground. Maybe they’ve already swapped the air supply for gas because I can’t breathe, not even a modest breath. Not only that, but my heart is slowing and one arm is beginning to twitch.
“I’m having a heart attack,” I gasp. Old Watson is on his knees trying to get me up.
“No you aren’t. I know it feels like that. But you’re okay. Your heart is breaking,” he says. He tries to lift me from the ground. “Get up, Bea. Your parents would want you to live.” And he continues to talk, but I have no idea what he’s saying because the pain in my chest is so strong it has cut off my senses. I cannot hear a thing, but I can see the light at the end of the alley and people dashing past. They are running. Everyone in Zone Three is running.
Apart from a single dim light bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling, it’s dark. From somewhere deep inside the building, I can hear water gurgling. The stone floor has brown stains all over it, and there are manacles on the walls. In the corner there’s a bucket in case I need the toilet and on the floor in the middle of the cell there’s a thin, soiled mattress. There’s only one thing they do in this room.
But they didn’t chain me up. They just threw me in here and locked the door. There’s no escape route anyway, unless I find a way to eat through stone. I’ve spent the last hour lying on the stinking mattress imagining the kinds of things they’ll do to me in here. I imagine the Pod Minister’s face, his wet mouth, as he personally rips out each one of my fingernails or teeth with a pair of old pliers. Death won’t be enough for him. I shudder and begin to pace the cell.
I am scared to die, but death will be better than having to see Bea and tell her that her parents are dead and that I’m responsible for it.
The door buzzes to life and one of the stewards who arrested me appears. “You don’t look like you’re praying,” he says, and chuckles, as though keeping me locked up were the most pleasant thing in the world. He strolls around the cell, his hands in the pockets of his pants.
“I’m not,” I tell him.
“Well, that’s probably best. I don’t think angels visit this place much anyway.” He stands under the light bulb and flicks it with his finger so that it begins to swing gently, carrying the light from one side of the cell to the other and back again. “So who are you working for?” he asks. “You a RAT?”
“I’m not working for anyone.”
“We hear your girlfriend is a major player. I guess they’ll let you buy your way out—her life or yours. Do you know where she is?”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
He cackles. “It was worth a try.”
“So when does the torture begin?” I ask.
“He’ll be here to deal with you before long.”
“Who? Who will be here?” So this guy isn’t the interrogator. Of course he isn’t: he hasn’t laid a finger on me.
Any minute now the Pod Minister will storm into the room. He will put his hands around my throat and finish what he started. “Who am I waiting for?” I call out as the cell door bangs shut. “Who will be here soon?”
I feel myself being lifted off the ground and carried along the alleyway. “You’re okay,” I hear. It sounds like Old Watson, and it could be him, but it must be my imagination because he wouldn’t have the strength to lift me.
I open my eyes and there’s a man’s face looking down at me. He smiles and says, “She’s awake.”
“Watson, she’s awake,” a different voice repeats. A woman. I struggle to free myself from the man’s arms and manage to stand up.
“How are you?” Old Watson asks from behind me. I have no answer. It seems an absurd question.
“Where are we going?” I say.
“Like I said, I’m getting you out of here. Can you walk?” Old Watson asks.
“I’ll try,” I say. I hold on to him as I wobble forward.
“We’ll be quicker if you carry her, Gid,” the woman says.
“Is that okay?” the man asks. I shake my head no, and force myself to walk more quickly.
We move down alleyway after alleyway, changing direction when we come upon a mob. Everyone seems to be going in the opposite direction to us, and as we advance, we come across fewer and fewer people. At last the man and woman leading us stop, and I find myself right up against the unbreakable glassy shell of the pod, next to a garbage chute. Usually this is where we come if we have to throw away items too large for our home chutes, and usually it is monitored by stewards. Today it is deserted. “We’re here,” Watson says. He leans against the pod. He is sweating and breathing uneasily.
“Did they reduce the air?” I ask.
“I’m old, that’s all,” Old Watson says.
The man and woman smile gently and the woman rubs Old Watson on the back. “You should go with her. You should get out now while you can,” she says.
“There is still work to do here. You can’t do it alone,” Old Watson tells her. Then he turns to me.
“This is Harriet. And this is her husband, Gideon.” The couple smile. “When you get to The Grove, tell Silas you’ve seen them, that they’re alive.”
“You’re his parents,” I say, and they nod. I try to smile because
someone’s
parents are alive and that’s better than nothing. But they are not
my
parents, and for a brief second I wish these people were dead and my parents alive in their place.
“Here,” Harriet says, handing me an extra-large airtank. “Use it sparingly and you’ll have four days, maybe more. I’ve it set to eighteen percent. You’ll have to tighten it as you go. Move slowly.”
“And take this. Go west,” Gideon says, handing me an antique compass. “You can’t use a pad. They’ll track you.” He hands me an antique map, too, and points to a dark spot. “That’s The Grove. You’ll remember most of the way, I’m sure.”
“Ready?” Harriet says. She unlatches the door to the garbage chute and looks down into it. From somewhere deep inside the pod there is the sound of an explosion and an alarm begins to whir.
“That’ll be the gas,” Gideon says. He is carrying an airtank and slips the facemask over his mouth and nose. Harriet and Old Watson do the same as Gideon helps me into my mask. He slides a belt around my waist and attaches the tank to it.
“Watch out for glass at the bottom,” Old Watson says, leading me by the hand to the escape route. I still feel weak. It’s as much as I can do to climb up onto the lip of the chute. I don’t want to flee. I want to bury my parents. I want to find Quinn. I left him once before and it was the worst thing I ever did. I glance at Harriet and Gideon, and then at Old Watson, who nods sternly. “Go on,” he snaps. I am about to protest, but I know that what I want is less important than what I have to do, and what I have to do is survive. For Quinn. For my parents. So I shove my body away from the edge of the chute and I am gone, devoured by the chute and sliding right out of the pod, just like any other broken thing.