Authors: Erin Bowman
“Screw you,” Clipper says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Excuse me?”
“Screw you!” He stands, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. “You gave me an order and I took a chance. Just like you did when you went above to face off with Marco. That’s what happens when stuff doesn’t go as planned. You take chances and hope they pay off. Harvey would have done what I did. He would have made this same call—I
know
it—and I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be yelling at him the way you’re yelling at me. I might be young, but I’m not stupid.”
He stops, out of breath, and I’m so startled by his outburst that I have absolutely no idea what to say. For the first time since setting out I see him not as an almost-thirteen-year-old boy, but as a member of our team. Ageless. Titleless. And he’s right. There are risks to every action and sometimes the actions we think are best backfire. After all, I did what I thought was necessary just earlier, and it got Emma killed.
“I guess we’ll just hope your call gets to the right people,” I say.
Clipper doesn’t look as sure of himself anymore, but I would love for him to prove me wrong. To go aboveground and find allies waiting to usher us to safety would be a dream come true.
“Puck’s rallyin’ the others,” Bleak says from the doorway. “They’re gonna sneak above and spread out on the opposite side of town, try and create a distraction. That’ll give yer team a chance to run fer it. I’ll get ya to the Wall and then I’ll lead my people after when the fightin’s o’er. It ain’t gonna be safe for us here no more.”
“You know you’re outmatched, right, Bleak? The weapons these people have . . . We’re grateful and all, but—”
“We know what we’re up against from the stories of our grandparents,” he says to me. “And it ain’t like no one here don’t want a little revenge.”
The stairwell we take above dumps us at the edge of town, right where the overrun livestock fields begin. Glancing over my shoulder, I can make out the lights of the Order helicopters near the gallows. I cringe at the thought of what awaits the Burg citizens. Half of me wants to stand with them, but I have to make a decision, and as ugly as it is, I’m putting the lives of my four remaining team members above the hundreds who will fight as we run. Maybe this makes me horrible. I don’t know. And I don’t have time to assess it.
Bleak points ahead. “We’ll run, and once we start we ain’t stoppin’ ’til we reach the Wall.”
Bree groans. “How can you even see?”
She has a point. It’s pitch-black.
“I
can’t
,” Bleak admits. “But there ain’t no trees, and the land is mostly level. Just keep yer feet movin’ and trust yer balance. We take off soon as we hear the signal.”
Just then, there’s an outburst behind us. Order members shouting in confusion. Flashlight beams bouncing off the buildings, the snow, the cloud-socked sky overhead. The citizens of Burg have sprung to action.
“Now!” Bleak whispers, and we all break into a sprint.
We’re clumsy in the snow, and loud. I can hear the Order fighting Burg’s people in the distance, but I swear some of their voices grow nearer. And that the beams of their flashlights are flicking against the snow around us.
“There!” someone shouts, and my suspicions are confirmed. We’ve been spotted.
“Call the others. Give the order.”
“Now! Hit the lights now!”
A wall of light appears ahead. Helicopters, so many more than the three that were originally in Burg’s center. I think I can hear a distant roar, too, and I know in an instant that the Order called for reinforcements. After finding Marco, maybe. Regardless, we are trapped, surrounded with nowhere to run. We skid to a halt.
When the first Order member leaps down from one of the helicopters, I feel like someone has shoved a knife between my ribs.
He has the same broad shoulders and lean build. Same dark hair and quiet gait. Same chin and nose and ears and mouth and deep-set, colorless eyes.
It seems impossible, even when I’m staring at the proof.
But it’s not.
This is my one operational model, just like Frank’s records said, and he’s standing before me.
BLOOD POUNDS IN MY EARS.
I take back everything I thought about wanting to save the small piece of Blaine that was in his Forged version. Because a Forgery is not the real thing. This replica, this reflection—it is not me. I want it dead. I want it gone. I want it to have never existed.
It motions, a fist in the air, and a small army of what I assume to be more Forgeries emerges from the helicopters to join him in the snow. They are a diverse group. Varying heights and builds, hair and skin color. Some are female, but most male.
Forged Me is staring at our team with a terribly calculating look. He inclines his chin just slightly, eyeing me over the bridge of his nose. It’s an acknowledgment of my presence. A nod that he sees me.
For the briefest moment, I have the delusional thought that he will help us. That they all will. But unlike Jackson, these Forgeries didn’t see the Wall. They didn’t touch it, climb it. They flew overhead, and the structure—if it was visible at all in the darkness—was likely nothing but a blur. These Forgeries are not going to break down or malfunction. No matter how hard I wish it, they will not end up on our side.
As if he can hear my thoughts, the faintest smile tugs at the corners of Forged Me’s lips. He points his handgun in our direction and says, “Hi, Gray.”
The distant rumble is more of a roar now, additional reinforcements bearing down fast. There is no way we are getting out of this.
“What do we do?” Sammy asks frantically, but I’m too busy grabbing Bree and pulling her into my chest to answer.
“I’m sorry,” she says into my shirt.
“Me, too.”
Forged Me to his soldiers: “Ready.”
They raise their weapons. The roar of the approaching enemy grows louder.
“Aim.”
Sammy again: “Gray! What do we do?”
I rest my chin on the top of Bree’s head and close my eyes because the answer is nothing. We have lost.
“Fi—”
There is an explosion of brilliance and I’m thrown off my feet. The world goes silent.
I’m dead.
I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.
But I can still feel, and there is pain.
Everywhere.
I force my eyes open. One of the helicopters is in ruins, its metal frayed and scattered. The earth around it has been upheaved, dirt staining the snow in violent spatters. There are bodies in the mess, black and bloody and pieces of a whole. Those still alive are running for cover, but I can’t hear them. I can’t hear anything except a hollow echo in my ears.
The world smells of fire and smoke and burning flesh. Shadows pass overhead, casting bold patterns on the snow. The world goes brilliant again.
For the second time, I’m thrown aside as though I weigh nothing. I put my arms overhead, protecting myself from the random chunks of metal that rain down. When I look up another two helicopters have been destroyed.
I catch Bree in the corner of my vision. She’s crawling toward me. Her mouth is moving, but no words come out. Nearby, Jackson is pulling Bleak to his feet. They, too, are yelling, and I still can’t hear them. I try to stand but my balance is off.
Sounds return slowly.
First comes the roar of aircraft overhead, retreating, followed by the blurring screams of the Order scrambling for cover. And then, finally, Bree.
“Gray!” Her voice is murky and muffled, like she’s calling out to me underwater. “Dammit, Gray!”
And now it’s crisp and urgent as she grabs my wrist. I force myself to my feet, my balance poor and my bad leg hot with pain. I feel like I might fall over, but the roar overhead is growing louder yet again.
“Quick!” I shout to the others. “Before they come back.”
Sammy looks at the sky and I know he’s pieced together what I have. Clipper’s distress call reached more than the Order after all. Someone in AmWest heard our cry for help and the infamous Expats are flying overhead right now, giving us this small window of opportunity to escape. Of course, they may very well kill us in the process.
Jackson hauls Clipper to his feet—the boy’s shoulder is so bloody I’m amazed he’s still conscious—and we run. Every step burns my leg. We dart between the burning wreckage of two helicopters, Bree grabbing the rifle of a fallen man in the process. There are limbs scattered among the remains, fragments of soldiers that have been ripped apart as though they were paper. The snow beneath our feet is a million shades of pink. I force myself on, gagging.
Just as the lights from the still-intact helicopters begin to fade behind us, the sky goes brilliant for a third time. The explosion is thunderous, even from this distance. We sprint into the safety of darkness, and for the first time since arriving in Burg, I’m happy for such little light. We are temporarily invisible. But then I hear the pounding of footsteps behind us: the Order—or worse, the Forgeries—on our tail.
I skid to a stop when we reach the Wall. It seems especially massive tonight. Bleak slings the coils of rope off his shoulder and tosses the hooked bit of metal at the Wall. We hear it scrape on the surface, anchor in place as he tugs down on the rope.
“What is that? A homemade grappling hook?” Sammy takes the rope and tests its strength. “Genius!” A moment later he’s climbing as fast as possible, feet against the facade.
“Got it,” comes his response a few grunts later, and even though I can’t see him, I know he’s pulled himself atop the Wall. “Put a lasso knot in the bottom and I’ll help pull you up. It’ll be quicker than climbing.”
I turn to Bree.
“You first,” she says.
“Bree, don’t even argue with me about this.”
Even in the darkness I can sense her scowl, but I grab her arm and tug her toward the rope. She puts her foot in the loop that Bleak’s tied and Sammy pulls her to safety. Clipper goes next, his shoulder looking like a piece of poorly butchered meat. I’ve never seen a weapon that could do that sort of damage, and wonder if it was the scraps of helicopter that mangled his skin or fragments of the exploding weapon itself. Clipper somehow manages to remain conscious as Sammy hauls him up.
“You have to climb,” I say, turning toward Bleak. “If you go back for your people you’re going to be killed before you can even reach town.”
I can’t make out his face in the darkness to gauge his reaction, but he grabs the rope. The shouts of the pursuing Forgeries can be heard easily now. A sea of flashlight beams bob up and down as they close in, their brilliance bouncing off the smooth surface of the Wall. I motion for Jackson.
“No. You go,” he says.
I can see how close the lights are, how there’s barely enough time for even one more person. And we were supposed to be allies. How can I just leave him here after everything?
“I’m one of them, Gray,” he says as if he’s read my mind. “Maybe they’ll recognize that. Now please go. Before all of this was for nothing.”
I find the rope in the dark and step into it with my good leg. My shoulder bangs against the Wall as Sammy pulls, and while I try to use my injured leg to help scale, it’s too painful. A moment later Sammy’s hands hook beneath my shoulders and I’m heaved atop the Wall.
I look back just in time to see the lights descend on Jackson.
Even though he has his arms raised in surrender, the Forgeries do not slow. There must be a dozen of them, and my Forged counterpart is leading the charge, arms pumping. Just steps away from Jackson, he throws what I think is a punch.
But then I see the weapon in his hand: a knife held in reverse grip, the blade exposed and gleaming.
Jackson’s hands go to his neck.
And then he collapses in the snow, dead.
I’M SCREAMING AT MY FORGERY,
cursing him. How could I be capable of that? How could some piece of me kill a man who had his hands up in surrender?
Sammy pulls the rope up before anyone can grab it. Forged Me turns to the others, starts shouting orders, instructing them to form a pyramid so they can get into the Outer Ring. Over half of them seem distracted, though, staring at the Wall the way Jackson did when he first saw it.
I look between the few Forgeries at work and the group at a standstill. I’d bet almost anything that Jackson was an older model, an F-Gen4 like Blaine, and that these Forgeries, pausing to admire the Wall rather than trying to scale it, are the same. The towering structure is causing something to flicker in their programming. But Forged Me, and the handful that must be F-Gen5 models, are stronger. Nothing seems to faze them.
Sammy nudges me into action. I take one last look at Jackson’s crumpled body, and we drop safely into the Outer Ring. There’s a small fire burning ahead in camp. We sprint toward it.
My run is becoming more and more of a limp, but I push myself harder. I can make out Bleak helping Clipper, and Bree approaching with her rifle at the ready. I have no idea how many Order members found our team here, but our car is the only one in sight, so at least they are only on foot.
When I’ve almost caught up to Bree, she comes to an abrupt halt. She spins, a look of horror on her face. Shakes her head. Waves for me to stop. And I see why.
Emma.
She’s not dead. She’s alive. Xavier, too. But she has a gun to his head. Emma is holding Xavier at gunpoint and Bo is facedown behind her, the snow beneath him dark.
“That’s close enough,” Emma says calmly.
I must be seeing this wrong. I must. She gives me her customary half smile. Instead of the typical ache in my chest, the expression makes my stomach clench.
“There was never an Order member out here, was there?” I manage. “You killed Bo, jumped Xavier, used the radio to get in touch with Marco.”
“Very good, Gray,” she says. I realize, as the knot in my stomach twists even tighter, that this is not the first time she’s betrayed us.
“And it was you on the boat, too. You said you were getting bandages but you called the Order.”
“I was worried you’d doubt me from the moment you saw me bent over Isaac’s maps,” she says, smiling even wider. “But love’s a funny thing, isn’t it? It makes us blind.”