Authors: Rachael Craw
I hear distantly the sound of pounding on the stairs below. Finally, the cavalry. I straddle Aiden and say, “Play dead.”
He closes his eyes.
Breathing hard, I yank what I need from my vest and fill the syringe. Somehow my hands don’t shake. I draw from the memory of Miriam doctoring my wounds the night of the Governor’s Ball and I find myself steady and sure. In the remaining seconds before the guards burst from the stairwell, I rip the sleeve of Aiden’s shirt and grip his bicep so tightly that he gasps in pain. I slap at his elbow cleft. Find the vein. Stick him with the needle. He grunts and it’s done, video evidence he’s being taken against his will.
Four men come wheezing into the corridor – guns drawn.
A split second of shock freezes their faces when they see me and then confusion when they can’t. I move like a ghost, so fast they’re blinded and yell out. The first guy, I take in the throat – a flying kick and a prayer that it won’t sever his spinal cord. He hasn’t hit the ground as I swing my arm, back-handing the next guy, then I hear them collapse together.
There’s the shocking report of a handgun – a meaningful brush of wind past my ear. I leap, collecting the shooter under his chin with the toe of my boot. His head snaps back and he falls. The gun clatters on the linoleum. I drive the last guard into the floor, break his nose and leave him oozing and unconscious.
As the roar in my ears dims I finally hear the wail of the alarm.
Okay. Okay
.
We’re halfway. Keep moving
. Aiden’s out cold, which I hadn’t anticipated. There’s no time to try to bring him around. I swing him onto my shoulder in a fireman’s lift and jog back up the corridor and down the stairs, lumbering beneath his weight. I make it to the first floor and around the corner to the corridor where I left the unconscious guard by the potted fern. Another guard, squatting over his colleague’s limp form, sees me and cries out. He only just manages to get to his feet, taking me by surprise when he throws his torch at me with a high-pitched scream. Poor Aiden takes the brunt of the missile on his back.
“Hey!” I yell without thinking. “Be careful!”
He skids backwards, fumbling with his holster, trying to free his gun. I charge ahead, bellowing, using my unconscious brother as a battering ram. I swing sideways, collecting the terrified guard across the chest and face with Aiden’s shoulder. He crashes back against the wall, his gun spiralling in the air before it hits the floor.
There are more pounding feet and yells coming from behind me as I slam my way into the rec hall where the temperature has plummeted due to the broken window. Dropping Aiden to the ground, I’m careful to catch his head. Then I dive through the jagged hole into the biting cold. I grab Aiden by the feet just as the guards come barrelling through the double doors.
I wrench him out so quickly that I fall in the muddy grass with his feet up around my face. I thrash my way out from under him. Shots fire! I drag him back over my shoulder and veer away from the window, fearing more bullets.
The alarm fills the night. When we reach the fence, I don’t have the faith to attempt a leap with Aiden on my back. I dump him in the wet grass, regretting his short sleeves and thin cotton shirt out here in the freezing air, and grab the tight wire links at the base and haul upwards with a roar of effort. Metal bites through my gloves, cutting my palms. The howling wind and wailing siren muffle the sound of snapping threads and popping links. Shots and shouts ring out. I don’t look back.
There’s a lapse of time during which I drag Aiden through the hole in the fence and run with him across the broad field into darkness. I hear only my heartbeat crashing in my ears, the heavy thud of my feet. Shadows grow deeper as I escape the floodlights. When I reach the wood, time snaps back. I collect my pack, reposition Aiden on my shoulder and take off through the trees for the long run back to the car, conscious of nothing more than the requirements of my body. Aiden’s weight presses down on me; I register the extra effort required to pump my legs and move through space. Still, I know I’m faster than an unburdened civilian and that will have to do.
By now there is no more fear, though I know they’re pursuing me. I’m afraid they’ll have dogs, but I count on my head start to get us back to the other side of the reserve before they can close in.
Somehow I navigate the muddy undergrowth, the bracken, the tangled tree roots and damp leaves without losing my footing or dropping Aiden. Unspooling the route in reverse, I seek the landmarks, the mossy outcropping rock where the ground rises halfway back to the car; beyond that a fallen pine rotting in the stream to my right. When the forest floor dips, hope erupts in my burning chest, strengthening me for the hundred yards downhill to the end.
By the time I break from the trees, I’m drenched with sweat, winded and almost ready to collapse beneath Aiden’s weight. Kitty’s car gleams in the darkness. I stagger towards it dragging the soaked balaclava from my face, fumbling Kitty’s keys from the pocket of my vest. The loud beep of the car unlocking makes me cringe and I hurry to unload Aiden onto the back seat, groaning with effort and relief. I’m in the driver’s seat and tearing away as the faint echo of dogs barking reaches me through the window.
The drive through the back streets of Roxborough is torture. I’m shaky and all tunnel vision. I think about regulating my breathing, but I’m still gasping after the long sprint with an almost full-grown man on my back. I think about watching my speed and not drawing attention to myself but I see no other cars on the road. The clock on the dash reads one-eighteen. The neon sign for the Daisy Chain comes into view. I resist the flood of relief: it’s too soon to congratulate myself; there’s still too much to do.
I park outside the unit. There’s only one other car in the courtyard and no light on in the office. I pray no one will see as I haul Aiden upright, swinging his arm across my shoulder, hoping I look like I’m helping an inebriated friend after a big night out.
I dig the key card from my pocket, leaning Aiden against the doorjamb. A peculiar sense of foreboding ripples through my shoulders and my pins and needles crackle in my spine. The door creaks open.
“You’re back.”
White-faced and wide-eyed in the gloom, Kitty.
“I can do this,” I say, seething on the grimy floor of the bathroom.
“Let me help.” Kitty leans in, ignoring my glare, my muttered expletives. “Oh, giveover.” She helps to lift Aiden into a sitting position. She grunts and huffs, making awkward work of it in the tiny space. “He’s so cold.”
He
is
cold and I’m trying not to freak out. I tell myself the drug will wear off, he’ll come around, his body will self-regulate. In the meantime, I need to get his circulation moving, turn those blue lips and fingers back to pink.
Almost drunk with fatigue, I wrestle to get his clothes off, damp from the freezing night air. I give Kitty a warning look and leave his boxer shorts on and let her prop him up while I run the shower and strip down to my underwear.
Kitty raises her eyebrows at the bindings over my bra – fat lot of good they did me after I gave myself away, yelling at the guard like a total idiot. I unwind the length of bandage to free my movements before hefting Aiden under his arms, spots popping before my eyes with the head rush. The shower stall is tiny but I manage to drag him in with me. Unsteady on my feet, I bang my shoulders on the walls, the sting of hot water in my cut palms. “Come on, Aiden,” I say, my mouth at his ear. “Please, wake up.”
The water scalds me but his body is icy and his pulse slow and erratic. His breathing, at least, sounds regular. I rub his chest, I rub his arms, willing my heat into him. I turn the faucet up as far as it can go and chafe his hands wetly between mine. Steam billows until the bathroom becomes foggy as a sauna, but still Aiden’s head hangs heavy on my shoulder and there’s no heat in his skin. I keep calling to him, softly and then with growing urgency, “Aiden, come on.”
“He’s not getting better, is he?” Kitty waits on the bath mat, her plaintive expression tempting me into hysteria. She worries her lip between her teeth. “You didn’t give him too much?”
I close my eyes at a wave of exhaustion, grappling to shunt Aiden to my other shoulder.
What if Fretizine isn’t compatible with his system? What if it’s only for Shields? What if you’re killing him?
It only ever made me weak, numbed the hard edges of pain, slowed my reflexes, dampened my adrenaline while resetting my system, allowing me to heal more quickly. Miriam talked about its benefits post-trauma to allow signal regeneration.
It slowed your heart
. I growl and swear, blinking against tears and steam. It’s all going wrong. It’s getting so late. He should be on the road by now. On the train. Miriam will be beside herself. What if I’m wrong and she comes here? “Why couldn’t you just do what I asked?” I cry at Kitty. “Everybody will be looking for you! They’ll figure it out.”
Jamie! Jamie will figure it out!
Kitty scowls. “I’m not an idiot. I told Barb I was staying at Lila’s. I figured it would be easier than turning up at home and making up a lame story about my car being locked in a parking garage.”
“They’ll find us. Aiden’ll end up in maximum security. Affinity will kill him.”
She gasps. “You said the A-word.”
“I don’t care about the A-word!” My shout echoes in the shower cubicle making my head spin.
“We’ll wake him.” She hugs herself. “We’ll get him out. I’m sorry. I wanted to help. You need my help.”
“I don’t need your help!” The hard curve of Aiden’s back is still icy against me, his body limp. I slap at his face. “Aiden! Wake up!”
“Stop,” Kitty cries. “It’s not working.”
You’re killing him. You thought you could save him but you’re killing him
.
I groan and bury my face in the side of Aiden’s neck.
“Maybe it’s like hypothermia,” Kitty says then marches out of the bathroom, returning with the frayed complimentary towels. “We need to get him into bed.” She flicks the shower off, her expression determined and businesslike. “Lift him out.”
I want to shout more but the need to do something makes me bite my tongue. I snatch the towel and fumble one-handed to get it around Aiden before lifting him, sopping, to the floor. He still looks horribly corpse-like, blue lips, bruised eyes and fingertips.
“Take your wet things off,” Kitty says, pulling her sweater up over her head.
Her T-shirt stalls me. “What. Is. That?”
She pauses over the waistband of her jeans and straightens up. The T-shirt is a familiar red with blue writing. The slogan reads:
Watch yourself!
Hastily screen-printed. The same flag format as Angelo’s earlier
Not without a mint
shirt. Even the font is the same. There’s no flying volleyball on this one, rather a rendition of the comic strip panel’s smoking ashes and pompoms from
The Collegiate Times
. She produces a brief guilty smile. “Angelo was selling them in the parking lot at school. I tried to tell you.” She lifts the hem. “It’s brushed cotton.”
I gawk at her.
She pulls the shirt up over her head and tugs her jeans down from her hips. “He needs body heat.”
I hesitate.
Stripped to her underwear, she kicks her clothes into the corner and crouches beside him, touching his face. She looks up at me. “Hurry.”
Too uncertain to argue, I bolt into the outer room. Wet elastic snaps and bites, resisting as I yank my underwear off. There’s one towel left. I tuck it tightly around me. Back in the bathroom, I find her fiddling with Aiden’s soaking boxer shorts.
“What?” she says. “We have to get him warm.”
“
I’ll do it
.”
“Fine,” she mumbles, pink-faced.
“Wait out there.”
I close the door on her and stand there shivering. If I don’t brick my panic behind a thick high wall, I might start screaming. I flick my hands as though I can force the snaking fear from beneath my skin.
Aiden
. His wet boxers resist, I avert my eyes and fight them off, peeling linoleum digging in my knees.
My head swimming, I get him out into the bedroom and lay him on the bed where Kitty has pulled back the covers. I tuck his damp towel around his hips and turn him on his side. Kitty props his head up on a pillow, her brow creased. I realise I’m glaring and straighten up. Hands on hips, resisting the urge to check my phone for angry messages. “Okay. This is what’s going to happen. You’re in back. I’ll take the front. No funny business.”
She scowls.
I don’t apologise.
The lumpy single mattress wobbles and creaks as Kitty and I move in on either side. Through my towel, Aiden is so cold I grimace. Kitty catches her breath as she presses against him. I pull the quilt over his shoulders, drawing him to me so that his face is buried in my neck. Disturbing notions aside, it’s a relief to feel his breath on my skin – proof of life.
Kitty has trouble finding somewhere to put her arms. The bed dips and wobbles as she balls a pillow under her head so she can peer over the crest of his neck to see me. Even in the dim lamplight I can see she’s blushing. I close my eyes a moment, but it feels like I’m on a merry-go-round, little stars circling behind my eyelids.
Please don’t let me black out
.
“Hey,” Kitty says, whispering. “You know this would be some guy’s wild fantasy.”
I give her a dead arm.
“
Ouch!
You can’t do that, you could do permanent damage.”
“I’m-his-
sister
.”
Seriousness falls back on her, worry pooling in her eyes. “Sorry.”
I don’t answer.
After a few moments she asks, “How long will the drug last?”
“I don’t know … it didn’t hit me like this.”
She sweeps her hand up Aiden’s chest.
“
Hey
. Boobs here.”
“Just checking his pulse.”
“You better not be enjoying this.”
“
Evangeline
.” She looks warningly from me to Aiden, as though afraid he might hear. “You could be a bit more grateful.”