The Last Star (23 page)

56

RINGER

I PUSH SULLIVAN
down into a seat and shout in her ear, “Get ready to bail!” She doesn’t say anything, just stares up into my bloody face uncomprehendingly. Arteries cauterized by the
microscopic drones swarming in my bloodstream, pain receptors shut down by the hub; I may look horrible, but I feel great.

I climb over her to the cockpit and plop into the copilot’s seat. The pilot recognizes me immediately.

It’s Lieutenant Bob. The same Lieutenant Bob whose finger I broke in my “escape” with Razor and Teacup.

“Holy shit,” he shouts. “
You!
”

“Back from the grave!” I yell, which is literally true. I jab my finger at our feet. “Put her down!”

“Fuck you!”

I react without thinking. The hub decides for me—and that’s the terrifying thing about the 12th System: I don’t know anymore where it ends and I begin. Not fully human, not wholly alien, neither, both, something loosed within me, something unbound.

Afterward I realize the brilliance of it: The most precious commodity of any pilot is his sight.

I rip off his helmet and shove my thumb into his eye. His legs kick; his hand flies up to grab my wrist; and the chopper’s nose dips. I intercept his hand and guide it back to the stick as I pour myself into him: Where there is panic, calm. Where there is fear, peace. Where there is pain, comfort.

I know he won’t go all kamikaze on us, because no part of him is hidden from me. I know the desires he would deny even to himself, and there is no desire within him to die.

As there is no doubt in his mind that he needs me to live.

57

ZOMBIE WAS RIGHT
all those months ago: As sanctuaries in the apocalypse went, the caverns of West Liberty were damn hard to beat.

No wonder the Silencer priest claimed them for his own.

Gallons of fresh water. An entire chamber stocked with dry and canned goods. Medical supplies, bedding, cans of heating fuel, kerosene, and gasoline. Clothes, tools, and enough weapons and explosives to outfit a small army. A perfect place to hide, even cozy, if you ignored the smell.

The Ohio Caverns reeked of blood.

The largest chamber was the worst. Deep underground and humid, with very little ventilation. The smell—and the blood—had nowhere to go. The stone floor still shimmers crimson in our lights.

A slaughter took place here. Either the false priest picked up the spent shell casings or he sliced his victims open, one by one. We find a spot against the wall with a sleeping bag, a stack of books (including a well-worn Bible), a kerosene lantern, a bag full of toiletries, and several rosaries.

“Of all the places he could bunk, he chose
this
spot,” Zombie breathes. He’s pressing a cloth against his face to filter the air. “Crazy SOB.”

“Not crazy, Zombie,” I tell him. “Sick. Infected with a virus before he was even born. That’s the best way to think of it.”

Zombie nods slowly. “You’re right. That is the
best
way to think of it.”

We’ve left Bob the pilot with Cassie and the two kids in another chamber, after packing and bandaging his wound and giving him antibiotics and a massive dose of morphine. He’s in no condition to fly any farther tonight. Just getting us as far as the caverns exceeded his endurance, but I sat beside him and kept him focused and calm, his ballast and his anchor.

Zombie and I retreat toward higher ground, and he navigates the narrow passages with one hand on my shoulder, awkwardly swinging his bad leg, wincing with every step. I make a mental note to check the wound before I leave. The round should probably be removed, but I worry the procedure will do more harm than good. Even with antibiotics, the risk of infection is high, and nicking a major artery would be catastrophic.

“Only two ways down here,” he says. “That works for us. We can block off one end, which leaves a single entrance to watch.”

“Right.”

“Think we’re far enough from Urbana?”

“Far enough from Urbana to what?”

“To avoid getting vaporized.” He smiles, and his teeth shine unusually bright in the lamplight.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“You know what’s scary, Ringer? You seem to know more than any of us, but whenever a critical question comes up, like the issue of whether or not we’ll be vaporized in a couple of days, you never know the answer.”

The path is steep. He needs to rest. I’m not certain he knows that I can feel what he feels through the conduit of his hand touching my shoulder. I don’t know if that would comfort or terrify him. Maybe both.

“Hang on, Zombie.” Acting as if I need to catch my breath. “Gotta rest a minute.”

I lean against an outcropping. At first he tries to be tough and stay upright. But after a minute or two he can’t maintain the act; he eases himself onto the floor, grunting from the effort. Since we met, his near-constant companion has been pain, most of which I have delivered.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“What?”

He points at my nose. “Sullivan said she got you good.”

“She did.”

“It’s not even swollen. And no black eyes.”

I look away. “Thank Vosch.”

“Kind of hoping you’ll thank him for all of us.”

I nod. Then I shake my head. Then I nod again.

Zombie knows he’s on dangerous ground. He moves to safer territory quickly. “And it doesn’t hurt? There’s no pain?”

I look right into his eyes. “No, Zombie. There’s no pain.”

I squat, resting on my heels, and set the lamp on the floor. The space between us, less than a foot, feels more like a mile.

“Did you notice on our way in?” I ask. “Somebody built an outdoor shower. I think I’m going to take one before I leave.” Blood’s caked on my face, there’s dirt in my hair, and damp earth is smeared over every exposed inch. An eternity passed after Zombie buried me. I can still see their faces blank with astonishment and horror as I burst from the grave, the two recruits sent back to pick up the squadmates they left behind to kill us. Sullivan had a similar look after she smashed her head into my nose. I’ve become the stuff of wonder and nightmares.

So I want to be clean. I want to feel human again.

“Won’t matter if the water’s cold?” Zombie asks.

“I won’t feel it.”

He nods like he understands. “It should be me. Not in the shower. Ha, ha. I mean going with you. Not Cassie. I’m sorry, Ringer.” He pretends to study the cave’s jagged teeth jutting down over our heads, a dragon’s mouth frozen in midchomp. “What was he like? I mean. That guy. You know.”

I know. “Tough. Funny. Smart. He loved to talk. And he loved baseball.”

“What about you?” Zombie asks.

“I have no opinion about baseball.”

“Not what I meant and you know it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I answer. “He’s dead.”

“Still matters.”

“It’s something you’d have to ask him.”

“I can’t. He’s dead. So I’m asking you.”

“What do you want from me, Zombie? Seriously, what do you
want
? He was kind to me—”

“He lied to you.”

“Not when it mattered. Not about the important things.”

“He betrayed you to Vosch.”

“He sacrificed his life for me.”

“He murdered Teacup.”

“That’s it, Zombie. No more.” I rise. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Why did you?”

Because you’re my bullshit-free zone,
but I’m not giving him that.
Because you’re the one I came out of the wilderness for,
no, not that, either. And not
Because you’re the one person I still trust.

Instead, I say, “You caught me at a weak moment.”

“Well.” Then the Ben Parish smile, the smile it almost hurts to look at. “If you’re ever in need of an egotistical prick, I’m your man.” He waits two breaths, then adds, “Oh, come on, Ringer. Come
on.
Smile. That joke works on so many levels, it isn’t even funny.”

“You’re right,” I answer. “It’s not funny.”

58

I SLIDE OUT
of my clothes beside the outdoor shower. The overhead container was empty, so I had to fill it from the cistern next to the welcome center. The cistern must have weighed over a hundred pounds, but I hoisted it onto my shoulder as if it weighed no more than little Nugget.

I know the water is cold, but like I told Zombie, I’m protected by Vosch’s gift. I feel nothing but wetness. The water bears away the blood and dirt.

I run my hands over my stomach.
He sacrificed his life for me.
The boy in the doorway lit up by a funeral pyre, carving letters into his arm.

I touch my shoulder. The skin is smooth and soft. The 12th System repaired the damage minutes after I inflicted it. I am like the water that runs over me, immune to permanence, recycling endlessly. I am water; I am life. The form may change, but the substance stays the same. Strike me down and I will rise again.
Vincit qui patitur.

I close my eyes and see
his.
Sharp, glittering, brilliant blue, eyes that knife deeper than your bones.
You created me, and now your creation is coming back for you. Like rain to parched earth, I come back.

And water bears away the blood and dirt.