The Wanted (23 page)

Before I could ask, Denis answered. “Level Four is for those who have lost the ability to mentally cope with imprisonment.”

“You mean it’s for the ones who’ve gone crazy,” I snapped. I knew I would end up here after a few days of imprisonment.

He nodded. “Look, they’re still watching us, even if they can’t hear us. Dad instructed me to put you in cell seventeen.” We stopped in front of the door. It had no barcode on it and must have been empty. “Just for one hour he said, to give you a scare. I have to do it, Rosa, or he’ll suspect something is up.” His eyes looked less sympathetic and more uncomfortable.

I shrugged. What choice did I have?

Denis leaned in to punch the code Solomon had handed him.

“Does our attitude offend you?

As do our glorious, defiant eyes?

Coz we laugh like we’ve got the world’s riches

Piled under the place we lie.

You can test us with your swords,

You can hurt us with their cries.

But we’ll surprise,

Surprise you when we stand up,

When we stand up,

Up together in our misery and our triumph

You’ll hear it in our voices,

You’ll see it in our eyes, eyes, eyes,

In our eyes...” sung the prisoner.

A voice from another time. A place I tried not to revisit because it hurt too much. My body shook with the fear that it might not be her. It shuddered at the thought that it could be her, because when my eyes slid to the small slide tag under the window, it read,
Test Subject
, in large, lazy marker.

I rattled the handle, my sweaty hands slipping. I pushed against the door with my shoulder like I believed I was strong enough to push it open by sheer will.

Denis snapped his hand back and stared down at me in shock.

“What are you doing? I didn’t think you
wanted
to go in?”

“Open the door,” I screeched, blowing my hair from my eyes, my limbs heated with anger and anticipation. “Open the damn door!”

He moved around me and quickly punched in the code. The door clicked, and I barged inside, breathing hard, breathing clouds of pins and metal triangles.

In the corner, sitting on a suspended bed with her legs out in front of her, a long plait hanging over one shoulder, was a thinner, sallower girl than I remembered, but her voice was as strong as ever. Out of key, but filled with a love for the music and the words.

My lips quivered, two tears spoiled my cheeks as I whispered, “Oh Gwen,” in a voice, split open and chopped into pieces.

Two concave eyes nested in purple and suffering glanced up, and my hatred for Grant scored my bones a little deeper. I was serrated, sharp, boiling with anger and disgust. Because he wanted me to come to
this
room and witness
this
scene… and he
knew
what it would do to me.

JOSEPH

I know what the end of war
sounds
like.

It sounds like broken glass crashing against metal. Shrieking and cheering. It sounds like clapping and sighing at the same time.

I know what the end of war
feels
like.

It feels like relief trapped inside death. Wanting freedom. Knowing the cost of freedom. Celebration and agony wrapped together in bloody bandages.

I should know by now what it is to lose someone, but it’s always fresh. Like a retractor, it opens old wounds again and again.

I let my hands fall from my face and my ears began to ring dully. The lights slammed on, showing the devastation and the success. Torn apart by the blast, one gate hung pathetically from a twisted hinge, the other lay flat on the ground. People stopped for about five seconds before they flooded the opening in elation, knocking my shoulders in their haste to get through.

The people of Palma were ready for this. They stepped between the bars on the ground like they were playing hopscotch. Most of the soldiers were already lined up against the concrete wall, disarmed with their hands on the back of their heads. The gunman who’d shot Nafari had been taken down too.

I rushed to where I’d last seen him.

The ground and wall were scorched black. There was no body. I started tipping up debris and calling out his name. “Nafari! Nafari!” I screamed, my voice disappearing, my ears thrumming.

A hand gripped my shoulder. “What are you doing, my man?”

I flinched and swung around, my fists up, ready to fight.

“Whoa, let us help you,” the man said, his voice deep and tinny, his face scored with age. He had kind eyes, and I latched onto that.

I tried not to cry as he waited for me to speak. The whole situation was pounding down on me like an enormous fist from the sky. “The man who freed you, who blew the gates is here somewhere…” I managed breathlessly, sweeping my arms over the piles of concrete and segments of iron, pointing to the vague area where I’d seen his smiling face before a blanket of white.

“Nafari!” I yelled again.

The man nodded and started yelling Nafari’s name. Somehow, word traveled, and soon there were twenty people upturning bits of gate and rubble and shouting his name. All the while, others were leaving the compound.

I looked up at the where the gate used to be and saw Desh standing there, beaming. The others were picking their way over the debris too.

“Here!” someone shouted.

I ran to them, my legs grating against sharp rubble. A twisted arm protruded out from under a collapsed shed. The guard’s shed. I kneeled down and grabbed his wrist. A thin pulse blipped under my fingers.

“He’s alive,” I said, relief pouring out of every pore in my body. He was alive.

The others ran towards me, and we pulled the sheets of tin from his body. I gave him a quick physical assessment. He was bleeding badly, but he would live. Some men lifted him up and laid him on one of the sheets of tin. “We’ll take him to our hospital, friend,” one of them said.

I lifted his dangling, broken arm up and placed it over his chest. He opened his eyes and managed a smile. “You did it, Nafari,” I whispered.

“I said call me Naf,” he managed before his eyes fluttered closed.

It had turned around in a matter of hours. Now we were sitting inside one of the cottages in Ring Eight with some residents of Palma. Laughing, drinking, and celebrating freedom.

Pelo slapped me on the back. “This is what we wanted,” he said, sweeping his arm around the scene we could see from the window. Soldiers were being marched to a holding building. People were cleaning up the debris. The thing that made my heart swell was watching the children running between the legs of their elders. I memorized that sight and stored it away for later. I captured it in my store, the one I kept for Rosa.

I sighed. I hadn’t been thinking of her. It had been good to have a break from the torture, but as soon as I let my mind wander, it always went straight back to her.

“Does it hurt?” Elise asked as she dabbed my cut with antiseptic.

Yes.

“No.”

Cups were offered and we cheered to Naf and to the huge success of the mission as we sat on borrowed dining chairs.

Desh shook his head in disbelief. “I never thought we’d be celebrating inside the walls.” He clinked his cup with mine, and we drank. The cider flew down my throat and relaxed my mind. I locked the store for Rosa and filled my cup again.

A Palma local knocked my shoulder and laughed. “Now that you have helped us, are you going to return to your home?”

Home. To me, home was two people, one who might be lost to me forever. I was homeless. The bubbles swirled around my brain. They begged me to let it go.
Forget her. Forget it all.
I turned to the man and laughed too loud, too hard.

“I don’t have a home, man, I’m homeless.” I hit my leg and chuckled more. “I’m homeless!” Desh’s shaking head caught my attention. “What? It’s true. Isn’t it? We’re all homeless.”

Some of the men laughed, others ignored me. But I didn’t care. I had no grasp on what I actually did care about.

Clink, drink, clink, drink.

Someone patted my back gently, whispering, “I think you better slow down, Joe.”

I shrugged them off.

Everything seemed funnier.

Everything seemed stupid.

I was weightless, in muddy water, sinking lower and not caring. Laughing too loud and not caring. Allowing Elise to put her arm around my waist and lean her head on my shoulder and not caring.

I let the alcohol carry me off into a dreamless sleep.

ROSA

Gwen lifted her head slowly from where she stared at her knees. A nightdress lay over them but every bone, every angle, of her jutted out like the dress was her skin and underneath was just a skeleton. She didn’t jump up to greet me, but I was already running towards her anyway. I rushed her and skidded into the bed, falling to the ground as I tripped over my dress.

Denis shut the door on us as I whispered hoarsely, “Gwen, Gwen, what… how can… are you?” Each question was cut short with the axe of redundancy. It didn’t matter. She was here.
She shouldn’t be here.

She put her hands in my dyed hair and lifted it to the light.

“What have they done to you?” She smiled and those familiar dimples formed high in her cheeks. But there was falseness to her humor.

I blew my relief through my lips like a whistle. “Oh, thank God! You know who I am.”

She laughed sadly. “I’m not crazy, despite my accommodation. Apparently, singing is for loonies,” she said, winding her finger in circles at her ear.

Was she crazy? I cocked my head to the side and examined her like crazy was something I’d be able to see on her face. But then I remembered—I knew exactly what crazy looked like. I knew what crazy sounded like. Crazy squealed and stomped its red, leather-clad foot. Crazy made you jump and turn in circles before you passed through the door.

I doubled over, clutching my stomach, as Este’s squealing echoed through my head and I felt the knife going in and out, looping, never-ending.

No, Gwen wasn’t crazy. But I started to wonder whether I was.

Gwen touched my hand, and I snapped up.

“You ok, Rosa. Where’d you go?”

I laughed unconvincingly. “Sorry, I just can’t believe you’re here.”
Why was she here?

I wrapped my arms around her neck and pulled her forward into a hug. She returned it, but she was weak and didn’t move very well. I sat on the edge of the bed, my eyes roaming over her diminished frame. Her sunken eyes, her dirty face. She had a bag hanging of the edge of the bed, and I noticed a tube poking out from under her thin, cotton dress.

“Are you sick?” I asked shakily.

Her bare feet were a purplish blue. I pulled the blanket up over her legs and tucked them under her feet. Watching my hands closely, she shook her head. She couldn’t meet my eyes. I put my hand over hers, which was resting on her leg.

“Gwen, what is it?” I asked, even though I didn’t want to know the answer. I wanted to grab her hand and run—push Denis aside, kick the guard in the groin or the face or whatever I could reach, and run. I could feel the bad answer; it was already carving a deep pit in my stomach. They hurt her. They hurt her like they’d hurt me, and then they’d hurt her more.

Still staring at our hands touching, she said dully, “I can’t feel your hand on my leg.” A sob caught in her throat, and she coughed. “I can’t feel anything from my waist down. The bastards paralyzed me.”

The air sucked from the room, gravity inverted, and I thought I might explode with anger.

Grant, I hate you. My hate is a searing sun. It’s going to swallow you and turn you to ashes.

I knew it. But once she said it, the last pieces slotted together. Any doubt I had was swept away. Grant was using my friend as the test subject. He broke her back and then he showed her to me like some sort of twisted trophy. He was evil.

Grant had to die.

“I’m so sorry,” I wept.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is.” I put my hands to my head and rocked. My head was being crushed in a vice of guilt.

Gwen grabbed my hands and jerked them down, locking eyes with me. “Listen to me, Rosa, and stop crying. Evil is never your fault.”

Okay. Okay. Just stop. Gather up the frayed, pilled edges of your sanity and pull it together. She needs you.

I drew in a large breath from this airless room and wiped my tears with the back of my hand.

“What do you know?” I asked, leaning in.

“That’s better.” She smiled with effort. “I know I’m Grant’s guinea pig for the healer,” she said, gripping the edges of her blanket. “I know he’s a selfish prick!” she screamed towards the door. “I know neither of us will survive the process, but he won’t listen to me.”

She gasped from the screaming, her starved eyes wide, her lips dry and cracked. A glass of water was placed on a table just out of her reach. I retrieved it for her, and she grabbed it greedily.

“Oh, it’ll work, Gwen. It worked on me,” I said loudly, not trusting that they weren’t listening to me.

Her eyes peeled back further, her sharp cheekbones pressing out of her skin like tent poles. I couldn’t say anything else. I just looked at her, trying to convey with my eyes that somehow I would get her those pills.

She raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth.

“You may push us down

In the very dirt

That grows your fruitful lies

But you should fear us

When you hear us

When you hear our cries,

We’ll rise, rise, rise.”

Her hand was a fist, pumping with each ‘rise’.

I rose from her bedside.

The door opened and Denis hovered in the doorway, his face a mixture of worry and something else I couldn’t quite discern. “Something’s happened,” he said. “I have to take you back.”

“I thought I had an hour?” Panic drove through me like a rusty spike, plunging deep into my ribs. I couldn’t leave her. She was injured, alone, and she was my only anchor to my old life. The life I wanted back.

I shook my head and returned to her side. “No. Let me stay here. I’m a prisoner anyway, shouldn’t I be in
prison
?” I pleaded, my fingers digging into Gwen’s mattress. She stared at me with carved-out eyes, her frame wavering like vapor. She needed food.

“Rosa, please.” Denis sighed in exasperation. “We don’t have time for this.”

I didn’t turn around and just waved one hand behind me. “Then leave me.”

Please don’t take me away from my last beacon of sanity.

Gwen wrapped her hand around mine and gripped it. “Don’t go, not yet,” she whispered. She blinked, but there were no tears. She was too dehydrated. Then she lifted her chin defiantly and snapped, “Who’s this clown?”

“I’m Master Grant,” he said authoritatively, and then he glanced down at me. “Rosa, we have to leave now!” He was moving from leg to leg like he needed to pee.

“Why?” I snapped, so sick of being dragged from place to place, being a pawn in their sick games. This was my friend lying here, broken. I choked on all the tears I couldn’t cry as Denis’ shadow encroached on me.

“We’ve lost Palma,” he stated. “We have to go home. Now!”

“Home?” I laughed. I had no home. And Palma. Lost. We.
We,
like I was part of
his
people. No,
we
had gained Palma.
They
had lost Palma.

Gwen grinned. Her skin was paler than clean sheets. She was suffering, but God, she was so strong. Much stronger than I was.

“I’m not leaving yet.” I filled her glass again and handed it her. I searched the room, my breaths getting shorter and more hysterical. “Why doesn’t she have any food?” I yelled, my voice uneven, shrill as a drill bouncing against metal.

Denis strode towards me and yanked me up by my collar, the silk fabric tearing at my neck. “Get up!” he growled.

Gwen’s grip was tight, but she was too weak to hold me against Denis’ pull. I scratched and hit but he held me out from his body as if I were a rat hanging from its tail.

“I’ll see you again,” I screamed as he dragged me from the room.

She shook her head. “You won’t see me until Test day.”

My eyes widened. She would die if we didn’t get those pills. “You know I’ll do what I can to help you?” I shouted as I held onto the doorframe. Denis pulled on my arms.

She sung loudly, bopping her head along with the tune. And if you didn’t understand what it was about, I guess you would think she was crazy.

“Your love is a pill,

It’s bitter and still.

I’ll take it,

I’ll swallow it.

I’m addicted to you,

Addicted to you.”

She understood. She knew.

Her grin stretched to my face as the door closed, and Denis dragged me down the hall.

I would save her. If I could do nothing else, I had to find the rest of those pills.

“Let me go!” I snapped.

Denis still had a hold of my collar, my dress now barely covering my upper body. He suddenly dropped me, and I fell into the wall. He reached out to grab me, but I slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” I said, backing away from him and rubbing my sore, scratched neck.

His eyes were severe, dipped in rage. He stepped towards me quickly and slapped my face hard. The breath was knocked from my mouth. The sting instantly radiated over my whole head.

“Don’t ever speak to me like that. And when I say it’s time to leave, you do as you’re told.”

My chin fell in understanding.
Do as you’re told
. I forgot who he was. He was Superior Grant’s son. While I had to work with him and even though he’d told me his secret, he had been raised by a cruel man. And now I knew the cruelty lived inside him also.

I pulled myself up from the floor and crept past him to the glass door. It glided open to Solomon standing there, his expression indifferent to the violence just as I would have expected.

I shuffled towards the elevator door, my hands stubbornly at my sides, even though I wanted to cradle my pulsing face, and waited. I felt beaten in every way.

Denis spoke to Solomon in a detached tone. “My father expects a healthy, well-fed test subject. Your care for the prisoner is unacceptable. Rectify the situation or I’ll report you.”

We didn’t speak on the ride home.

I ignored any attempts he made to help me, maneuver me, or touch me when we arrived back at Grant’s compound. My trust in him was dented, and I hated that I needed him.

We made it to Judith’s bedroom door, and I turned to look at him. He winced at the sight of what he had done. My face felt swollen, my lip bulging.

I spoke from one side of my mouth. “Find those pills,” I whispered. I thought about Deshi.
Where he would have hidden them?
It was so hard to picture without being in his office.

“You’ll have to help me,” Denis said quietly.

I nodded. “Don’t worry,” I hissed. “I’ll do as I’m told.”

He looked at the floor. “Rosa, I’m sorry,” he barely mumbled. I open the door, stepped backwards, and slammed it in his face.

Leaning against the buttery timber, I breathed in and out violence. I was starting to wonder whether it was something about me that made men want to hurt me. Some men, anyway. But I quashed the thought as quickly as it had appeared. It was not me… it was them. They were ‘less than’ and violence was their only power.

Wanting comfort, I reached out for Joseph’s arms to crawl into. I strained to hear his warm, rumbling voice telling me it was all going to be ok.
Please let it be ok.
I banged my head gently against the door as I slid down to the carpet. I wanted to dig through to the ground. I wanted to feel the damp dirt between my fingers.