Authors: Jordana Frankel
Knowing who it is, I look down and I swallow, my throat thick—dry, all of a sudden.
There’s no message, but I can see that it’s from Chief. The comm contains just one image: me. My face. With one word over it: “WANTED.”
Outlawed
. . . I didn’t think it’d happen so quickly. I’ll have to sneak into the hospital. Find some way in.
I round the first corner onto Fifth, dodging gaps in the planking left and right, while a west wind fights to throw me into the canal. Going through Mad Ave would be worse though, ducking under stalls, risking being seen.
As I run, the planks start shaking beneath my feet. I slow myself. Vibrations creep up through my Hessians. A heli, not too far off—Quad Four, by the feel of it, or in the way north of Five. It could be a regular old Transmission arrest.
It could be.
Still, I’m happy I’m headed in the opposite direction.
Holding the vial tight in my fist, I keep running. Watching the planks. Jumping gap after gap. After a few minutes, I stop and kneel, searching for a shadow underneath. Seeing nothing, I bring my eyes back to the boardwalk.
There, in the distance, boots.
Black pants, military-style.
Black jacket, yellow striped.
Ro.
No . . . not now
. I can’t go straight. . . . He’s too close, I’d never make it onto the narrows. I spin around
—I’ll have to backtrack
—except he’s not alone. Another Bouncer steps onto the walk. He takes a wide stance, ready, and waits to see what I’ll do.
I turn around again. “Ro!” I call, but he doesn’t answer.
Slowly, with his hands latched behind his back, he says, “Stay right where you are, Ren,” and marches toward me.
My insides twist up, adrenaline gunning through my legs, telling me to
run
. I spin away from Ro only to see the other guy, now much closer than he was before.
No, they can’t get me—not now, not with the vial in my hand. . . .
But they close in, Ro less than ten feet away as he steps left of a gap in the planks. All I can do is spin in circles, eyeing for a way out, when I have an idea—
The planks
, I think.
I can drop into the canal
.
Breathing heavy, I look around for the nearest gap, then see the one to the right of Ro.
I don’t wait. Tucking the vial into one of my belt pockets for safekeeping, I make a run for it.
Ro sees what I’m doing—cuts me off as I try and duck past. Looking him in the eye, I ball my hand up and ready it behind my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Ren,” he says, and his big, dark fist makes like a knuckly rocket ship, headed for a crash landing with my gut.
Buildings collapse like this: the bottom goes out first, and debris and dust cloud up around it, then everything else follows. I suppose I’m like that too, because my knees buckle though I don’t recall my brain giving them the request. All the air, all at once, is gone from my chest. I try to breathe, but my insides have tensed up so bad, I can’t get my lungs to work. Then my tongue doesn’t work, so I don’t speak, and all I see are red lights spun out like veins bursting one after the next.
Coming to, and the light shifts. It haloes. Bends in golden-pink orbs, even around the skyscraper of a body standing over me. My vision is a mess of fog and blur, but the blue fatigues, the boots . . .
“Well, well, well,” I hear Chief say, over the chopping of propellers. They’re coming from . . . somewhere. I don’t know
—Where am I?
A thrum comes up through the floor, grates against my spine. He sets his boot in front of my face with a thud.
My eyesight clears. Homes in on his laces. Up ahead, a cockpit. And between the two seats, an arm. I’m inside a heli . . . but it seems stable. We ain’t in the air, I don’t think.
I’m shaken awake by the steel toe of one boot.
Flinching, I remind myself of Milo. Without energy to do anything more, despite the fear curdling in my gut. Chief lowers himself down to my level. Looks me in the eye. Shakes his head,
tsk tsk
.
“You missed your report, Dane. Two in a row. Except this time, it was no accident,” he spits in my face and waves a small tube—the vial—in front of my nose.
How did he—?
Feeling for my belt, I realize it’s not there. It’s at his feet.
I gotta get the vial back
. . . and then I gotta get out of here. Somehow. I look around the inside of the heli, but the hatch is closed.
“What have we here,” Chief says in a low growl. He removes the stopper from the vial and brings the glass to his nose. “Doesn’t smell like brack water, that’s for sure. Could it be . . . ?”
I shake my head, about to say that it’s not, when he re-stoppers the tube and places it under the sole of one boot.
“Don’t!” I yell without thinking, reaching for the vial. I’m too slow, though. . . . It’s like being underwater. My muscles hurt too badly.
Dunn has time to pull the vial out from under his shoe and step closer. He has time to bring his sole down on my open fingers, and stay there.
I hear myself whimper like an animal, and I don’t recognize myself. Not when I’m making these sounds.
“Only one way you could’ve come by this water, Dane.” A pause. “Someone told you where to find another source.”
I can’t answer. I can’t tell him the truth
.
When Dunn sees I’ll say nothing, he pulls a black baton from the belt strapped round his waist. I lift myself onto my elbows, trying to back away. Closer, closer, Chief approaches me.
“The governor gave me permission to try some . . .
other
methods of acquiring information, in the event that you suddenly forgot who you work for. Didn’t he?” he says, turning to face the cockpit.
Governor Voss?
Chief smacks the baton once against his palm and it makes a loud cracking noise.
Lightning
.
With one foot, he kicks me onto my stomach. Wrenches my shoulders around the baton, then twists like he wants them out of their sockets. It’s a bolt of fire that consumes all my air. I groan as he plows his steel-toed boot down the line of my vertebrae. I feel my spine like the serrated edge of a blade.
Chief uses his foot to roll me faceup again. “Where did you get this?”
I’m gasping, heaving. My eyes have started to water and I blink them fast—I ain’t gonna let him see me cry. I still got no answer.
Now he crushes his heel down on my sternum, sapping all my energy. I flex my muscles against it and cough, trying to speak, but he won’t release any weight from my chest. Physically, I can’t. No air, no words.
He lets up, just barely. “Where is the spring?”
“Don’t know,” I wheeze, the air squeezed from my lungs.
Chief Dunn makes like he’s going to strike me. I ball up, braced for the blow. It never comes—
“Miss Dane,” a voice croons from the cockpit.
The governor turns around, sees me coiled on the floor. His expression shifts to something like pity. “If you recall, I asked you not to lie to me. And yet, here you are—lying to me. I need a location, Miss Dane. I don’t think you quite comprehend how dire the situation has turned.” His voice rises, and I can hear the anger there.
Still I say nothing.
Shaking the legless figurine in my direction, “I can see you’ve spoken to Kitaneh. This is clearly her handiwork. And you had on your person that vial, presumably for your friend at the hospital. Yet you refuse to tell me the truth. Fine. And the Tètai are also not willing to cooperate? Unfortunately, this leaves me without alternatives. Chief Dunn. Prepare to make the announcement.”
Announcement?
Dunn, standing over me, slides the baton back into his belt with one hand, his other still holding the vial. One last time, he steps on me. Under his heel the ligaments between my ribs grind together. I have to fight against his weight.
Keeping his boot square on my chest, he kneels down to my level. “Happily, Governor Voss. You know how I feel about it,” he says. “I only wished—”
“
Enough
, Chief Dunn,” snaps the governor.
Chief scowls, and for a moment I think I see him go for that strike he never got to take, but he holds back. He laughs, scanning my face. “This entire city—it’s disgusting. A breeding ground for disease. Every last one of you—” Chief wears a face like he’s about to spit. “
Hosts
.”
“Watch your tongue,” I hear the governor say from up front, as he gestures to the pilot. “Miss Dane,” he starts, not even bothering to look at me anymore. “I will not regret the events of the next twenty-four hours, because they will not be of my own doing. Tell your friend it is not yet too late.”
The hatch opens. A gray sky and a concrete roof wait.
“Now,” the governor adds, tired. “Get out.”
But
the vial—I have to get it. . . .
Chief’s left hand—I see it, right there in his fist, and I won’t leave it behind. I slide closer to him, making like I’m about to stand. Extend my leg. Hook my ankle behind his.
“What the—”
In the cockpit, the governor has started to stand. “The vial!”
Chief looks down at me, steps nearer, and with every bit of strength my quad can muster—I yank him forward. His knees buckle . . . but not enough. I hook my other ankle. Repeat.
This time, he goes lumbering backward.
Jumping to my feet, I resort to the lowest but most effective of moves: Square in the groin . . . That’s where I step. Hard.
It does the trick. Chief grunts. Curls up into himself, his face twisted and none too happy.
I lower down, grab the vial.
Chief Dunn starts to rise. Adrenaline hijacks my muscles. With the vial in my hand, I jump out the hatch, not another look back.
12:45 P.M., SUNDAY
S
printing for the nearest suspension bridge, I leap onto it, no care for balance or keeping the thing steady. Behind me, air churns, coughs up roof dust.
But that makes no sense. . . .
The chief’s not following?
Only when I’ve crossed to the other side do I look back. Make sure I’m not crazy.
Despite the vibrations running through the rope in my hands, I don’t believe it—Chief’s heli roars into the sky. Rises up from the rooftop, one building over.
But I have the vial
. The governor should’ve sent him after me—his wife . . . he’d want to use it to cure his wife, wouldn’t he? The aeromobile doesn’t even head west over the Strait. Instead, it loops around over to Mad Ave.
Then, dangling out from the airborne beast is Chief Dunn. Holding a megaphone.
One time . . . One time have I seen this happen—I’m thirteen again, back on the Empire Clock with Benny before my first race. When they announced the Health Statutes, locking down the Ward and making Transmission of the virus illegal.
“Attention, citizens of the Ward!” Chief’s voice booms through the air.
The announcement
. . . This is what the governor was talking about. I don’t breathe. I imagine no one’s breathing right now.
Across the roof, another man steps quickly off a bridge. Holding his hat, he looks up to the sky, then over to me. As if I know what’s going on.
“Attention,” Chief repeats, body half in the air. “Between the hours of twelve and two A.M., a squadron of pilots will fly through the city. Do not be alarmed. After that time, we ask that all HBNC-positive citizens gather on the rooftops of your respective sickhouses. No arrests will be made. There you will find shipments containing a new drug in development that has been proven effective at eradicating the HBNC pathogen.”
I can hear a hundred breaths catching in a hundred throats, it’s so quiet.
“I repeat.” A pause. “We have a cure for HBNC!”
With that, the heli rises into the air, the chief and his megaphone swinging back into its cockpit. As it spirals out in the direction of the West Isle, headed northwest toward Central Bay, the howling it makes against the blue is the only noise for miles.
Three unsure seconds pass.
Then, the city erupts.
But they don’t have the cure. . . .
From across the canals and gutters, manic yelps ring out in the crisp air. Hoots, high-pitched and frantic, echo all around. With a bird’s-eye view of Mad Ave, I can see everyone who’d ducked under an awning or behind a storefront stepping out. Looking around. As though they’re walking outside for the first time. People hug—people who don’t know one another.
If they don’t have a cure, what are they giving out?
I become my own island, fighting against the dizziness in my head, refusing to move.
“You hear that?” a stranger shouts, and rushes closer. When his eyes land on me, a heady grin splashes across his face. Without a word, he throws his arms round me. He picks me up, lifts me right off my feet. “A cure, they’ve made a cure! It’s a gift from above!”
I push against the stranger’s shoulders, a trapped animal. “They haven’t. . . . It’s not a gi—”
Gift
. It’s not a gift, I’m about to say, but he doesn’t hear, or notice, or believe. I wouldn’t believe either, and then the pieces click together too quickly. . . .
An attack, disguised as a gift . . .
the Trojan horse
.
A CASE FOR DEMOCIDE
.
The gift is the cure.
“Put me down!” I cry as he swings me through the air. I’m a mouse in a mousetrap. A roach on glue. Any living thing about to be exterminated.
Eradicated
.
I’m a host.
“What’sa matter?” The man shakes his head,
tut-tut-
ing. I grapple against him, legs straining to touch ground until finally, he lowers me down. As he walks away he mutters, “Ain’t she happy?” to himself. Looks back at me. I can see him feeling sorry. Pitying me.
All this wasted joy . . . I begin to feel hysterical with its wrongness.
Their cure isn’t a gift.
It’s a poison—it’s their extermination plan
.