Burn (Pure #3)(103)

The guard must nod because Chandry starts moving again, the wheels catching and jittering beneath them. Lyda reaches down to steady herself and feels the tightly woven metal—her armor. It’s here. Maybe Chandry knew this was the way for Lyda to keep it.





EL CAPITAN





ANGEL




El Capitan’s arms are corded, and he hangs on the metal frame of what used to be a tall swing set behind an elementary school. Helmud is gripping his neck. There’s a line of people waiting their turn to beat the two of them with sticks. He can only see through the puffed slit of one eye; the other is swollen shut—this was from the earlier beating: a free-for-all. The survivors’ bodies are bent and warped, but the blurring of his one weeping eye takes away the details of their scars and fusings, which is a mercy.

They’ve chosen their own sticks—some thin and whiplike, others heavy as two-by-fours. One survivor is armed with what looks like an old golf club, bent and kinked. El Capitan and Helmud are covered in a mix of bloody cuts, deep bruises, and welts. El Capitan’s body burns hot and bright with a pain so sharp and deep that his mind feels loose.

And he remembers being little—he was blindfolded, given a stick, and told to beat a brightly colored donkey strung to a tree branch. It was a birthday party. He’d worn new corduroys that swished with each step. His mother stayed the whole time, which was strange, and she held Helmud’s hand instead of letting him wander.

El Capitan knew the birthday girl was from a rich family because they had a swimming pool—though it was fall and the pool was capped.

They’d already opened the presents, and the kids at the party had made fun of his gift—a plastic doll. It was a cheap present, and the birthday girl was too old for it. And so when his turn came, he beat the donkey as hard as he could. And when they said his turn was over, he kept beating it. He beat it and beat it until he heard a pop and the candy rained down, spraying everywhere as the donkey gaped and swayed.

He took off the blindfold and watched the kids scramble. Helmud wrestled loose from his mother’s grip and joined them, but El Capitan was even angrier now. The kids had been rewarded for laughing at him. “Go on and help yourself,” the girl’s father told him, pushing on his back.

He refused. He wasn’t going to dive for some rich kid’s scraps. He stood there and watched. Later, he stole some of Helmud’s candy; someone owed him something.

Now he’s the donkey.

Even if he had no other fault or sin, he deserves this beating for losing the bacterium alone.

He hears people calling his name—jeering. His vision is blurred by sweat and blood. He blinks into the bright light of day. The sun—even clouded as always—sears a burning pain into his skull. He sees Dome worshippers mostly, but some of the mothers have also wandered in. They hate him plenty. He recognizes a few OSR soldiers too. Hasn’t he done good things for them?

Their gaunt faces jump into focus then out again. His recruitment posters promised food without fear and that solidarity would save them. He left, and they were ravaged. They’ve come to view his violent execution because El Capitan abandoned them, because a lot of them have died and those who are still holding on are starving to death. He knows what it is to be abandoned. As a kid, he searched the sky for airplanes, hoping for some small connection to his father, a pilot who left the family before El Capitan could gather even a few memories of the man.

Still, the soldiers look almost happy. Survivors love a beating. There’s so much to pay for. Whenever anyone is chosen to shoulder some blame, it’s a relief. El Capitan knows that feeling. He killed people and sometimes thought, quite simply, People deserve to die.

But he said he was sorry. And whether it was God or Saint Wi or some spiritual force he can’t even comprehend, he felt forgiven. Why are they letting him suffer like this? Does he deserve this beating? Has God already given up on him?

Some of those who stand in line are wiry and stronger than he would think, while others wear their strength with hardened shoulders and beefy guts. El Capitan and Helmud aren’t blindfolded, which seems unfair, as none of them ever just swing at the air. But they are only allowed to hit him three times each. If someone winds up to strike a fourth time, Margit is there to keep the line moving. “Hold it,” she says. “Everybody here wants theirs, so back in line.”

He looks for Bradwell. He was forced to watch the free-for-all, but he wasn’t beaten in the process. The survivors still hold him in some regard. He’s gone.

Some of the survivors say a name when they beat him—someone dead, someone El Capitan killed or could have saved if he hadn’t helped set up such an evil regime as the old OSR. Each name rings in his mind. At first, he arched and fought the blows then only braced for them, and now he accepts them.

A short man with wide-barreled ribs strikes El Capitan’s thighs with a two-by-four. “Minnow!” he cries. “Minnow Wells. My Minnow!” It sounds like the pet name for a child—like the way El Capitan’s mother in some deep way changed who he was when she stopped calling him Waldy. Was Minnow this man’s daughter or son? His sweetheart?

El Capitan takes the blows. “Minnow. Minnow Wells,” he whispers.

He knows there will likely be a final blow, like the one he dealt the pi?ata. He’ll probably die of internal wounds rather than blood pouring from him. Will his heart stop first or will Helmud’s?