Burn (Pure #3)(105)

“What the hell do you want?” Partridge says.

“This is what we’ve been waiting for, Partridge. All these years. It’s time.” His voice sounds almost nostalgic.

“Time for what, Foresteed?”

“They’re coming for us. Your father is dead. It’s just us now. Just us.”

“Who’s coming? You’re not making sense. Jesus. Where’s Beckley? Where’s Iralene?”

“I wanted us to talk alone,” Foresteed says, reaching into the pocket of his dark uniform jacket. “I have another little recording for you, Partridge.” He pulls out the handheld and gives it to Partridge. “Press play.”

“I don’t want to hear any more recordings. You got me?”

Foresteed unbuttons his jacket, reaches into a holster strapped around his chest, and pulls out a small pistol—again, it looks like it’s from the Before. He holds the gun at his side, pointed at the floor. “Press play.” It’s the calmness of his voice that scares Partridge the most—detached, bloodless.

Partridge swallows dryly. He touches the play button. The screen remains dark, but he hears voices—lightly muffled but still distinct.

“We have to get you out.” It’s Pressia’s voice, unmistakably. “They’re going to put you away and take the baby once it’s born.”

Partridge glances at Foresteed, but Foresteed has his back turned. Pressia isn’t talking to Lyda, is she? They won’t take the baby, Partridge wants to say. That’s crazy. Where did Pressia come up with that? His pulse quickens.

“I want to go back to the mothers,” Lyda says. “This place—it can’t be saved.” Partridge almost laughs. Lyda can’t want to go back to the mothers. She’s here, safe. But he knows that Lyda didn’t want to come in in the first place.

“Listen,” Pressia says. “We have the means to take down the Dome.”

“Do you hear that?” Foresteed mutters, turning back to Partridge. With a stiff arm, he starts banging the pistol against his leg.

“Are you really going to?” Lyda says. “Can you?” She sounds hopeful. My God. Why would she want to take the Dome down? Is she just jealous of the wedding? Has she believed Pressia about the baby being taken away? Has she gone crazy?

“If Partridge has turned on us,” Pressia says, “we might have to.”

That’s it. The sounds fade away. Partridge stares at the black shiny screen. “Turned on them?” Partridge says. He feels utterly betrayed. “She walks in here, sees a wedding, and thinks she’s got a handle on the whole situation?” Partridge is stunned, but then he hears the beat of Foresteed’s pistol steadily banging against his leg. Foresteed thinks Pressia’s going to take down the Dome. This is what we’ve been waiting for, Partridge. All these years. It’s time. He thinks the wretches are coming for them. “Listen, Foresteed. They can’t take down the Dome. There’s no way.”

“You don’t know anything. That trip to Ireland put her in contact with a very advanced people who might see us as a threat.”

“No, no.” Partridge rubs the back of his neck. “Something’s wrong. You’ve taken this recording out of context.”

“We have to put a stop to her,” Foresteed says. “She can’t be allowed to gain any momentum. I’ve had to take action.”

Partridge stands up. “Foresteed…what did you do?”

“I’m arming our militia in the Dome.”

“You’re giving out guns to people who’ve been killing themselves?”

“Only our militia—able-bodied men. We must defend what’s ours. The Special Forces troops out there now are pathetic. They were rushed—a bad batch. We have no one protecting us anymore. Not really. I had to open up the stocks.”

“This is crazy. Let me talk to Pressia and Lyda. I can set them straight. It’s just a mix-up.”

“You can’t talk to Pressia and Lyda,” Foresteed says.

“Why not?” Partridge says, feeling threatened.

“They’re gone.”

“What? Are you kidding me?” Partridge walks to the curtains and pulls them wide open. There’s a view of the street. He sees people bustling below, running in all directions. Panic. Are they carrying guns? It’s a disaster. “Gone where?”

“If we knew where they were,” Foresteed says, “you’d be able to talk to them.”

Partridge turns to Foresteed. “Have they gotten out of the Dome?”

“We have no evidence that anyone has escaped. We think they’re here somewhere.”

“It’s a Dome, for shit’s sake! It can’t be that hard to find them!”

Foresteed lifts the pistol, rubs it gently. “You know what we could be in for…”

Partridge takes a deep breath. He imagines the Dome being infiltrated by Beasts, Groupies, the mothers, the OSR… He sees the Pures—pale and dazed, completely unprepared, walking around in their cardigans, their boat shoes. They’ll be bludgeoned to death. The Dome will be ransacked. Special Forces will only make things bloodier. The inferior race—Pures. The wretches will bring diseases with them—ones they’ve already survived but that the Pures won’t have immunities to. If the Dome’s seal is broken, the air itself will choke them. Chaos. Bloodshed. A huge death toll. And then it hits him. “If my sister says she has the means, it’s the truth.”