Burn (Pure #3)(108)

She doesn’t tell Lyda that she and Bradwell are married. It’s not something anyone else would understand. Can a forest be a church? Are two people’s whispered promises enough?

Lyda squeezes her hand in the dark. “I understand,” she says. “Right now, it’s like I can sense my other self still out in the woods—running through the trees. I want to be her again…”

“It’s not the same out there,” Pressia says, and she explains the effects of the most recent attacks from the Dome—the fires, the destruction, the Special Forces who are younger and rawer and easier to kill. And the soldiers who are like Dusts. The deaths on both sides of the battles.

“And the mothers?” Lyda whispers.

“They’ve survived better than most. Mother Hestra wanted me to tell you that she misses you, that you’re like a daughter to her.”

Lyda sighs. “I can’t live in here for the rest of my life, Pressia. You have to understand. This place has to be stopped. You remember me when I first made it out—pale and weak. I was bred to be pale and weak,” Lyda says. “I was raised to be quiet and sweet. I didn’t know what I was capable of. You go around thinking that it’s not fair that the wretches have to live out there. But I know that it’s not fair that the Pures have to live in here—behind glass, batting around in our little fake world. If the Dome fell, it would be a mercy—not for the wretches, but the Pures.”

“I don’t know…” Pressia says. “Are you sure about that, Lyda? Do you really believe it?”

“It’s something you might never understand. But that’s my truth. Mine.”

“I have the cure, Lyda. I have what they need to help survivors, to save them. Can’t we try to…”

Lyda squeezes her hand in the dark again and tells Pressia about the inner chamber in the war room. “There’s a button. It can release a poisonous gas and kill the survivors. All of them.”

“Who has access to it?”

“Only Partridge.”

“He’d never do it,” Pressia says.

“Even if he thought he was saving people in the process?” Lyda says. “Don’t you think he might be able to rationalize it?”

Pressia says, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I promised the mothers I would try to get you out. That’s what you want?”

“More than anything.”

The bin comes to a stop.

“One more thing, Pressia. Partridge can communicate with other people in distant places. If your father is out there…”

Pressia isn’t completely surprised. The communication system is how Bartrand Kelly knew that Willux was dead and Partridge was in charge. “If I could talk to my father, I’d want to hear his voice. I’d want him to know I’m here. But I can’t think of any of that now. I can’t.”

“I want to think about what it was once like between Partridge and me—how we loved each other. But I can’t think about that either.”

They hear the squeak of door hinges. And then they’re moving again down what seems to be a ramp.

The cart stops once more.

Chandry pulls open the lid, and there, overhead, are stars—thousands of them. Miraculous, inexplicable stars like bright pinholes into other distant worlds. They both stand up, and Pressia expects a gust of wind.

But no, they’re not outside. The image overhead is not the sky. They’re in a theater with curved rows of seats. The sky is only a ceiling—darkness dimpled with bulbs of light.





EL CAPITAN





WORD FROM ON HIGH




The playground where El Capitan and Helmud were strung to a swing set frame and beaten is part of an elementary school, and El Capitan is lying on his side on a moldy handmade cot in what must have once been the library, now roofless with just the beams and rafters left behind. They’re surrounded by metal bookshelves, some of them still clotted with hunks of char and dust—what used to be books? Helmud is taking up most of the flat, dank pillow—so foul it’s not really worth the slight comfort. Sometimes an ex-OSR soldier comes in, gives them sips of water, and quickly leaves.

El Capitan hears voices, smells the smoke of campfires. How many people are out there? He hears sheep. No—a baby crying. His eyes are nearly swollen shut.

Where’s Pressia gone? To the Dome. Where’s Bradwell? Not here. Did he just leave them, surrounded by shelves of dead books? El Capitan gets tired again. He dozes and dreams.

He remembers the way his mother read to them, remembers the big wide pages in the books. El Capitan on the top bunk, Helmud below. Each of them cocooned in white sheets. Summer. A box fan in the corner chopping air—a constant whir. The moon locked in the window.

When she got sick, he wanted to save her. When she was gone, he took over. He sat in her chair and read books to Helmud. One cocoon empty above. When Helmud slept, El Capitan put his face in front of the revolving fan, let it stutter his voice—singing into it from behind.

He’s being prodded. Helmud shifts on the cot behind him.

“A few broken ribs. Mostly contusions. All the cuts have been stitched. Hopefully internal bleeding has stopped.” The voice is rough and low. “Maybe a few fractures in the legs. Hard to say.”