Burn (Pure #3)(115)

“I won’t have to get in too close.” He walks to the bookshelf where Freedle sits on his small pronged legs. “If I get shot, we can still make sure the bacterium makes it.”

“That little creature?” Our Good Mother squints at it. “I remember it now. This was a gift for Pressia from her mother, right? It was how her mother knew that Pressia was being taken care of?”

“Right,” Bradwell says.

Our Good Mother leans in close to the delicate metal cicada. “Her mother is still with us. This is what mothers do. We watch on—even from the grave.” She gives a nod. “This is fitting. Yes. I approve.” With that, she moves to the tarp flap, but before she leaves, she turns back and says, “I had a husband once. You must know that. He left me before the Detonations hit. He’s inside of the Dome, my Death is. Do you know what I’ll do once the Dome falls?”

“What?” Bradwell asks.

“I’ll hunt him down like an animal and kill him in cold blood—preferably with my bare hands.” She smiles. “Mrs. Foresteed killing Mr. Foresteed. I confess, some aspects of war can be very intimate.”





PRESSIA





DOLL HEAD




Chandry, Lyda, and Pressia stand in the center of the planetarium on a small circular stage, with the bin that delivered them here between them. The theater is darkened as if it’s dusk. The stars glint overhead.

“Everything has shut down—stores, schools, restaurants,” Chandry says. “That’s why we could arrange a meeting here.”

“Shut down?” Lyda asks.

“They know what you have,” Chandry says to Pressia. “They know your plan.”

“What are you talking about?” Pressia says, refusing to let on. She’s not convinced she can really trust Chandry. She trusted her enough to get into the bin because it was their only way out, but giving up this secret is different.

“Your revolution. They know.”

“Revolution?” Pressia says. She’s never thought of it as a revolution before, but of course Chandry is right. That’s exactly what it could be.

“We are preparing,” Chandry says, “for the worst, which might be for the better, in the end.”

“Preparing how?” Lyda asks.

“With military force, of course. Armed militia. The Righteous Red Wave is needed once more.” Chandry looks at her watch nervously. Pressia knows the stories of how the Righteous Red Wave took power before the Detonations—a rule of terror and oppression; she wants to know who they’re waiting for. “Who’s coming?” Pressia says.

“A doctor,” Chandry says, and she glances at Pressia’s doll head, as if the doctor is coming to cure her.

“Arvin Weed?” Lyda asks.

Chandry nods.

Pressia knows the name. “He came up to me at the wedding reception.” She feels immediately guilty for bringing the wedding up in front of Lyda. She can sense Lyda’s bristling. “He wanted to talk to me.”

“He was desperate to get you to a safe place to talk,” Chandry says. “And here you are.”

“What does he want?” Pressia asks, aware of the metal box still pressed safely against her skin.

“He thinks you might have something. Something…” Chandry searches for the right word. “Essential.”

Pressia’s stomach flutters. Could this be the person she’s wanted to meet? “You know him? Is he trustworthy?” she asks Lyda.

“I don’t know who to trust. Isn’t that obvious by now?” She’s looking up at the fake stars.

“Is he part of Cygnus?” she asks Chandry. “Like you?”

“I knew your mother,” Chandry says. “We were in a playgroup together—a cover for meetings.”

Any mention of her mother makes Pressia feel physically hungry. She tries not to sound too desperate. “My mother? What was she like back then?”

“She was amazing. A thoughtful sharp mind, a deep heart. I thought the world of her,” Chandry says, staring at her hands. “I thought she could save us.” She looks at Pressia. “Maybe you can.”

Pressia isn’t sure what to say, but there’s no time anyway.

They hear a click. The planetarium’s emergency-exit door opens. A wedge of light slides into the room, and then the door clangs shut.

It’s the young man she saw at the wedding reception—yes, she recognizes him immediately. He walks to the stage and then stands there awkwardly for a moment. “I’ve been trying pretty damn hard to get a minute with you,” he says. “Finally had to do this the hard way.” He looks at Chandry. “Thank you,” he says. “Much appreciated.”

“The least I could do,” she says, and Pressia wonders if she’s indebted to Weed.

He looks at Lyda and smiles. “Been too long,” he says.

She says, “Whose side are you on? Just tell us the truth.”

“I’m on my own side,” he says. “Each one of us is. If you think any differently, you’re delusional.”

“What do you want then?” Pressia asks.

“I know the trip you’ve been on. I know what you may have had access to. I know you might be more like your mother than Partridge ever dreamed you could be.”