Burn (Pure #3)(117)

How could she prepare for being given everything she’s ever wanted? “Be good to your promise, Arvin Weed.”

“You know, Willux killed my parents too,” Weed says. “I’m supposed to say that my little sister died of complications at birth. But she was a hostage. My parents did what Willux wanted, but he killed her anyway. And then when I was a little older, they caught colds and didn’t recover, as if something benign as a cold killed them. I’ve played along, Pressia. I’ve played and played and played. And now I just want to save them.”

“Who?”

“So many of them—too many to count…” Weed can’t speak for a moment. His voice is choked by sadness. He coughs and says, “Willux made me create them. Now it’s my responsibility to keep them alive.” He looks at Pressia and Lyda suddenly as if so deep in thought he’d forgotten they were there. “I’ll send word to Partridge that you’re coming.” He grips the metal box, raises it in his fist. “Thank you,” he says, and as he walks back to the door, he shouts over his shoulder, “Take the spear, Pressia. At some point, you’re going to need it.”





EL CAPITAN





HEART




They’re moving—all of them: Groupies, mothers, OSR soldiers, Dome worshippers, even a few Basement Boys, and families that were smoked out of the city and headquarters and the outposts. There aren’t many Special Forces left, but every once in a while, one will skirt the edges, sniff the air, and before getting shot, dart off.

The survivors crowd into the woods at the edge of the barren territory, which rises uphill to the Dome, gleaming white and crowned with sleek black weapons, its cross piercing the dark clouds.

El Capitan is propped on either side by OSR soldiers, who are shouldering his and Helmud’s combined weight. His bones ache, especially his broken ribs, and his skin is turgid from bruises and deep swelling. Where the ropes dug into his wrists there are now bandages.

Bradwell is talking to a group of mothers. Everyone moves with quiet intensity, hushed electricity. El Capitan’s relieved that their unifying purpose is no longer killing him and Helmud.

The mothers have been organizing the herd. Survivors fan out in either direction to circle the Dome. And they’ve sorted out the ones who will stay—children, those who will watch over them, and those who are more burden than help. They’re putting up a few makeshift tents to cut the wind and cold, and that’s where the two OSR soldiers stop.

“This one will work,” one of them mutters.

“I’m not going in a tent,” El Capitan says.

“Not going!” Helmud says.

“Sir, we were told to set you up in a tent.”

“No. I’m staying with Bradwell. He goes. We go.”

“We go,” Helmud says.

“But you can’t really walk, sir,” the OSR soldier says.

“Bradwell!” El Capitan shouts, breaking the quiet.

Bradwell walks over. “What?”

“We’re not sitting this out in a goddamn tent.”

“Cap, you’re not in any condition—”

“We’re coming with you. Even if I have to crawl, we’re coming.”

“Seriously, you can’t even—”

“I’m not going for the reasons I always thought I would. I’m going because I’m not letting you go alone. We’re like brothers.”

“Brothers,” Helmud says.

Bradwell looks up into the tops of the stunted trees. “Fine,” he says. “If you’re coming with me, I want you to promise me something.”

“What?” El Capitan says.

“If I don’t make it,” Bradwell says, “I want you to check my heart.”

“Your heart?”

“Just make sure it’s no longer beating. Make sure it’s stopped.”

“If you die, you want me to put my ear to your chest and make sure your heart’s not beating?”

“Yeah. And take Gorse to his sister. That’s what I want, and don’t ask me anything more about it.”

“Okay,” El Capitan says. “You’re not going to die anyway, Bradwell.”

Bradwell doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he says, “The wind is strong today. Isn’t it?”

El Capitan nods. “Pretty strong.”

“Hopefully it’ll keep up,” Bradwell says, and he walks away.

“The wind?” El Capitan says. “We’re talking about the wind?”

“The wind,” Helmud says.





PARTRIDGE





TIED WITH STRING




The long mahogany table is actually a screen. It’s projecting a live map—the Dome sits in the center. Partridge looks down at the image. Small dark flecks have circled the Dome, and more are coming—flecks are pouring out of the woods.

“It’s produced through a compilation of various cameras that tag movement and follow it,” Beckley explains.

“Each fleck is a survivor?” Partridge says. It’s really happening. He realizes now that he never fully believed it.

“Correct.”