Burn (Pure #3)(124)

Bradwell takes a deep breath. “We’re unarmed,” he says. “El Capitan said that was the only way to do this. Unarmed. All of us together.”

“If you bring down the Dome, Pures will die. They can’t live outside the Dome. Most won’t make it,” Partridge says. “So you seem pretty well armed to me.”

El Capitan starts to speak. Hastings’ eyes quickly focus on him, and his face fills the screen. “You’d choose to kill survivors to save Pures?”

“Don’t you see the death toll on either side?” Partridge asks.

“Do the deaths of wretches count for less?” Bradwell says.

“None of you can understand. I’m going to be a father. I’ve got a baby on the way—you don’t know what it’s like to worry about raising a child out there.”

“Partridge,” Bradwell says, “we were children out here. We know what that’s like, and you never will.”

“My own child!” Partridge says. “My own child has to be able to breathe and grow and thrive. He can’t do that out there.”

“Your child?” Iralene says, as if it’s just now dawning on her how much this child means to him. Does she think she’ll be the mother of the child? Or is she talking about Lyda?

Pressia says, “The baby isn’t just yours. In fact, right now, the baby isn’t yours at all.”

“They’ll kill me—you know that. I’ll be the first to die. They’ll kill Iralene too. Pures and wretches—it doesn’t matter who. They’ll kill us. You know what we represent.” He presses his hands against the wall. “He’s in me. He’s inside of me. My father. He’s not just in the air all around us. He’s inside of my body. His blood is my blood.”

Pressia watches his hand, the one with the pinky that’s now fully grown back, the one dangerously close to the command button. She can’t rush Partridge with the spear. He’s been coded for strength and speed. He’d overtake her easily.

But she glances at Iralene. She’s a Pure—she’s the weaker race; that’s what Willux came to believe. And so Pressia reaches for Iralene’s pale wrist. She grabs it and spins her around, twisting her arm and jamming it up between her shoulder blades. The letters and photographs that she’d collected in her arms fall to the floor, a spray of faces, birthdays, bicycles, Christmas trees, and handwritten notes—pages and pages of them. Her skin feels thin and chilled. Pressia shoves Iralene’s face against the wall, pinning her other arm with Pressia’s hip and holding the spear tip to her throat.

“Walk away from it,” Pressia says, “or I’ll kill her.”

Partridge glares at Pressia. He clenches his fists and stands completely still. “Hastings,” Partridge says. “Get Bradwell.”

Partridge’s voice is tinny and cold. Get Bradwell. The words are a sick echo in Pressia’s head, a ringing that won’t stop.

Hastings has no choice.

He pushes Bradwell to the ground, puts his good foot on Bradwell’s chest. Bradwell’s wings splay beneath him. Hastings aims one of the guns lodged in his arms at Bradwell’s heart.

There’s the red bead of light.

Bradwell stares into Hastings’ eyes, but he’s only talking to Pressia. He says, “I’m sorry.”

Pressia can’t breathe. She knows what he’s sorry for—not what’s happened, no. He’s saying he’s sorry for what’s about to happen.

“No!” she screams, still holding Iralene tight. “No!”

And then Bradwell starts to fight back. He bucks. He kicks Hastings and tries to wrestle himself up from the dirt. His wings beat against the dirt, filling the air with more dust and ash.

The screen darkens. Bradwell’s face is lost in the dark cloud.

“Stop resisting!” Hastings orders. “Stop now!”

Pressia shouts at Partridge. “Do something!”

But Partridge doesn’t understand, does he? Bradwell is fighting to the death. He’s fighting, knowing he’ll die.

The screen goes black.

Hastings has shut his eyes.

And then there’s a gunshot.

Just one.

A few survivors scream.

And then silence.

And then there’s a cry—loud and long.

It’s followed by another cry—just as loud and just as long.

An echo of the first.

Pressia drops the spear. She loses her grip on Iralene, who remains completely still, her body leaning against the wall.

“He’s dead,” Pressia whispers.

*

Hastings is stiff, his guns poised on the crowd. He is a soldier. He stands his ground.

El Capitan kneels next to Bradwell. He’s terrified of all of the blood, so sudden and quick, spreading across Bradwell’s chest. Helmud holds on to El Capitan’s neck. He grips his shirt in his skinny fists.

“Bradwell,” El Capitan says breathlessly. He’s supposed to check his heart. But the blood has soaked his shirt. There can’t be much left of his heart.

El Capitan’s hands are shaking so badly he can barely get hold of Bradwell’s shirt. But when he does, he rips it wide open.

The wind gusts.

Small sheets of bloody paper lift.