Burn (Pure #3)(125)

El Capitan sits back as the wind collects the papers and sends them out over the dry dirt.

Hastings’ boot steps on one, its edges soaked red.

El Capitan picks one up.

We are here, my brothers and sisters,

to end the division, to be recognized as human,

to live in peace. Each of us has the power

to be benevolent.

There is no cross on the bottom of the message. Only random splatterings of Bradwell’s blood.

The survivors pick up the sheets. They gather around Bradwell.

His body lies on a blanket of his black-feathered wings. The bloody white sheets of paper keep fluttering up from his chest like an unending ribbon pulled by the wind.

His arms are spread wide, his hands open—and from one of them, Freedle appears. Nearly lost in the spinning, swirling sheets of paper, Freedle spreads his mechanical wings and takes flight, heading toward the Dome.

*

Pressia can’t breathe. She can’t cry. Bradwell is dead. He knew that he was going to die. If we don’t see each other again…She should have stayed with him. She shouldn’t have left. He knew, and he didn’t tell her—not the whole truth. He said if… if, if, if… She thought it was just the beginning.

She can still remember his kiss. Will she always remember it? Is it burned onto her lips? This is why he made her promise to be together here, now, and beyond—in case there’s a heaven…in case of what might lie ahead.

She puts her fist to her heart. She and Bradwell are still locked together. There is no better church than a forest. In the end, a wedding is between two people—what they promise in a whisper.

She isn’t sure why, but now she feels fear. It seizes her chest. She knows what it is to feel the shock of grief, what it’s like to mourn. But what she feels is terror. He is gone. The realization that the world still exists and he doesn’t—this is what she’s been most afraid of. And here it is.

She looks at the ground littered with the photographs of Partridge’s happy childhood.

Partridge walks toward her. “I killed him,” he says.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me.”

Partridge is a ghost.

Iralene says, “You didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t. You didn’t kill him. Hastings did it!”

“Shut up,” Pressia says. “Shut up!”

Iralene slides down the wall and sits on the floor. She stares blankly.

“Pressia,” Partridge says, “I did the right things. I swear. I didn’t know that Hastings was going to kill him.”

“Hastings was programmed to kill anyone who resisted. Bradwell knew it. It’s why he fought back.”

“I gave the order,” Partridge says, his voice so hoarse it’s barely audible. “I could have called Hastings off. I could have done something.”

“You got us here,” Pressia says. “You drove us all to this moment. You’ve done worse than not calling off Hastings.”

“I wasn’t going to push the button,” Partridge mutters. “I wouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t have.”

“No,” Iralene says. “You wouldn’t have. I know you wouldn’t have.” Then, with hope in her voice, she adds, “Maybe that stopped them. Maybe they’ll turn back now.”

“Freedle,” Pressia says. “Didn’t you see him? He’s carrying the bacterium. It’s coming. It works fast.”

There’s pounding on the door. They hear Beckley’s loud, urgent voice. “The people are rising up in the streets! They want blood!”

“They’re coming for us,” Iralene says.

“They’ll find us here,” Partridge says. “I know they will.”

The screen is still playing out the scene. Hastings’ eyes are wide open. He scans the crowd of people. El Capitan is shouting, “We keep going. This is what he wanted. We move forward. Together!” His face is streaked with black ash. He’s wiped his bloody hands on his shirt.

And then Hastings turns. He walks toward the Dome and stands in line between two other soldiers.

“The Dome is coming down, and when it does, I’m getting out and going home,” Pressia says. She walks to the door, opens it, and stands in the conference room. Beckley is standing next to Pressia’s grandfather, who sits in one of the leather chairs, Lyda at his side.

“You’ll come with us,” Pressia says to her grandfather. “We’ll keep you safe.”

He’s scared, but he nods. Once upon a time, he was the stranger who took her in. This time, she’ll be the one to take care of him.

*

Partridge stares at Lyda, still shocked that she’s here, so close, and yet she’s still distant. Things have changed between them. What has this been like for her? He remembers Pressia telling Lyda that they were going to take the baby from her. Did she believe that? Was it the truth? He doesn’t know what’s true anymore. Maybe he never has. Pressia will tell her what happened in that room. She’ll tell Lyda that he could have saved Bradwell and that he failed. His friend is dead. Partridge hesitated. Why? Out of anger, spite, or did he really think he was doing the right thing, trying to save his people? Deep down, is that the way he thinks of the Pures—as his people? He may never know his own truth. Maybe this is how it began for his father—one act that he couldn’t ever take back and he had to decide what kind of person he was. Partridge wants to be good. He’s always wanted to be good, hasn’t he? Right now, he has to decide how they’re all going to try to survive. “You could have run. You probably should have. Why’d you stay?” Partridge asks Beckley.