Burn (Pure #3)(28)

“Hell no!” Bradwell says.

“Why not? We could start to rebuild,” Pressia says.

“I’m not letting the Pures get out of this,” Bradwell says, his voice rough with anger, “and I sure as hell am not letting them come out as heroes. Not after what they’ve done. Never.”

El Capitan understands. His gut agrees with Bradwell, but he knows what Pressia’s thinking: What does it matter who comes out a hero if there’s a shot at starting over? It’s quiet again. Kelly’s waiting for the next question, and El Capitan knows what it has to be. He says, “What are you proposing exactly?”

“I’ll give you the vial and the formula and get you airborne again, but you have to take the bacterium with you. If you choose not to use it, there’s nothing I can do.” He looks at Pressia for a moment and then back to El Capitan and Bradwell. “But if you want what’s yours, you’ll have to take what’s mine.”

Airborne again. This is what El Capitan really wants right now—to be up in the air.

Pressia turns to Kelly. “If we agree to this, how soon can you get us out?”

He pauses, taking in the volatility of the conversation and then says, “Well, as El Capitan has seen, the airship is nearly repaired. We’ll need another few days, and you’ll need to time the trip so that you’re landing during daylight.”

He opens his satchel, reaches in, and pulls out a small metal case. He pops a small clasp and opens the lid. The box is velvet lined and molded to protect a flat square slide—two pieces of glass held together by a thin welded metal border. He holds the square up to the light, illuminating small red flecks. The bacterium.

“So, are you going to take it with you in exchange for your vial and formula and an airship home?” Kelly says. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime—for all of us.”

El Capitan reaches forward before he even realizes it.

“Wait,” Pressia whispers, but he’s already holding it in his cupped palm.

“The opportunity of a lifetime,” El Capitan says to Pressia.

“For all of us,” Helmud says.





LYDA





SEVENTEEN




We’re not taking a car,” Beckley says. “That drew more attention than it was worth. It’s after curfew now. It should be safer to just walk you there.”

Beckley and another guard are on either side of Lyda and Partridge. They’re walking down the hall to the elevators.

“How many have we lost?” Lyda asks.

“In the last hour alone, seventeen,” Beckley says. “The good news is that some of the other attempts have not been successful.”

“Can’t we put people on watch?” Partridge asks.

They step into one of the elevators. The doors close, and there are Partridge and Lyda’s reflections in a gray blur. She doesn’t like how they both look pale, scared. Most of all, she’s stunned by how young they look. The idea of the war room made Partridge seem powerful; the reality was something else altogether. Now, he looks scrawny, and she’s gripping his hand—not romantically; she’s frightened. She doesn’t like that feeling. Not too long ago, she was out in the wilderness, a hunter. Has the Dome already made her weaker and more frightened? She lets go of him, crosses her arms as if she’s cold.

“Who would we put on watch?” Beckley says, clearly frustrated. “Who’s stable? Who isn’t? It’s impossible to say.”

They step out of the elevator and soon they’re out on the street again, which is empty except for guards posted every one hundred yards or so.

“Martial law,” Beckley says. “For now.”

“And you’re taking us to Lyda’s?”

Beckley sighs. “Just for tonight. Then we’ll move you to another location. We have things to talk about.”

“How are they doing it?” Lyda asks.

“There are more guns out there than before,” Beckley says. “There are caches of arms in certain locations throughout the Dome, in case of an attack from the outside. Some of those have been raided.”

Lyda thinks of Sedge. That was supposedly how he’d killed himself—a self-inflicted gunshot wound. But of course she knows that Partridge might be thinking of Sedge’s actual death—his head exploding as his mother bent to kiss him. She hasn’t been able to shake the stain of the image; she never will. Partridge told her on Christmas Eve how he felt in that moment—the burst of blood and how everything went silent, even the sound of his own screaming. He was furious and dazed.

“Others are cutting their wrists in warm tubs and bleeding out,” Beckley says. “A few have managed to get to rooftops. Some of those we’ve been able to catch in time.”

“And where are they now—those who were caught in time?” Lyda asks, even though she fears she knows the answer.

“The rehabilitation center was already packed. It’s going to be overwhelmed soon if this keeps escalating,” Beckley says.

“That place would only make you want to kill yourself more,” Lyda says. The blank walls, the fake sun, the little paper cups of water and the pills. “It’s awful. It’s a form of punishment.”

They take one of the elevators reserved for the elite that move between levels within the Dome. Again, there’s their reflection. A grim couple. They look straight ahead. She thinks of some of the portrait pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Willux on the floor of the chamber in the war room—so often regally dressed, staring at the camera with forced smiles. And she feels a well of sadness thinking of all the other photos—a mother, her sons, a family that once was and now no longer is. They were all so painfully beautiful, so young—blowing out candles on birthday cakes, riding on a merry-go-round’s painted horses, waving from docks filled with fishing gear. It’s a life she and Partridge and her child won’t have—not here in the Dome and not on the outside.