Burn (Pure #3)(46)

“We know it,” Helmud says.

El Capitan tightens his grip on the wheel and leans forward. He circles again. The Dusts are roaming the park. A few are hunched over a body—a survivor? Another Dust? They’re feasting.

Up ahead, Hastings and Fandra are waiting at the top of the roller coaster, their clothes rippling.

And then they wobble. They look at one another and then below.

“What’s wrong?” Pressia says.

“The Dusts,” Bradwell says.

El Capitan sees that they’ve gathered at the base of the roller coaster. They’re bashing it with their shoulders.

“We can’t leave Fandra,” Pressia says. “We can’t abandon them.”

“What other options do we have?” El Capitan says.

“It’s too terrible to imagine how they’ll all die. Too terrible.” Pressia’s eyes well up, and she covers her face with her one hand and tucks the doll head under her chin. El Capitan wants to comfort her, but he can’t; even if he could take his hands off the controls, he wouldn’t touch her in front of Bradwell.

But just as the horror of it all starts to wash over El Capitan—these Dusts devouring survivors in the bombed-out amusement park—a few tinny notes fill the air. Fignan. He’s playing back a recording that he must have captured the last time they were here.

They all turn and look at Fignan, who detects the sudden attention and quiets down.

“Fignan!” Pressia cries. “You’ve got it!”

Fignan flashes his row of lights proudly.

“And he can blast it louder too,” El Capitan says to Bradwell. “Can’t he?”

“Blast it,” Helmud says.

“Yes,” Bradwell says, “but—”

“We’ll have to hand him over,” Pressia says.

“Wait,” Bradwell says. “There has to be another way.”

“But Fignan can save them!” Pressia says. “Who knows what happened to their system.”

“But we can’t hand him over,” Bradwell says. “He’s got important information. He’s one of a kind.”

“We have to. They’re going to die. They need him.”

And then Fignan’s lights pulse and again the little tune rises up from him—light and soft and quick.

“Get to the door in the cabin,” El Capitan says. “Be ready to pull Hastings in and lower Fignan down. I’ll find a way to hold this thing steady.”

“Keep playing, Fignan,” Pressia says, picking him up and carrying him out of the cockpit. “As loud as you can.”

“Careful with him,” Bradwell says, following her out. Fignan has become his loyal companion, an old friend.

Fignan gets louder and louder until the notes are shrill and piercing, even over the growling engines. El Capitan releases the four long legs that steady the ship on the ground. Hastings is still coded for strength, agility, speed. Hopefully he’s strong enough—after his loss of blood, his loss of a limb—to grab hold. The landing legs buzz loudly and then lock into place.

El Capitan feels a gust of wind whipping in through the cabin. Pressia and Bradwell have gotten the cabin door open. El Capitan allows the buckies to take on more air. The airship lilts and sways and glides toward Hastings, who’s locked his legs—one real, one prosthetic—on the final rung of the roller coaster, now swaying from the frantic Dusts beating it below. El Capitan won’t be able to see if he slows the airship enough for Hastings to grab hold. It will happen under the hull.

In his final glimpse of them, Fandra is looking at the Dusts below, and Hastings stretches out both arms, reaching up.





PARTRIDGE





COAL




Arvin Weed is leading Partridge and Beckley through a wing of the medical center. Arvin is explaining that Mrs. Hollenback is sharing a room that should only be a single. “Nothing we could do at the time. Of course, the other two patients have been temporarily moved—to give you privacy. It’s been a mad house,” Weed tells him. “At one point, we had beds lining the halls.”

This makes Partridge’s chest tighten. He’d like to have his dead father keep shouldering the blame, but how long can he keep that up? Rationalizing—that’s what Weed called it, and he was right.

There are only a few medical personnel, talking over a stack of charts. All of the doors they pass by are shut. He feels guilty for thinking that Foresteed was exaggerating the epidemic of suicides. Maybe Partridge just wanted a reason not to believe it and accept the guilt.

“Does Mrs. Hollenback know I’m coming?” Partridge asks.

“I asked to have her prepped for the visit. I asked a lot of the people on staff if she’s ready for this,” Arvin says. “They thought it might actually be really good for her. She loved you like her own, you know.”

Partridge knows that she accepted him into her home and was kind about it, but he’d always felt like a burden on some level. “She was good to me,” he says.

Now they walk up to Mrs. Hollenback’s door. Her name is on her chart, sitting in a holder attached to the wall: HOLLENBACK, HELENIA. FEMALE. AGE 35.

Only thirty-five? She’d always seemed old.

Weed hovers a few feet from the door. It’s strange to Partridge suddenly how grown-up Arvin is—a doctor, a scientist, a genius. Weed hates him and has for a while—that’s what Partridge figured out from their heated conversation. Still, he can’t help but be impressed by Weed; he seems like an adult already and Partridge feels like he’s only faking.