Burn (Pure #3)(49)

Hastings tumbles in, his metal prosthetic rattling on the floor.

“Go, Cap! We’ve got him!” Bradwell yells. “Go!”

Hastings rights himself and moves quickly back to the open cabin door. He holds up his hand, and then he lets it fall. He sits on the floor of the airship and leans against the wall, propping his good leg.

Bradwell shuts the cabin door, locks it, and sits on the edge of his chair.

Pressia moves quickly to the porthole. The Dusts are lumbering away from Fignan’s music, lugging their heavy bodies back over the broken fence. She sees Fandra. They lock eyes. Pressia spreads her hand on the small circular pane of glass. Fandra nods and smiles. She mouths, “Thank you!” Pressia wants to stop time, wants to confide in Fandra, to tell her everything, but the airship speeds up, banks left.

El Capitan shouts, “Everybody okay?”

“Okay?” Helmud cries.

“We’re all good!” Bradwell says, relieved.

“So glad you made it,” Pressia says, turning to Hastings.

She sees some of Hastings’ prosthetic. Pressia specialized in making prosthetics while at OSR headquarters, and she can tell that the joints aren’t very flexible, but it’s sturdy workmanship. The lower leg is made of two bowed pieces of metal. She figures that they’d have a lot of parts to choose from in a fallen amusement park.

“I made it, yes,” Hastings says, still breathing hard. “But we’re not okay. We’re not all good.”

Bradwell leans forward. “Why are there more survivors at the amusement park now?”

“They had to leave the city,” Hastings says. “It was no longer safe.”

“It’s never been safe,” Pressia reminds him.

“It’s worse now. Attacks—new ones.”

“What kind of attacks?” Bradwell asks.

“Special Forces attacks, and not even really coded troops. The wretches say the Dome is sending out troops that are still just boys, just a little bulked up. The fusings with their weapons are still so raw the skin puckers around them.” Hastings swallows hard. “I’m worried about what’s going on in the Dome.”

“But Partridge is in charge now!” Pressia says. “Things are supposed to be better!”

“Partridge is in charge?” Hastings asks. “Is Willux…?”

“Dead,” Bradwell says. “I don’t like this. What kind of attacks are we talking about?”

“Bloody ones,” Hastings says. “The boy soldiers are killing those in the city—a blood bath—but the mothers have moved in and are picking them off. Bloodshed on all sides.”

Pressia feels sucker punched. Partridge, she thinks, how is this happening? “What else?” Pressia asks, sitting in her seat. “Tell us everything.”

“I only know what I’ve told you. I haven’t seen it myself.”

She doesn’t want to look at Bradwell. Will he blame Partridge?

Bradwell says, “We have the means to take down the Dome, Hastings.”

Hastings is lost. “How? It’s not possible.”

Bradwell explains the bacterium given to them by Bartrand Kelly. “It’s ours now.” The threat lingers in the air.

Pressia sits back and stares up at the curved ceiling. The engines are noise, and the airship bobbles and lifts.

She looks out the porthole again. They’re passing over the terrain quickly—rocks, rusted hulls of trucks, traces of roads, charred rubble. They soon come to Washington, DC, and glide over the fallen tower, the Capitol Building with its crumbled dome, and what was once the White House, reduced to hunks of mossy pale rocks—all that marble and limestone. And then a zebra bounds through tall grass that gives way to marshland and woodland. The airship rises over a hill.

Her heart starts beating more quickly. She takes a deep breath and blows it out. They’re getting close now, and what will she see? Bloodshed.

She closes her eyes. Maybe Hastings is wrong. Maybe this is a miscommunication. Not bloodshed. There’s been enough loss.

But then she hears Bradwell say, “Look at that.”

She doesn’t want to open her eyes, but she does. And there is the darkened horizon—blotted with the rise of fresh smoke. Their city is on fire.





PARTRIDGE





SQUALL




He walks out into the hall—into the shine of the tiles, the glare of fluorescent lights. He blows past Beckley.

“Are you okay?” Beckley asks as he catches up to him.

He doesn’t stop to answer.

Forgive us. Forgive us all.

Weed is there. He touches Beckley’s shoulder and says, “Give me a minute with him.” Weed walks up to him and says, “What’s wrong?”

Partridge shakes his head to try to clear it. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

Partridge walks to the wall and stretches his hand on it; it’s cool to the touch. “I thought I could push it off on everyone else by telling the truth. I thought that made me better or exempt or something.” He sees his father’s eyes widening just as he realized that Partridge had poisoned him. “I’m one of us. No,” he says, and he feels short of breath. “I’m worse.”