Burn (Pure #3)(51)

“You’re making more changes,” Weed says. “Don’t you know these people can’t handle change?”

Partridge turns on Weed. “Who are you, Arvin Weed? Who the hell are you? You want all of this to keep going? Why? Out of respect?”

There’s a man’s guttural cry—not far off. Partridge runs to a door. It’s locked. “Open this door. Now.”

Weed walks to a panel on the door. He enters a code. As the door opens, he shouts, “Incoming!”

There are three people wearing surgical gear lightly splattered in blood. Cuffed to the wall is a man. Partridge can see his arms streaked with blood, covered in precise incisions. On the table in front of him there’s a Taser, a metal rod, and surgical implements.

“Step away!” Partridge shouts.

They all step back.

And now Partridge sees the man in his entirety; his body has been cut open and stitched back up. He’s been beaten so badly that his skin is blackened with bruises. His face is so swollen that it’s unrecognizable—almost.

Partridge’s heart is beating so loudly in his ears it’s deafening. He walks up and says, “Mr.—”

The man’s eyes open, and yes—it’s him. Glassings. His World History teacher, the man who lectured on beautiful barbarism.

“Partridge,” he says through his swollen, split lips.

“Teacher,” Partridge says, and then he spins around and says, “Get him down. Now! I want him taken to my apartment. Nowhere else. I want him given round-the-clock care. You hear me? Now!”

“He’s your enemy,” Weed says.

Partridge clenches his fist, swings, and punches Weed in the jaw so hard Weed staggers into the wall and slides down it. Weed looks up at him, dazed. Partridge is stunned too. He forgets that he has some coding in him—strength, speed, agility. Not a lot—not like Special Forces—but more than Weed, who was brought in for brain enhancements, not those of the body.

Partridge faces the others. “Get a doctor,” he says. “Move!” He walks back to Glassings. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, but Glassings has lost consciousness. His face is slack.

Partridge can’t stand to be in this room anymore. He looks at all the instruments, the remaining torturers’ blank faces. He says to Beckley, “Make sure they do it right.”

Partridge heads for the door, passing Weed, who’s rubbing his jaw.

“Where are you going?” Beckley asks.

“Just stay,” Partridge says. “Make sure they treat him respectfully. Make sure…” But he can’t even finish the sentence. He glances at Weed and is sure that he’s smirking at him. He’d like to punch him again.

But he turns and walks out. Glassings. He loves him. When Partridge was sure his father didn’t care about him, he thought of Glassings as a father figure—and he can’t bear what they’ve done to him.

He hears Beckley’s voice—“Careful now! Careful!”—and then he starts running down the hall. His knuckles are ringing with pain, but it felt good to punch Weed. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he keeps running until he is back at the bank of windows.

He rests his fists and his forehead against the glass and looks at all of the swaddled bodies, the small buds of the faces. He says, “I’m going to be a father.” And he’s scared—of what Mrs. Hollenback did to herself and what’s been done to Glassings and of the future, but mostly in this moment he’s afraid of the infants’ delicate skin, the tiny fingers, the eyes that barely open. He takes his fists from the window and puts them in his pockets. He’s not allowed to be scared anymore.





PARTRIDGE





LOVEBIRD




They’re in the academy gardens, surrounded by fake shrubs, fake flower beds, fake birdcalls in the fake trees. It’s winter, but they keep the garden looking like spring. Partridge hates the dishonesty. He’s still shaken by what he saw in the medical center. The shine of this garden—the cheery polish of buds and waxy leaves—only reminds him of the ugliness that’s hidden under the surface of things in the Dome.

Partridge and Beckley are waiting for Iralene and the photographers who are supposed to catch them on this date, as if it’s not all staged. He’s restless. She’s late. He doesn’t want to be here anyway.

“I want to see Glassings set up right. Make sure he has nurses coming in shifts and everything he needs, okay?”

Beckley nods.

“And when I say we’re done here, we’re done.” Partridge feels guilty. Even though Lyda urged him to go through with this charade, it feels like a betrayal. But he can’t bail. What if there were another surge in suicides? He’d only have himself to blame. And he can’t take on any more guilt. He feels like his chest is leaden with it all.

It’s quiet except for the birdcalls. Partridge looks at the dimpled center of a sunflower and wonders if it could be a small speaker. He trusts nothing.

Beckley says, “I can’t believe how you laid into Arvin Weed.” He smiles broadly.

Partridge rubs his knuckles. “I didn’t think about it. I just did it.” He looks at Beckley’s broad shoulders. “You’ve got some coding in you, right? There’s a mummy mold in the medical center with your name on it, I bet.”