Burn (Pure #3)(83)

“They’ll lay down cover for you,” Mother Hestra says. “It’s the best we can do.”

“Did you give her warning? Special Forces are different out there now,” one of the mothers says to Mother Hestra.

“I know,” Pressia says. “I’ve seen ’em.”

“The ones like Dusts?” Mother Hestra asks.

Pressia shakes her head. “What? Like Dusts? How?”

“No time to explain. You’ll see,” one of the mothers says, loading a catapult with a grenade.

The other mothers move in around her. They explain what’s going to happen.

“We’ll attack from here.”

“You walk the woods’ edge that way.”

“And we’ll distract.”

“Okay,” Pressia says.

Mother Hestra hands her a knife. “I don’t think it’ll be of much use, but at least you’ll have it.”

Pressia thanks her and slips it between her belt and the waist of her pants.

Mother Hestra backs away from her, gives a wave, and then turns to go.

“Wait,” Pressia says.

But Mother Hestra starts running into the woods. And in a few quick strides, she and her son are lost in the trees and the brush. Gone. Pressia wanted another moment—one more good-bye. But she realizes nothing would have made this easier. She squints at the Dome and then starts walking the edge of the woods. She just has to manage not getting shot on the way to the Dome, and then hopefully she’ll have a chance to say who she is, her connection to Partridge, and be brought in—as a prisoner? Her goal is to be taken in alive.

She hears something in the woods—the crunch of leaves. Are the mothers following her? Do they not trust her? They could decide at any moment to pull their offer and attack her. She starts walking faster. It could be a Beast or Special Forces. It could be anyone, anything. She shouldn’t run, because she needs to pace herself, but she sees something—a shape darting between distant trees. She starts running, just inside the tree line. She can’t expose herself—not until the mothers fire their first shot.

Through the limbs of passing trees, she sees the motion of a gray shape, then a twisted horn. Finally, she sees a clearing and a sheep, standing stock-still, staring at her with engorged eyes. The sheep has gray wool and a long twisted horn that curls over his skull. He’s lost from his herd, maybe the only one still alive. He bleats at her with a voice as sad and desperate as the boy—the soldier—with the stumped arm in the city, shot dead. The sheep paws the wet ground as if making a demand. One back hoof is gnarled, nearly useless. He’s gaunt and his ribs protrude. Starving.

She walks toward him. His teeth jut out; his jaw is crooked. He bleats again, showing a bluish tongue. She reaches out her hand. The sheep inches closer to sniff it. She reaches up and touches the tuft under his chin. “It’s okay,” she whispers. He nuzzles her fingers.

Beautiful, alone, starving. She can’t help him. She couldn’t save Wilda either. She isn’t sure that she can save herself.

And then there’s an explosion. The sheep jerks its head up and then darts off, bounding deep into the woods.

It’s time. The mothers have started their barrage. Pressia walks toward the barren land she has to cross and stands behind a tree. She sees the smoke and the rising dust and ash from the first grenade. The clouded air will help provide cover.

She looks at the incline standing before her—at the top of it, the Dome itself.

And then the hill starts to shift. Bodies emerge, covered in dust and ash. Where did they come from? How long have they been there? They’re lean boys, lumbering toward the explosion, and then just as quickly as they appeared, some disappear again, becoming one with the ground—fully camouflaged. The mothers send out another grenade. It hits the wet ground and then, after a few seconds, explodes. The boys start firing into the woods, but she can’t even see any of them. Occasionally, the dirt seems to move, but then nothing.

She has to start running. The mothers have already wasted two grenades. She scans the ground and takes off sprinting. Like the sheep, she thinks. Like the sheep who’s lost the herd.

The grenades, though far off to her right, are deafening. They send up gusts of smoke and ash. One explodes and she’s sure it’s hit nothing, but then from the ground there’s a spray of blood and flesh. Her grandfather once explained land mines to her, and it’s as if the boys themselves are living land mines—ever shifting invisible land mines.

She keeps running as fast as she can, hoping that if she gets to the Dome, she’ll have enough breath in her lungs to explain who she is. I’m Partridge Willux’s sister. Tell him Pressia is here.

But then the ground disappears under her feet, and she falls into a shallow pit.

The dirt dents and gives and crumbles around her as she tries to get up.

An elbow.

An arm.

A gun lodged in the arm and pointed at her.

A face freshly punctured and embedded with glass—so new that there are fresh scabs crystallized around each piece. It’s a boy’s face. He has a crooked nose and dark red lips, and when he smiles—why is he smiling?—she sees the worst part. He’s still wearing braces—though crusted with dirt.

I’m Partridge Willux’s sister. Tell him Pressia is here. She thinks these words but realizes she isn’t saying them. The wind is harsh. The air is thick. The boy’s face—his smile—appears between swaths of smoke.