Burn (Pure #3)(92)

“Don’t bother him with this shit. He doesn’t remember and neither do I. My old name’s dead. I’m El Capitan.”

“What about your last name?” Gorse asks.

“Croll,” El Capitan says quietly. “My father was Sergeant Warret B. Croll. Croll.”

Bradwell scoots closer to El Capitan. He reaches out and holds Helmud’s cheeks in his hands. “When your mother was angry, maybe she called you all by your full names. Moms do that. What did she call El Capitan when she was mad at him?”

“Leave him alone!” El Capitan shouts, pulling backward so his brother’s face slips from Bradwell’s hands. El Capitan stands up. Helmud feels incredibly heavy on his back and sends El Capitan crashing into the wall of empty safety deposit boxes. El Capitan’s head knocks into the metal—a sharp knock. He lets himself slide down to the floor again. He touches his head—no blood.

“What the hell, Cap!” Bradwell says. “We were just messing around!”

“You shouldn’t have let Pressia go in by herself,” El Capitan shouts. “If she dies, it’s your fault. You know that!”

Helmud is propping him up. “Your fault!” he shouts at his brother.

“What?” Bradwell shouts. “You let her go as much as I did!”

“Easy now,” Gorse says, hands in the air.

El Capitan can barely see Bradwell and Gorse. They’re dim and flickering images in his eyes. He glances at the guy in the corner and hates him—suddenly and for no apparent reason. “You shouldn’t have let her go at all.”

“Cap,” Bradwell says, “you know I didn’t have a choice. You know that…”

El Capitan closes his eyes and the ground beneath him feels like it’s loose and spinning. “If she dies,” he says, opening his eyes again, blinking, “the blood is on your hands.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Bradwell shouts, his huge wings flaring at his back.

El Capitan doesn’t even brace for a blow. In fact, he hopes Bradwell attacks him. “We should tear each other up!” he shouts. “Kill each other. Get it all over with already!”

“You sure about that?” Bradwell says.

But then El Capitan hears scuffling and Gorse’s voice. “Let him sleep it off.”

Bradwell’s voice is rough. “I’m not afraid she’s going to die. She’s too tough for that. You know what you’re not thinking of yet, Cap? You’re not worried that she’ll like it—that she’ll choose the Dome over either of us.”

Bradwell’s words sink in slowly, and El Capitan realizes he’s right. Bradwell could always see all the possibilities before El Capitan could. What if she loves it in the Dome? What if she’s gone…not dead, but gone all the same? He can’t think of anything to say—nothing at all. He feels like he’s going to start crying. Damn it. Tears slip from his eyes.

Then he feels a hand on his head. It pushes the hair from his forehead gently, softly. The hand pets his head like he’s a little kid, sweaty from playing in the woods. A voice says, “Waldy. Waldy, Waldy, Waldy.” This is what his mother called him when he was little. Waldy. Short for Walden. “Waldy, Waldy.” Helmud remembers. Helmud pets his head the way their mother did once upon a time when they were innocent, once upon a time when El Capitan was Waldy.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says to Helmud. He means not only their mother but Pressia too.

Helmud wraps his arms around El Capitan, holds him tight. El Capitan draws in air and pushes it out. Helmud keeps holding him. El Capitan covers his eyes with his hands. He’s crying. “I’m sorry.” He whispers, “Forgive me. Forgive me.” He’s sorry not just for his mother’s death, but for all of them. “Forgive me.” The boy in the trap, the Death Sprees, the pens of kids out in the cold. He killed people. He was the cause of death and suffering…

He’s sorry for all of the pain. Everything.

“Forgive me.” It’s what he couldn’t say in the crypt.

But here, now, with Helmud, El Capitan is asking for forgiveness from Saint Wi or God or whatever force might exist beyond them. “Forgive me,” El Capitan keeps saying.

He means, Take this from me.

Take this.

And then he feels it—something breaking open in his chest. And being lifted out.

And it’s gone.





PARTRIDGE





CONFETTI




Dance with me,” Iralene shouts over the music. “Come on.”

Partridge feels dazed. Pressia was going to slap him. His eyes stutter through the crowd, across the banquet tables, shimmering dresses, shining hair, the glinting silverware, the gilded arches in the ceiling. This was Pressia’s first look at the Dome? And he’s at the center of it all, drinking champagne in a hand-tailored tux, next to his bride, his wife? “I can’t,” he says quietly.

And just then, someone somewhere lets loose some pink confetti. It’s blown in from an unseen machine and flits around them. It takes him back to the beginning of it all—running through the massive air filtration system, the giant fan blades, cutting through the pink filters, all the fibers spinning around him. It reminds him of the way ash floats on the air—out there—and of Lyda and what she said about being locked within a snow globe.