Evolution (10 page)

"Oscar," Matt says, very softly.  How did he
know my thoughts?  Did he feel the tremble pass through me?  Did he
see my tears?  He moves away from me enough to pet my hair.  The
touch is soothing.  Grounding.

I swallow and gaze up at the tree.  Listen to the
silence of Matt's Christmas.  For a moment—for the first time ever—I feel
peace settling in over us, sleepy and quiet.  I feel the transformation
that is happening in us, and the possibility of transformation yet to
come.  I can touch the flitting vision of a future that none of us had
dared to hope for.  I glance around, and I see it on those faces,
too.  This moment
is
magical.

The silence is broken by the sound of something, far
off.  A branch, perhaps, snapping.  There is no wind.  And the
sound comes again.  Behind me, I sense Matt turning his face toward the
southern wall.  My breath catches as I translate the noise into
footsteps.  Heavy, metallic footsteps.  What was first a single noise
is suddenly many.  A chorus.  A drumming of steel.  We are all
looking toward the wall, now.  Around me, the sharp intake of many breaths
forms a collective gasp.  We all recognize it at once— the Sentries have
come again.

"Steady," Matt says quietly as I turn to
him.  His voice carries clearly through the cold night.  He's looking
off toward the wall, his eyes narrowed.  He doesn't move.  Like he's
just waiting.

Panic flutters in my brain, a bird shaken from its
cage.  I open my mouth to ask about the plan—to demand he do something to
protect us.  But I'm frozen.  My words are ice in my throat. 
All I can do is swallow.

A flood light, sudden and blinding, shines in from beyond
the wall.  It swamps the Outpost in cold white, casting long black shadows
between us, turning everything to confusion.  Arms shielding eyes. 
People stumbling and clinging to each other.  Fingernails digging in to
wrists.  We are about to have a stampede.

Matt walks away from me.  Then I notice it. 
Others have slipped away.  Matt's men.  We’re going to be OK. 
He’s got a plan, and plenty of people to execute it.

I glance wildly around for something to do.  A way to
help.

A pulse of light flares, brighter than the one shining onto
us.  Half a second later, the ground shakes.  Outside the wall,
something explodes.  Black smoke lit by orange flames billows up into the
clean night air.  I stumble but keep my feet, straining to see toward the
southern wall.  A long, thin beam of red light pierces through the
blackness, faded in places by clouds of gray fume.  Where it finds metal,
it slices through.  Steel comes apart and clunks to the ground.

Crashes and explosions sound from just beyond the
gates.  A flash of silver leaps onto the wall and over, followed by three
more.  Sentries are swarming in from outside.  A massive, collective
scream goes up from the residents of the Outpost.

Our Sentries sprint through the streets to intercept. 
There is a clash of metal.  One Sentry grabs another and throws it into
Canson’s store, sending boards splintering into a thousand pieces, fragments
flying.  Our Sentry recovers itself, aims its arm at the first one, and
fires a projectile weapon that explodes on impact.

The ground moves under me, and I stumble one way, then the
other.  The tinkling of glass chimes behind me, beautiful and haunting,
like the rush of a wave.  The crowd shrieks.  I hear my name. 
His voice.  Hands grab me from behind and drag me, staggering,
backward.  I don't resist, but the ground does.  Swarms of people
scream around me, pummeling me in their panic.  They don’t know which way
to run.  I'm moving half sideways, half backward, and being dragged by
someone having as much trouble as me.  My feet are jolted from underneath
me.  I try to catch myself, but fail.  I land on my backside,
twisting the wrong way.  Above me, I see it wavering over us,
tipping.  Branches, and glass, and swinging blue lanterns.  Groaning
cables.

"Eden!"  It's the cry of Apollon's voice,
screeching above the noise of battle.  I see him half a block away, his
face filled with horror.  Above me, a cable snaps.  The tree tips,
showering us with glass.  Hands thrust under my armpits and drag me
backward just as it falls.  I'm half-thrown toward the alley, but land
well before the protection of the opening.  A body leaps on top of me, a
black shadow against the harshness of the light.  Branches and needles and
glass crash toward us.  We're battered with splintering wood and glass,
and lashed by a cable.  The body above me bears the brunt of it with sharp
grunts and a hiss of pain.  Chaos gives way to aftermath.  To a roar
of fire.  To panting.  To the smell of smoke, and alcohol on his
breath.  A rush of heat against the chill of night.  Around us, cries
of panic.  Above me, a single, soft moan of agony.  My heart races
with joy and fear.

Footsteps run toward us, dodging panicking people and a mess
of branches.  Apollon's hands dig us out, break and throw flaming branches
to the side.

"Jonas," I whisper, my fingers reaching to find
his face, thrilling to touch him.  "Jonas, are you OK?"

All I get in answer is a groan.  He's limp on top of
me.

Then Apollon has us clear.  He kicks aside a lantern
dangerously leaking its aether toward us, stamps on the needles that start to
ignite in the blue half-gas.  The fire is too close anyway.  He pulls
Jonas roughly off me and drags him to safety, slumping him against the alley
wall just beyond the reach of the flames.

I scramble after him, kneeling at Jonas’ side.  I take
his lolling head in my hands, holding it still, and look into his glazed green
eyes.  My heart is suddenly in my throat.  "Jonas," I
hiss.  "Jonas."

Again, he groans.

"He's hurt," I say to Apollon, not looking up at
him.  My voice breaks unexpectedly.  "His head.  I
think—"  A massive wave of screams sounds from not far away, metal
crashing, another explosion.  But all I can think of is Jonas.  How
he’s hurt.  How he sacrificed himself to protect me.

"He's piss drunk," Apollon corrects me, standing
at our side.  "He's had nearly a fifth of whiskey."

Now, I look up at him.  His stance is casual,
unconcerned.  Just behind him, chaos rages.

"Are you OK?" Apollon asks.  He glances off
behind us at the growing fire, at the continued crash and flare of explosions.

I manage a nod, but I look at Jonas again.  "He's
hurt," I insist.  But then I'm shaking him by his arms. 
"Are you hurt?" I demand, annoyance rising in me.  "Are you
hurt, or are you just drunk?"

Jonas groans again and half raises an arm to fend me
off.  "Stop," he says, or at least that's what I think he says.

"Probably both," Apollon concedes.  He
glances at the fire and battle again, then stoops and hauls Jonas away from the
wall to look at his back.  He pulls the collar of his jacket and shirt
back, and peers inside.  He grimaces.  "The cable got him pretty
good," he says.  "But he'll live.  If we can stop this
bleeding."

I make a noise in my throat, scrambling to look.  It's
not pretty.  Jonas groans again as we manhandle him in our efforts to
check his wounds.

"We need Neveah.  He's in pain," I say, trying
to be gentle and keep Jonas from toppling over at the same time.  He's not
making it easy.

"Good thing he's drunk," Apollon says. 
"The whiskey is dulling it for now."

Jonas winces like he doesn't agree.

Apollon goes on.  "Neveah's probably underground. 
I know where she’ll be.  We need to get there now.  We'll be safe,
and she can help him."

Though his words bring up so many questions, we're both
distracted.  Sentries clashing, crashing.  Fire. 
Explosions.  Screams and groans of agony.  People dodging, running in
all directions, even though there's clearly nowhere to run.  There are
going to be a lot of people who need Neveah tonight.  Which is how I know
that she's not hiding anywhere.  Just as I look up at Apollon's face, the
flood light goes out.  I blink in the darkness while my eyes adjust. 
There are swimming spots of orange, and puddles of blue fire. 
Flashes.  Red beams.  Booms so loud they seem to emanate from my
heart.  The ground shivers beneath me, making my legs feel numb.

I shake my head, though I know he probably can't see
me.  "Neveah's at the sickhouse.  We should go there, too. 
Matt has this covered.”  My voice carries more confidence than I
feel.  "He has a plan."  I glance down at Jonas, then off
into the distance.  "Let's move."

Apollon only hesitates slightly, then hauls Jonas up by one
arm.  I grab his other arm and sling it over my shoulders.  Jonas
stumbles between us.  It doesn't help that both of them are significantly
taller than me.

We shuffle through the darkness of the alley to the street
on the other side, then swing around and head toward the sickhouse.  The
streets are chaos.  Dashing black shadows.  Quiet shouts. 
People who don't know which way to run.  Somewhere, a baby crying. 
We should have prepared them. 
They
should be underground. 
How did we not think of this?

"There's a hatch behind the counter at the
Rustler," I call to a family huddled in fear in an alleyway. 
"Get down there fast.  Tell people along the way to go with
you."

Clutching their children, they flee toward the Rustler.

We tell more along the way.  Halfway to the sickhouse,
we find two people hobbling along together.  The first is practically
dragging the second who is obviously wounded.  "Hey," I call to
them.  "Follow us."

They must recognize me by my voice, because they immediately
comply.  Only, they don't look like they're going to make it.  And
the sounds of battle are not that far behind us, threatening to overtake our
path at any moment.

"I can walk," Jonas mutters, and tries to throw
both me and Apollon off.  He stumbles sideways into me, and nearly knocks
both of us down.

I jab him in the ribs with my elbow, and wrap my arm around
his.  "You're with me."

He makes a noise under his breath.

Apollon saunters over and picks up the wounded man, tossing
him over his shoulder.  The girl with him gazes up at Apollon like he's
been sent from the gods.  But I catch a glimpse of my friend's face when
another flare goes off.  It's not as easy for him as it looks.  His
stab wound must still be troubling him.  The girl glances at me, and
hurries to take up Jonas' other arm.  As we move on to the sickhouse, it's
actually easier.  The girl and I are the same size.  Balanced.

The inside of the sickhouse is lit by oil lamp and a roaring
fire in the circular fireplace.  We are not the first people who had the
idea to come here.  The scene is bustling with wounded, mostly from the
tree incident by the looks of it.  Neveah is in the middle of it all, calm
as can be, even though the walls of the warehouse do little to filter the
screams and crashes from outside.  While the explosions continue, she
soundlessly takes charge of the wounded.  Her workers respond to her
gestures as if they have been doing this all along.  On cots and bedrolls
strewn throughout the room, injured people trust their broken bones, damaged
limbs, and burnt flesh to a small team of people who were, a few days ago,
useless.  The sight of it takes my breath away.  Hope flares in my
heart.  Then fear.  We could do this.  We could make this work,
if only we had a chance.

Neveah sees us and comes to help.  She glances Jonas
over, frowns, pats him on the arm, and moves to Apollon.  She points to a
bed in the corner.  Apollon dutifully carries his human baggage to the bed
and lays him out.  In the light, I see that the man is spattered with
blood.  He's older, well-dressed, and vaguely familiar, but I can't place
him.  He looks drained, like the blood he's been dripping has worn him
down until there's little left to fight with.

Jonas staggers forward and plops himself down on the floor
in front of the fireplace.  Now I see the dark stain of blood soaking
through his torn jacket in a diagonal slash.  I look for someone to help
him, but everyone seems to have their hands full.  My eyes fall on the
cabinet and its supplies.  I stride toward it.  So I've never done
this before.  Well, I've seen it done.  Close up.  A couple of
times.

I select a needle and thread it with some catgut.  I
pull the stopper from a bottle of clear solution and sniff it, which I regret
immediately.  Definitely alcohol.  I tuck it under my arm, grab a
handful of bandages, and return to Jonas.   As I tug his jacket off
his shoulders, Jonas drunkenly complies.

Apollon comes and sits next to him, facing me.  He eyes
my stash of supplies, then me.  "Really?"

"How hard can it be?"  I pull Jonas' shirt up
to his shoulders.  "Hold this," I order, and he leans forward,
crossing his arms to hold the garment in place.  His back is a bend of
tight, corded muscle.  Only the gash ruins it.  I feel my face
color.  Apollon starts chuckling.  I throw him a dark glare and snap,
"Don't make fun of me.  I know exactly what I'm doing."

He puts his grin quickly away, but I can see I haven't
fooled him.  I tell myself that Jonas is too drunk to know any better. 
Then I take a deep breath and uncork the bottle.  As gently as I can, I
pour the contents onto the wound, though I know my gentleness won't make any
difference.

Jonas gasps.  From behind him I can just see the
tightening of his jaw, the clenching of teeth.  The skin across his back
shivers.  He says nothing.  I dab the wound clean with some bandages.

I start at the top of the gash and work my way down, trying
to recall each step I have seen.  In seconds, it's clear that I'm doing
something wrong.  His skin is pulling away from the center.  I make
him lie on his stomach while I continue, and that works better.  As my
concern about possibly bungling the job fades, I feel a small rush of joy in
tending Jonas’ wounds.  My fingers brushing the skin of his back… just
being near him again… feels like a gift.  My mind keeps racing over and
over the scene with the toppling tree.  He saved me.  Risked life and
limb to rescue and shield me.  He hasn’t pulled completely away from
me.  Doesn’t hate me.  He….  He still cares.

Apollon just watches me and says nothing.  Occasionally
I shoot him glares to cover for the rush of emotion inside me.  I can
almost feel his inner commentary.  I'm annoyed with him even though he's
said nothing.  But then I remember his face when he picked that man
up.  All my annoyance flees.

"How's your stomach?" I ask quietly, carefully
working the needle through Jonas' flesh once again.  Jonas hasn't moved
for some time.  I think he might have passed out.

Apollon makes a noise.  "Fine.  If you think
I'm letting you anywhere near me with a needle—"

"Very funny.  It's not still open, is it?"

He smiles at me.  "If you want to see my stomach,
Eden, you could just say so."

I roll my eyes.  "I've had enough of your
stomach.  It's closed, right?"  It's been a long time since I've
had to clean Apollon's wound, and last I remember it was healing nicely. 
At least as far as anyone could see.

"It's fine," he says.  He doesn't offer
anything else.

After a while, I say, "Sometimes I can tell you're
still hurting."

He sighs.  "Well, maybe the insides take a little
longer to heal.  But I'm getting better.  Really."

"You probably shouldn't be hauling people around.”

"I wasn't gonna leave him to bleed to death."

"No."

We listen to the fire for a bit.  Jonas makes a noise
like a snore.  Apollon and I share a look.

"What was he thinking?" I ask. "A fifth?
 Seriously?"

"'This is the very ecstasy of love,'" Apollon
says, leaning back on his hands.  "...'whose violent property
foredoes itself, and leads the will to desperate undertakings.'"