Firstlife (11 page)

More rustling clothing. When it ceases, I hear panting.

“Vans should have been locked away,” Bow shouts.

“Do you truly believe he deserved a second chance?” Killian asks. “Or is your realm speaking for you?”

“I happen to agree with my realm. You don't deserve a second chance, and yet you live.”

“I've never asked for a second chance. I am what I am. I
like
what I am. In this case, I'm the victor.”

Bow blows out a frustrated breath. “We need permission from Ten or someone in her familial line to intervene on her behalf—any more than we already have. Until then, our hands are tied.”

“
Your
hands are tied. Her mother gave her own ML permission to protect the girl from mortal harm. Permission that's been passed to me. I just protected Ten from mortal harm. Which I'll continue to do outside these walls.”

“You can't escape with her.”

“I can. Your laws aren't mine. You should have convinced her to leave days ago.”

“You want an Unsigned out there? She would have died sooner rather than later.”

Huff, puff. “With me, the level of danger doesn't matter,” Killian retorts.

A curse from Bow, then a curse from Killian. The two go silent. I hear...typing?

Bow grunts and walks closer to me. I hear splashing. She crouches to do...something. Her hand is moving. She's writing? On what?

“What are you doing?” Killian demands.

“Her grandmother has requested I clear a path of escape. The girl will choose whether she stays or goes.”

She's delusional. My grandmother is dead. Both of my grandmothers are dead, in fact. One is in Troika, and one is in Myriad.

“So much for keeping an Unsigned inside these walls, eh?” Killian's dry tone seems to suck any humidity out of the air. “Guess what? My new orders just came in. I'm supposed to stop you—put your claws away. I won't obey.”

“Thank—”

“Don't thank me, Archer. I won't let her leave with you, either.”

Archer?

“She'll leave with
me
,” Killian continues. “If you get in my way, well, I'll happily kill you.”

“You can try.”

Footsteps. Muttered arguing. Then...nothing.

I'm not sure how much time passes. I drift in and out of consciousness, but finally...
finally
I'm able to move. My fingers twitch. I roll my shoulder. I lift my arm, wipe my eyes to clear my vision and—

Scramble backward.

A few feet away from me, Vans is on his back, motionless, his dull eyes staring at nothing. His mouth is open, crimson dried at the corners of his lips. He's...dead? He must be. He's lying in a pool of blood. One of his hands has been removed, and it's cuddled up next to my ankle, like a puppy.

Did Killian do this?

If you get in my way, well, I'll happily kill you.

I bolt to my feet, different parts of me threatening to revolt.

Killian and Bow are gone. They saved me...then left me behind?

Clear a path of escape...

Frowning, I stumble to the open door and peek into the hall. Two guards lie motionless on the floor.

Bow's doing? Or Killian's?

Does it matter? There's no better time to escape.
Go, go!

I rush through the room. The problem? My rush is actually slo-mo. I'm weaker than I realized, operating on empty. I manage to swipe up the lab coat Vans dropped and, despite the pain shooting through me, shove my arms inside the proper holes. The doctor's key card is attached to the lapel. Perfect. I stuff the scalpel in my pocket, grimace as I pick up the severed hand—the number 830543 is scripted across the top. A message from Bow?

A composite number. A prime number. The prime factors are: 7, 59, 2011

My brain wants to dissect each of the individual numbers, but there's no time. I drop the hand beside the scalpel and beat feet to the best of my ability, heading for Vans's office.

The number of obstacles in my way: two, at the very least. Nurse Ratched will be nearby just in case Vans has need of—

I trip, landing with a hard thud, losing my breath. I look over my shoulder and discover Nurse Ratched slumped against the wall, her neck at an odd angle.

Ooo-kay. One obstacle. The lock on the office door.

In the distance thunders a stampede of feet, the wild cheers of inmates, the thud of furniture being turned over. An alarm screeches to life.

My best isn't good enough; I have to do better. I scramble up and lurch into motion, hobbling instead of running.

“Ten! Ten!”

The voice comes from behind me. I turn. Sloan is beating at the gate that separates the prisoners' wing from the offices. Her features are ablaze with a combination of excitement and strain, her fingers curled around the wire so tightly, her knuckles are bleached. Behind her, several kids are beating Colonel Anus and Ben Dover into pulp and powder. Fists are flying. Feet are kicking. Nails are raking and teeth are biting. The guards struggle...at first.

“Get your ass over here!” Sloan demands.

The kids responsible for beating—killing—Anus and Ben appear beside her, blood smeared on their faces, coating their hands.

Do I attempt to rescue, despite my weakness? Or do I flee while I can?

As if I don't already know the answer. I needed help, and Killian and Bow stepped up. These kids need me. I have to do my part.

“Have you seen Killian or Bow?” I ask, limping over.

“No.” Sloan glances behind her. “Hurry!”

I press the severed hand against the ID pad, swipe the card along the side, but...the door remains closed, exactly as I feared, as the screen asks for a code. What should I do?

Frustrated, I beat Vans's hand against the pad. My gaze is drawn to the number. The number! Could it be the code? With a quivering finger, I jab at the keypad. Success! The lock disengages, and the kids are able to shoulder their way past me.

I return the severed hand to its place and move down the hall.

“Idiot!” Sloan shouts. “You're going the wrong way.”

“Have to find Killian and Bow,” I call. Can't leave them here to clear the way for me, endangering themselves further, when my way no longer needs clearing.

Kids, kids, are everywhere, fighting the guards and orderlies with equal fury; they are winning, but there's no sign of my helpers. I step over a motionless, bloody body—Comrade Douche has a baton stuffed down his throat.

Someone slams into me from behind, pushed by someone else. I trip forward and knock into yet another person. An inmate. His gaze is wild as he swings around, his fist already cocked and loaded to issue punishment. A rush of adrenaline loosens my sore limbs and I duck, avoiding contact, then dart past him.

I search every open cell, every corridor. Still no sign. Zero! Maybe they've already left?

I brave the boys' ward with no luck and return to the gate. The crowd has thinned considerably, but D-bag and Titball have taken posts on either side. Both men wield a baton, beating on anyone who comes into striking range. Namely three girls and two boys desperate for freedom. So desperate, they continually throw themselves at the guards despite the fact that their bodies are already bloody and battered, their energy almost completely depleted.

Dread floods me, and I grind to a stop. New obstacles in my way: two.

A pair. The atomic number of helium. Once again my number of choices.

Fight or flight?

My trembling magnifies. I want out, and I won't leave the kids behind; I have to fight.

Deep breath in...out... I square my shoulders, take stock. D-bag is holding one of the boys on the floor with one hand and beating him with the other. Titball has pinned the others in the corner, but his eyes are locked on me.

Kill him.

Killian's voice whispers through my mind. A hallucination, I know. And why not? I'm Nutter.

Disarm him and move on.

Now I hear the disembodied voice from Vans's office.

My mind flashes back to every leer, push, punch and battle. Every time I was dragged down the halls. My calendar. Today's chains and poison.

Obstacle. I'll kill!
My wrists and shoulders scream in protest as I rush forward. Along the way, I grab the scalpel I stole from Vans. One second I'm twisting to avoid being grabbed by Titball, the next I'm stabbing him in the neck.
Jab, jab, jab
.

He drops to the floor, his body twitching.

I expect satisfaction. Instead I want to cry.

I'm panting as the inmates move away from D-bag
and
me, peering at me as if I've done something both horrifying and amazing—as if I'm as bad as our enemy.

“Stay here or follow me.” I pull out the severed hand and key card. “Your choice.”

chapter seven

“Fear keeps you alive. Fear reminds you that you
are
alive.”

—Myriad

Alarm blasting.

Blood soaking my hands.

Kids babbling at my sides.

Problems mounting one after another.

Because I worked the locks, I'm the last to make it through the secret door that's hidden behind the fireplace in Vans's office. I race down a long narrow hallway, the walls and floor made of concrete. I pass another open door and enter...hell on ice. Zero! The thin lab coat and even thinner uniform offer little protection from the harsh winterscape now surrounding me. I'm on a mountain. There's snow at my feet, in the trees and dancing in the wind.

A loud
boom
suddenly assaults my ears. As a bolt of lightning cuts through the sky, the land below me vibrates. The realms are still fighting?

My eyes tear from the cold—the tears instantly freeze. With only a single breath, my nose, throat and lungs burn as if they've been scalded by acid. Goose bumps rise from my head to my toes, and I shudder. Kids I've ignored and fought, liked and disliked, are running in every direction, but they aren't running fast. Hypothermia is already setting up camp, their blood turning into sludge.

How long can we survive out here? A few hours...perhaps an entire day if we're hearty?

We're not hearty. Me most of all.

Whatever. Have to try. Can't go back.

I motor forward.

Boom!
The noise doesn't come from the sky but the ground. A few yards away, an inmate—just—explodes, bits and pieces of...of...human flying in every direction. I flail for purchase, but the ground is too slick. I skid while swallowing bile as those bits and pieces plop all over the ground.

Screams of fear erupt. Chaos reigns.

Another battle between the realms, or maybe land mines? To my knowledge, a realm battle has never ripped a person into a thousand pieces. “Be still,” I shout, but no one hears me. We have to take a minute, figure this out, search for other bombs.

I scan the area and manage to find the ignition site. Smoke curls toward a sky that's set ablaze by a dipping sun. Oh...my... Daylight! For a moment, I forget where I am, forget the horror of what just happened and the trials I've endured. The colors—gold, pink, blue—are mesmerizing.

Is Troika like this?

Warmth strokes over me, seeping through my skin and dancing over my bones, seeming to strengthen me. Pinpricks of gold and blue dot the sky. Stars so bright you can see them during the day? I stretch out my arm, ghosting my fingertip through a brilliant ray of light. Dust motes twirl through the air, somersaulting just out of reach.

When I see the blood on my hand, I snap back into focus. The asylum. Escape. Bombs.

“Guards!” someone shouts.

And now we're being hunted. Wonderful. I dart forward, constantly examining the ground for any sign of another bomb. I pass a charred sandal with a severed foot still strapped inside and gag.

There are one, five, ten, eighteen kids ahead of me, running, running. Eight others have stopped to catch their breath and figure out the safest course of action. Bad news, gang. Both choices suck. We can keep going, even though we're without proper clothing and provisions, or we can allow the guards to return us to the hornet's nest.

Am I being chased? I glance over my shoulder, my eyes going round with shock, my jaw dropping. The institution is massive, both tall and sprawling, with thirteen stories made entirely of gray stone, the front of the structure protruding from the mountainside, the rest hidden deep in the rock face.

There's more to the place than I ever realized.

None of the guards have focused on me, at least.

Movement at the corner of my eye. Is that—

Yes! Bow! She races toward me, a backpack bouncing over her shoulder. She isn't slow like the others, but swift and sure. I shout her name. Our gazes lock.

Boom!

There's a seismic shift as a white-hot blast of air throws me backward. For a moment, I'm warm, and it's nice. Until I land and my lungs empty. When I'm able to breathe, the air is heavy with smoke. I cough as debris rains. I don't have to do an in-depth study to know another kid just bit the dust.
Don't be Bow. Please, please don't be Bow.

She clears the smoke and comes up beside me, grabs my arm without slowing and yanks me to my feet.

Thank the Firstking! “Careful,” I tell her as we shoot forward.

“Careful will get you caught.” She runs faster. “Come on!”

I return to scanning the ground for anything out of whack. A stone, a frozen branch. The glint of metal—there. “Bomb,” I shout, jerking her around it.

“Thanks,” she mutters.

Step, step, step...stone...branch...metal! A pattern. A numerical rhythm my mind instinctively captures. One step, two, three, stone. One step, two, three, four, five, branch. One step, two, three, four, metal. They aren't laid in a straight line, of course, but staggered. Which also presents a pattern. Left, left, right. Right, right, left.

I pump my arms faster, taking the lead, leaping over the next bomb and dragging Bow with me. When we reach the bottom of the incline, heading toward a densely populated forest, I stop looking for explosives and start praying I accidentally trip one. A burnt body is a warm body, and right now the cold feels like a thousand needles pricking at my skin. Shudders begin to rack me, one after the other, barely a pause between. My teeth chatter. Snot trickles from my nose and, like my tears, freezes.

“What's in the pack?” Too much to hope for a battery-operated heat lamp? At this point, I wouldn't say no to fetters.

“Essentials” is all she says. The temperature hasn't affected her in the least. She isn't shivering. Her teeth aren't chattering. Her eyes and nose are free of tears and snot, and there's no hint of blue on her lips. How is that possible?

We reach a bank of tall, thin boulders. In the center, two lean against each other, forming an upside-down V—creating a doorway. There's an enter-at-your-own-peril vibe. Where
are
we?

I release Bow and slow down. “Got to take...a minute to rest. Not sure...how much...farther...”

“No, no. We can't stop,” she says. “When I left the asylum, every guard inside was gearing up to come after us. And there were a lot of 'em! An entire army was training in the underground levels.”

An entire army to elude? Zero!

Can't risk capture.
I draw from a reservoir of strength I didn't know I possessed and soldier on, tripping past the rocks. Icicles are extended like swords and cut at my face, but it doesn't matter. Even the needle-prick sensation is fading, my skin numbing.

“Do you...know where...” My foot catches on a fallen branch and I tumble, landing in the snow and dirt face-first. Bow helps me stand, and I realize the “branch” is actually a leg. A human leg.

Hank, the kid Killian punched his first day at the asylum, is sprawled on his back. He's motionless, his eyes glassed over with a sheen of ice. His skin is the color of the morning sky I've missed so much, and there are crystals protruding from the end of his nose.

Bow crouches to place her hand over his heart, not to feel for a beat, I don't think, but to...mourn a lost life? “Light Brings Sight,” she whispers to him. “May the Everlife reward you for your kindnesses during your Firstlife.”

Her words humble me. Life is precious to her and yet, fifteen minutes ago, I ended one.

My guilt returns.

Her gaze brims with sadness as it meets mine. “He's in the Everlife now. Let's keep you out of it.” She straightens and draws me deeper into the forest.

Where did Hank go? Troika? Myriad? Many Ends?

Bow turns a corner. She seems to have a destination in mind, and I'm glad. My thoughts grow hazier by the second, and my eyelids are heavy. Fatigue settles in my bones.

“Keep up,” she commands. “We're a two-man team. Do your part.”

Right. My part. But every step adds another pound to my feet until they are too heavy to move, and all I want to do is... “Nap,” I say. At least, I think I say it. I can no longer feel my lips.

“No! No sleeping.” She winds her arm around my shoulders to hold me up. I expect the heat of her body, even as little of it as there is, to warm me, but...no. There's only cold, cold and more cold. “Just a little bit farther.”

My head lolls forward, my chin hitting my sternum. I manage another step, then another, counting as I go. One, two, three...all the way to one hundred and fourteen, before I begin to fall...fall...

“No!” she shouts. “Snap out of it, Ten. Stay awake.”

Sorry
, I try to say
.
There's an explosion of black inside my head, and it's lights-out for me.

* * *

The ground shakes, waking me with a jolt. I jerk upright and gasp out, “Four!”

The sound of my voice startles me. So does the number. Four?

The number of directions I can go. North, east, south and west.

Four elements. Earth, water, fire and wind.

And in my song:
Five times four times three, and that is where he'll be.

A bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I'm sweating? Last thing I remember, I was morphing into a Popsicle. I wipe at my brow, the action setting off a domino effect, which ends with a terrible ache in my temples.

Grimacing, I scan my surroundings. I'm not sure what I expect to see. I only know
this
isn't it: a cave smaller than my cell at the institution. In front of me, a fire blazes, throwing golden rays of light over rocky walls that are splattered with...dried blood? Paint? Bow's backpack rests at my feet.

“Bow?” My voice echoes, but there's no return greeting.

She left, clearly, but she didn't take the backpack with her. Why? Where could she have gone? How much time has passed since I fainted?

The entire cave shakes again as I dig inside the pack. Another battle between the realms taking place nearby? “Essentials” consists of a digital notepad, a necklace with Troika's symbol, a tank top and pair of jean shorts, a pair of combat boots too big for my feet, six cans of buffalo wings probably taken from the staff lounge and a bottle of vodka.

Mostly useless!

But can I really get mad? Those cans... I'm so hungry, absolutely starved. I open and devour the contents of one. Only one, and only for strength. I resist the temptation to eat the other five. So freaking good! Bow needs nourishment, too. Dang it, where is she?

I switch on the pad, hoping to find a note or something to point me in the right direction. I'm not disappointed. In strong, bold calligraphy, I see:

Ten,

You naughty snoop. I knew you wouldn't be able to resist taking a peek. Good for you. Knowledge pays. Eat, write the world's most depressing poem, count rocks or whatever it is you like to do, but stay in the cave. If other inmates are out there, I'll find them and bring them “home.” Don't worry. I've got Troika on my side!

Light Brings Sight!

Instead of signing her name, she's drawn a picture of a man holding a bow and arrow. An archer.

Her name is Bow
, I once said to Killian
.

Bow
,
he replied.
An archer uses a bow and arrow. How adorable.

And then, when I lay on the floor of Vans's torture chamber, Killian and Bow had argued, and Killian had called her Archer.

I shake my head to dislodge the confusing memories. Can Bow find and save any of the other inmates without aid? Well, human aid. Maybe, but not likely. Not only must she face the elements and the guards, she must convince the kids to trust her.

So. Yeah. I have a poem for her.

I am alone.

Never will I believe

You care for me

The truth is

Having faith in you is foolish

I don't think

My well-being is your first priority

I know

We'll protect each other

Is just silly. I believe

Remaining on my own

Is the smartest course of action

Staying with you

Is the fastest way to Firstdeath

Walking—no, running—away from you

Won't be easy, but I'm willing to do it

And I know that

We're better off together

Is a lie. For I'm certain of this:

I am alone.

Two sides. The read down, and the read up. The negative and the positive. For once, I'm leaning toward positive. Bow needs me. There's always strength in numbers.

I use the scalpel to cut the tank top into multiple strips of cloth, then wrap the strips around my feet and exchange my regulation sandals for the boots. I return the scalpel to my pocket, then double-check to ensure it's there. As my only weapon, it's priceless.

Okay. All right. I push to wobbly legs, blood rushing out of my head, making me light-headed, even dizzy. I wobble as I make my way to the opening of the cave. Before she left, Bow set up a drape of leaves and twigs to seal me inside, and she did a very good job; I have to fight my way free.

Morning sunlight greets me, and oh, wow, it's gorgeous—but it means I slept the night away. A first since my incarceration.

Unfortunately, the air is so cold none of the ice has melted from the terrain, and my muscles instantly protest, knotting up. At least there aren't any guards around or booted footprints in the snow.

“Bow!” I shout. If I draw unwanted attention, I draw unwanted attention. The faster I find her, the better. “Bow!”

Eerie quiet taunts me, broken only by the occasional whistle of wind.

“Bow!” As I make my way forward, a storm erupts in my chest. The thunder of my heartbeat, followed by a downpour of acid, scalding everything in its path. What if something's happened to her? I'm certain the guards aren't our only worries. Any surviving inmates could have ambushed her, thinking to loot her belongings. Or worse. An animal could have mauled her.