Ruins (11 page)
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“Their expiration dates are even sooner than yours,” said Heron. “You’re waking them up, detoxing them from whatever mind warp Vale put them under, forcing them through this torture, just so they can wake up and die?”
“I’m helping them.”
“Are you?”
“I’m giving them a chance,” said Samm. “That’s more than they had before.”
“Then give yourself the same chance,” said Heron. “Live now, and figure out how to keep living tomorrow. These people are gone, so give them up—come with me back to Morgan and get the cure and live through your expiration. Let’s go home.”
“We don’t even know if she’s found a cure.”
“But if you go home, there’s a chance!” Heron roared. “Go home and you might die anyway, stay here and you die no matter what.”
“It’s not just about living—”
“What the hell else is it about?”
“It’s about living right.”
Heron said nothing, staring at him with fire in her eyes.
“These soldiers kept the Preserve alive for thirteen years,” said Samm. “There are thousands of children who are alive today because these nine men helped them—maybe not willingly, maybe not even knowing what they were doing, but they did it, and they went through hell to do it, and I can’t just leave them to die for that. Let’s say only half of them wake up sane, and only half of those are in shape to make the journey back to Morgan; that’s still two of them she can give the cure to, and two is twice as many as me. Staying here doubles the number of Partials I can save from expiration, at the very least, and even your emotionless calculator brain has to see that that’s worth the trade.”
His fervor grew as he spoke, and he spit the final words like an indictment, feeling good to let his emotions out. He sat watching Heron, waiting for a response, but the link was empty. The soldier had fallen asleep, and Heron was a blank page. An empty shell.
“You can save more Partials. . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But none of them are you.”
She stood up and left, as silent as a shadow, and as Samm watched her go, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d completely misinterpreted the conversation.
M
arcus watched the forest through the broken glass of an old window frame, holding his breath. Commander Woolf had chosen the hiding spot just outside of Roslyn Heights, and it was a good one—a house so covered in vines that no one outside would even know there was a window in this part of the wall, let alone that four people were hiding inside. Galen, one of Woolf’s soldiers, was watching the front door with their biggest gun—an assault rifle they’d salvaged from a dead Grid patrol—while the fourth man in their group, a Partial named Vinci, kept watch from a different window. Their ragtag group were the only survivors from Woolf’s ill-fated diplomatic mission to the Partials. They had been hoping to form an alliance with the largest of the Partial factions, in a desperate bid to fight back against Dr. Morgan’s invasion, but a schism in the Partial ranks had destroyed that plan almost before it could start. The friendly faction fell, and now Morgan ruled them all—all but Vinci, and a handful of tiny, independent factions scattered through the mainland. Woolf’s new plan was to unite those factions to oppose Morgan’s army, but they couldn’t do it alone. They needed to find the only successful group of human resistance fighters.
They needed to find Marisol Delarosa.
Marcus saw a movement from the corner of his eye—just the shake of a leaf, but he’d learned from experience not to take anything for granted. He watched the leaf, and the foliage around it, with a keen intensity, his mind racing with any number of horrifying possibilities: It might be one of Delarosa’s guerrillas, or it might be a Partial soldier; maybe a whole squad of Partial soldiers, slowly surrounding them, getting ready to attack. Maybe it was a Partial sniper, buried in leaves and sticks and camouflage, lining up the perfect shot to drill Marcus right through the eye.
This is when the little bird hops into view and I chuckle derisively at my own paranoia,
thought Marcus. Nothing moved.
Come on, little birdie. You can do it.
He stared at the foliage for two minutes, for five minutes, for ten, but no bird appeared, and no soldiers.
Probably just as well,
he thought.
If I chuckled at my paranoia, I’d probably give myself away and get sniped. Thanks for throwing me off my guard, hypothetical bird.
Commander Woolf crept up beside him, settling into position where they could whisper the latest report.
“Anything?” asked Woolf.
“Just cursing imaginary animals.”
“Crazy or bored?”
“Well,” whispered Marcus, “it’s so hard to pick just one.”
“Vinci hasn’t linked any other Partials,” said Woolf, “so we’re pretty sure there are no patrols in the area. I don’t know if that makes us more or less likely to find Delarosa, but there it is.”
“It makes us a lot less likely to be killed by Partials,” said Marcus, “so I’ll take what I can get.”
Delarosa’s White Rhinos, as she called them, had been evading the Partials for months, thanks to a combination of keeping her groups small, sticking to familiar terrain, and executing a clever system of decoys and distractions—all classic tactics of a defensive guerrilla force, and all devilishly effective. Marcus and his companions had had no more luck than the Partials in finding the elusive army, but they had a few tricks the Partials didn’t. Now and then they’d come across other human refugees, just lone fugitives, lying low from the occupation, who assured them that the White Rhinos were heading north, in a slow, secret march toward the shore. Some of the refugees had been rescued by the Rhinos, others had been fed or given other supplies, but all told the same tale. The human resistance had a plan, and they were coming this way. All Marcus’s group had to do was wait for them.
But they’d been waiting for days, and they were running out of supplies.
“You’re due for sleep soon,” said Woolf. “Go early and try to get some rest; I’ll take over your watch.”
“How much food do we have left?” asked Marcus.
“A day’s worth,” said Woolf. “Maybe more. I don’t think Vinci is eating a full share.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have to,” whispered Marcus. “For all we know he’s . . . photosynthetic or something. Or he’s been eating these.” Marcus picked at the vines growing across the interior wall. He pulled too hard, the leaf failed to break away like he expected, and the whole section of tendrils shook—inside and out. Marcus looked up in shock at the unexpectedly massive display. “Crap.”
A flurry of bullets slammed into the brick wall, punching through and sending a shower of broken clay shards spraying wildly through the room. Marcus threw himself to the floor, Woolf diving down beside him, and they covered their heads as they crawled for the hallway. The gunfire was quieter than usual—not silent, but more like a nail gun than the harsh gunshot explosions Marcus was used to. They reached the hallway, taking cover behind the extra layer of wall, just as the hail of bullets ceased.
“Can they see us?” asked Marcus.
“Let’s find out,” said Woolf, and stuck his hand back into the open doorway. Nothing shot it. “Probably not.”
“Or they don’t want to bother with just your hand,” said Marcus.
“If they could see us that clearly, they’d have hit us,” said Woolf. “More likely they were passing close by, saw the sudden movement, and thought it was an ambush.”
“All the shots I heard were silenced,” said Marcus. “That means Galen didn’t shoot back.”
Woolf shook his head. “They wouldn’t have hit him, they were shooting at your movement.”
“Good yet embarrassing news,” said Marcus, nodding. “But then why didn’t he shoot? From where he’s stationed he should have had a good angle on the source of that attack.”
Woolf rose to a crouch, checking his own weapon as he prepared to run. “In that case, this is the best news we’ve had all month. Who would Galen see but not shoot at?”
Marcus grinned. “You think?”
“Let’s go find out.”
They scurried down the hall to the stairs, and from there to the main floor, where Galen was crouched in another concealed gun nest. “Humans,” Galen whispered.
“How can you tell?”
“Too many body types,” said Galen. “Partials are all young men, like Vinci; this group has women, one of them pretty old.”
“Smart,” said Woolf. “You haven’t hailed them?”
“Waiting for you.”
Woolf nodded and moved away from Marcus’s window to a separate window—partly for the different angle, but Marcus realized nervously that it was also a safety precaution. If the enemy fired again when Woolf hailed them, he was the only one they’d hit. Marcus admired the wisdom of the move, but the need for it twisted a dull knot in his stomach.
“Rhinos!” Woolf shouted. He wasn’t looking out the window, but lying below it, using a small credenza as an extra layer of makeshift armor. All three of them held their breath, waiting for the reply—would it be words, or bullets?
“Stay quiet!” It was a woman’s voice, and Marcus almost thought he recognized it, but it wasn’t Delarosa.
Too young,
he thought.
It was the only response. Marcus peered through the gaps in the kudzu, but saw nothing. Galen shook his head. “They’ve disappeared. Now that they know we’re here, it’s too easy to hide from us.”
“You heard from Vinci?” Marcus whispered. Even if this was Morgan’s group, they would want to keep Vinci’s true nature a secret at first. A Partial ally was a valuable asset, but they needed to explain it properly first.
Galen shook his head. “Still upstairs, I think. Staying quiet.”
“Hey,” said Marcus, “it’s not my fault I gave us away.”
Galen looked at him, raising his eyebrow. “You gave us away?”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “It’s also not my fault that I told you that.”
“I can’t believe you gave us away.”
“Not on purpose,” said Marcus. “Next time you don’t know about something stupid I did, let me know you don’t know before I say it out loud.”
“How can I—”
There was a sudden thump from the back room of the house, and a strangled shout that got cut off just before it became loud enough for the sound to carry outside. Marcus spun to face the sagging kitchen door, his rifle up and ready, but stopped in surprise when he heard Vinci’s soft voice.
“It’s just me.”
Marcus furrowed his brow, confused. “What on earth?”
“They sent flankers through the back of the house,” said Vinci. “I don’t know if they’re Delarosa’s people, but they’re definitely human.”
“So you attacked them?” asked Woolf.
“Just disarmed them,” said Vinci. “Don’t shoot, I’m opening the door now.” He pushed open the kitchen door and led two cloaked figures into the front room. Marcus stared at them in surprise, then jumped up eagerly as he recognized the girl in front.
“Yoon?”
The cloaked girl looked at him, a slow smile spreading across her face as she realized who he was. “Marcus?” The smile disappeared almost immediately, and she frowned at him sternly. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“We’re trying to find Delarosa.”
“By scaring the hell out of us,” asked Yoon, “and then shouting loud enough to attract every Partial in the forest?”
“Sorry,” said Marcus. “None of that was really how we intended this to go.”
“I recognize you,” said Woolf, standing up. “You’re one of the Grid soldiers who went with Kira and captured the Partial named Samm. I remember you from the disciplinary hearing.”
“I was reassigned to an outpost on the North Shore,” said Yoon. “When the Partials invaded we fled south, and the unit broke apart, and eventually I ran across the Rhinos.” She pointed to her companion, a young man who looked sixteen years old at the most; Marcus realized with a start that this made him one of the youngest humans left in the world. “This is McArthur.”
Marcus shook the boy’s hand. “You have a first name?”
“No, sir,” he said, and Marcus nodded. It had become common for some of the youngest humans to drop their first name altogether, preferring their surname because it linked them to the past. A three-year-old kid who lost everything he ever loved usually remembered that he
had
parents, but wasn’t likely to remember much of anything about them. Identifying himself by his surname told people like McArthur that he came from somewhere, and helped him feel connected. Sometimes that was more important than an individual identity.
“Well then,” said Marcus. “Yoon, McArthur, say hello to Galen, Vinci, and Commander Asher Woolf. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“We’re not easy to find,” said Yoon. “Though there’s probably a better way to say hello than just shaking the hell out of the kudzu on the side of the house. We thought it was an ambush.”
“That was an accident,” said Marcus, giving a small, embarrassed nod. “It did work, though, so there’s that.”
McArthur frowned. “How are you still alive? We thought you all died months ago.”
Woolf clapped the young man on the shoulder. “I like this kid. But we’ve made enough noise here to attract every Partial scout in the forest, so what do you say we get back to your group and continue this conversation where it’s safe?”
Yoon looked at Vinci. “Can we have our weapons back?”
Vinci handed them over freely—two sturdy rifles and a wide, curved blade. “Just making sure we didn’t have any more accidental ambushes.”
Yoon took a rifle and the knife, sliding the latter into a slim leather scabbard on her back. She stepped to the window, whistled a short birdcall, and waited silently for an answer. Marcus was expecting another whistle but was surprised to hear a low, rumbling growl. Yoon opened the door and a massive black cat peered in, yawned, and stalked away into the trees.
“That’s a pet?” asked Marcus. Small cats, the kind the old world kept as pets, had adapted perfectly to the post-Break world and were practically ubiquitous across the island, but Marcus had never seen one so large. “It looks like a panther.”