Spark: A Sky Chasers Novel (37 page)

He couldn’t believe his eyes. There was Waverly Marshall lying on the floor at his feet. She looked like she’d been beaten up, and there was a rough bandage across her forehead from which trails of brownish red oozed down her face. She’d exhausted herself coming here. “The air is thin,” Seth said under his breath. He hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten until he’d stood up and crossed his cell. His head swam. No wonder she’d passed out. “Waverly! Wake up! Hey!”

She didn’t stir.

He reached for her through the bars, but he could only touch her lower leg. He patted it, then slapped it, but she didn’t seem to feel a thing. Finally he went to the small sink in the corner of his cell, filled a tumbler full of cold water, and splashed it on her face.

She sputtered and looked at Seth, surprised. “What?”

“What are you doing here?” Seth asked breathlessly.

“I came to…” She rubbed at her forehead as though she had a splitting headache. “To get you.”

“Where are the keys?”

“Keys?” she said, blank.

“You need a key,” he said with a sinking feeling.

“It’s not electronic?” she said vaguely.

“You don’t have keys?”

“I didn’t think…” Seth thought that if she wasn’t so exhausted, she’d break into tears.

“Jesus, Waverly!” He punched the air, and the motion nearly made him fall down.

“I’m so stupid,” she said wearily.

Seth shook his head and sat down on the floor, head slumped against the bars of his cage. “You better get out of here,” he said. He should be mad at her, but the air was too thin. Besides, he’d already resigned himself.

Waverly looked around her, noticed Jacob’s empty cell. “How’d he get out?”

Seth smiled at that. “His wife busted him out.”

“Wife?”
Waverly shook her head, dazed. “How?” she panted. “He came on my shuttle but…”

“Maybe she was part of the original attack,” Seth said, and had to take a few breaths before adding, “and got left behind.”

“I never even thought of that,” Waverly whispered.

He thought Waverly would be much more upset, but he supposed with the lack of oxygen she’d entered an altered state. She blinked her eyes lazily and seemed to have trouble focusing.

She struggled onto her feet, favoring a bloodied knee, and limped over to the saw where it hung from the groove in the bar. “They used this?”

Seth stood up, making his head swim. Maybe he was in an altered state, too. He’d completely forgotten about it. With a surge of hope, he said, “Check that bag.”

“This one?” She limped over to the small satchel and picked it up. From inside she pulled a single, shiny disk. “What’s this?”

“A blade! Change it! Can you put it in the saw?”

She knelt in front of the saw where it hung from its mangled blade, wincing when the bloody mess of her knee made contact with the floor. She worked slowly and clumsily at the blade, which had torn partially free of the saw in a twisted mess of metal. She cut her fingers on the sharp edges and swore under her breath as she worked and pried at it, until finally it pulled free from the saw casing. She tried to pull the wedged saw blade free from the groove Seth had made in the bar, but it wouldn’t pull free.

“Never mind that,” she muttered to herself, and fitted the fresh blade into the casing.

“What do you mean never mind?” Seth said.

“Why didn’t you just cut the lock?” she asked simply. She heaved the saw up, leaning it on her hip, and stumbled over to the locking mechanism by the keyhole. “I mean, it’s got to be just a tumbler, right?”

“Right,” Seth said, feeling like an idiot.

Waverly held the heavy saw against the lock and turned it on. The saw jumped to life as it bit into the metal. She squinted into the flying sparks, grunting when the sparks speckled her skin with black singe marks. It was horribly loud, and Seth put his hands over his ears as he watched her.

She swayed as if she were drunk, panting, her breathing out of control and desperate. She was pale, and he thought he saw the slightest hint of blue around her lips. He didn’t know what was holding her up.

When her strength gave out, she dropped the saw on the ground, narrowly missing her foot. Seth got up and reached awkwardly through the bars to help her support the weight. It was risky, because if she dropped the saw again she might cut his arm, but it was the only way to hold the saw steady.

When finally the saw burst through the last of the lock, Waverly dropped it on the floor without ceremony and tentatively pushed on the door of Seth’s cell. It slid open, and Seth had her in his arms in an instant.

“Thank you,” he said into her hair.

“Don’t thank me,” she slurred.

He held on to her, feeling the rhythm of her heartbeat and the rapid rise and fall of her rib cage as she breathed. They leaned on each other that way for a moment, until he took hold of her hand and pulled her down the walkway to the corridor.

“I don’t know if I can,” she said breathlessly. “It’s so far.”

“Shut up,” he snapped at her.

“I’m so tired.”

“I don’t want to hear it. March!”

He pushed her up the frigid stairwell, which was lit strangely by the emergency lights, and then pushed her farther to the storage-bay door. When he opened it, he couldn’t believe how cold it was, but he guided her into the cavernous room. He would carry her if he had to, though he wasn’t sure he had the strength for it. There was very little oxygen left, and it was achingly cold. Desperately he looked down the rows of storage containers, wishing he knew if there were oxygen tanks stored somewhere down here, but it would be foolhardy to even try looking for them.

He entered a strange state where the only thing he was aware of was the squeak of Waverly’s shoes on the floor. Eventually the periphery of his vision grew dark, and there was only one bright spot, directly ahead, at the end of the corridor between containers. So far away. So incredibly far. At one point he realized he’d taken hold of Waverly’s waistband and was holding her up. When she finally fell over he laid her out on the floor and picked up her ankle with his good hand, dragging her along the metal flooring toward the far wall. She was immensely heavy, or he was immensely weak.

In his mind he began to hear a song that his mother used to sing to him about an itsy-bitsy spider. The first line ran through his head over and over in a loop:
Itsy-bitsy spider crawled up the water spout.… Itsy-bitsy spider crawled up …
It was infantile, cloying, nagging, horrid. He hated it and wished it would go away, but he found himself walking to the rhythm, and eventually stopped fighting it.

How long did it take him to drag her across the bay? He could never guess afterward. It might have been ten minutes or two hours, but finally he found himself looking at a door, and when he opened that door, he was in a stairwell.

“Waverly. I can’t carry you. My hand…,” he said, on the verge of tears. His fingers were turning blue, and the knuckle joints were swelling horribly. “You’ve got to wake up. Waverly?”

He knelt by her, tried to rouse her, first with gentle pats to the cheek, then with a full-out slap across the face with his good hand, but she was out, and her breath was thready.

“Okay,” he said breathlessly. “You’re skinny, right?”

He pulled her up by her wrists, then, leaning her against the wall, laboriously lifted her until he could drape her over his right shoulder. He braced her with his good hand, hoping that would be enough. “God,” he whimpered, his cracked ribs screaming under her weight, but he started up the stairs. He took one at a time, pausing to rest after each. The spider song was so insistent now he thought he could almost hear it with his ears—
Itsy-bitsy spider … Itsy-bitsy …
his mother’s voice woven into the wind.

After what seemed an interminable struggle, he knocked his head on something hard and looked up to find that he’d walked right into the bulkhead. He was so surprised he dropped Waverly on the stairs. She landed hard and groaned softly.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He dragged himself to the intercom and pressed the button. “Open the lower bulkhead,” he said weakly. “Please.”

No answer came.

“Please,” he said again. “We’re trapped.”

“Hello?” came Sarek Hassan’s voice. “Waverly?”

“She’s here,” Seth said. “Open the lower bulkhead.”

“I can’t believe you’re still breathing,” Sarek said, incredulous.

“Hurry!” Seth tried to yell, but the effort gave him a sudden, severe headache. If he passed out here, they’d both die, so he forced himself to take deep breaths until the headache lessened.

“Get ready for some wind,” Sarek said.

The doors eased open, and a burst of warm air blasted Seth in the face. He pulled Waverly up by the wrist. Her head banged on the stairs, but there was nothing he could do. He just had to get her above the bulkhead. When they were clear of it, he pressed the intercom switch on the other side. “Okay, close them,” he said.

The doors slowly eased closed, and the wind trickled from a gale to a breeze, back to almost nothing.

The air here was better. Not by much, but Seth felt his heartbeat slowing down incrementally, and his headache lessened slightly. After a few minutes, Waverly’s color was improved, and she was taking deeper, slower breaths. He patted her cheek again and tried to wake her. “Honey, Waverly. Can you wake up?”

She smacked her lips, but she didn’t answer.

He looked up to the next bulkhead, about ten stories above. “That’s nothing,” he said ruefully, and heaved her up over his shoulder.

His muscles screamed. His headache came back full force, pounding against his skull like a fist. He groaned with every step. He’d never been pushed this far in his life, but he knew what would happen if he stopped. So he didn’t stop.

When finally the next bulkhead hung over his head, he set Waverly down and jabbed at the intercom again. “Sarek? Next bulkhead.”

Without a word of answer from Sarek, the bulkhead doors slid open, and another fresh burst of warm air assaulted him. This time the wind was much stronger, and he had to fight hard against it as he pulled her up the stairs. But this air was nearly normal, and he sucked it into his lungs greedily. “Close them,” he said as he pulled her the last few inches, and the doors slid closed.

He lay down in the stairwell. The only thing he could do or think about was breathing in and out, that beautiful air, full of oxygen. His headache didn’t diminish, nor did his muscles stop their mad quivering, but his thoughts cleared, and he felt that he could go on.

He heard Waverly groan, and he sat up to find her hiding her eyes from the lights.

“Waverly,” he said, “you okay?”

“How did I—” She looked around, getting her bearings. “Did you
carry
me here?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I tried.”

“I know.” He struggled onto his feet, his legs shaky and unsure, and held a hand out to her. “Come on.”

She pulled herself up, leaning heavily on the railing. “How much farther?”

“I think we’re about halfway there.”

“Okay,” she said, and started up the stairs with Seth right behind.

The two trudged on in silence, the only sounds their footfalls and heavy breathing. Seth could feel his pulse in his neck, beating impossibly fast. The moons under his fingernails were blue, and his mouth was dry and sticky. Waverly was unsteady on her feet, and her breathing was rapid and shallow, but she seemed strong enough.

At the next bulkhead, the wind was even stronger, and the air tasted dewy and velvety. He sucked it in like nectar as the bulkhead doors closed underneath him, and Waverly smiled at him.

“That’s better,” she said.

They stood side by side on the landing, resting. Seth felt the strength coming back to his limbs, and his headache seemed a little better, too. He could think.

“Why did you come for me?” he finally asked her.

“What do you mean?” She looked at him quizzically.

“I mean you risked your life to come get me. Why?”

She looked away, discomfited. “You’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?”

“I know why I’d do it. I’m asking you why you did it.”

“Why would
you
do it?” she challenged.

They stared at each other in a standoff, until finally Seth had to look away.

“Fine. Just say you don’t want to talk about it, then,” he said, and started up the stairs ahead of her.

“A simple thank-you would suffice,” she snarled.

“No it wouldn’t, and you know it,” he said with a dark look over his shoulder. Her mouth got small, and two lines appeared between her eyebrows.

“You know,” she said, starting up the stairs behind him, panting her words, “this whole antisocial thing you’ve got going? It gets old.”

“You seem to like it well enough.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” Seth said, out of breath. “You just don’t like that I said it.”

“That’s right. I don’t,” she said, sounding like a spoiled, haughty little girl. “You’re arrogant, and you don’t listen, and you make people want to lock you up and throw away the key!”

He whirled on her. “What do you think? That it’s your job to tame the savage beast? I’m not into fairy tales.”

“Neither am I,” she said, looking him up and down, her arms crossed over her chest. “And I’m not into rehabilitating delinquents!”

“Oh, don’t pretend like you’ve never crossed to the dark side,” he said. “I’ve seen you do it.”

He watched her shrink down to a small, withered creature, and wished he could unsay it. She ducked her head as if she didn’t want him looking at her. All he could do was turn around and start up the stairs again.

He heard her climbing behind him, but even her huffing and puffing sounded diminished by what he’d said.
Bastard,
he called himself with every step.
Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

At the last bulkhead, Waverly ran to the intercom and pressed the button for Central Command. “Sarek? Open up.”

“Okay,” came the response, and the doors eased open. Here there was no difference in pressure, no change in the air.