Torn (8 page)

“You're sure you know what you're doing?” Cole's voice was quiet. He gripped the sides of the cot where he sat. Something about this didn't sit well with him—the involvement of Davis, the ongoing experiments.… He couldn't tell how much of his discomfort was related to mistrust of Worsley's abilities and how much of it came from his need to protect Davis. It was a need that was powerful and innate—it had struck him almost immediately after meeting her and had yet to fade in its intensity. He wondered if it ever would.

Three months had passed since she'd been thrown into quarantine. Cole had felt less helpless when he was in jail. Here, he fought the urge to run every day. Where would he run to? He didn't know how he could possibly get to her at TOR-N, or whether she'd still be alive when he arrived. But sitting here, doing nothing … it had been torture.

He'd tried to recall everything he'd learned about New Atlantic geography—train lines, how to get from the Slants to the Everglades, where TOR-N was located. In the end he'd given up, shredding most of his makeshift maps in frustration.

“I should go,” Worsley said. “I've been away from Vera for too long already. Cole…,” he trailed off, then took a breath. “I don't want to worry that I shouldn't have told you about Braddock. Be careful out there, if you look for him. Don't lose your wits.”

Cole nodded, and Worsley stood to leave. Before Worsley could shut the door behind him, though, Cole reached out and pulled him into a hug. “Thank you,” he said, clasping Worsley tightly for a brief second, his heart about to explode with hope.

Four hours later, night began to fall. It was dim enough for Cole to pass through the shadows with his head bent low and still look like any other guy, but not so dim that he wouldn't see where he was going as he ventured through the ancient tunnel system below the Slants, once used to store discarded Prior trash.

The tunnels were ventilated, and streaks of white moonlight filtered through gaps in their iron surfaces, illuminating Cole's path. Without the tiny gaps, allowing bursts of fresh air, Cole might have passed out from the odors he was breathing in. He took careful steps around heaps of discarded technology—old handheld computers and dated household appliances. He tried not to think about the toxic substances that had been down there for decades. He would never have taken the tunnels if the trip weren't short—only a quarter mile underground. They were widely known across Columbus for being lethal due to the mixing of various chemicals and wastes. Cole remembered Davis saying it had been a major part of her dad's platform to resolve the issue of toxicity beneath the city.

This is what he was thinking as his ankle caught on something sharp and metal, twisting just enough to cause him to lose balance. His foot landed in several inches of wet sludge, and something shuffled out of it, causing him to jump. Cole wasn't usually skittish. He'd become accustomed to the dark, from his months as a stowaway. But this was a worse, more sinister darkness than anything he'd experienced. He tried not to consider what might have been in that sludge, which oozed into his shoe and slopped under the arch of his foot.

Ten minutes later, he faced the tunnel exit, but it was mostly obstructed by large heaps of glass and rusted metal—old, broken machinery that had been shoved in there as an afterthought and apparently had gotten stuck, fusing to the tunnel walls. Cole swore under his breath. The gap remaining was way too slim for him to squeeze through, and its edges looked more treacherous than barbed wire. There was no way.

He kicked at the pile in frustration, and something in it shifted, sending glass raining down over his shin. Still, it was a hopeful sign—the pile wasn't as heavy as he initially thought. He kicked again and realized his mistake too late: a piece of metal punctured the bottom of his shoe, wedging itself firmly in its sole like a knife. The pile shuddered but didn't give. He tried to grip the scrap in his shoe and pull, but it was no use—it was so sharp that to tug at it would risk slicing his hand. Cole racked his brain, then pulled off his sweatshirt and wrapped it around his palm, tugging the metal. When he finally removed the embedded shard, his sweatshirt was in tatters and the sole of his shoe was so mangled that he could see his sock through the bottom. It wouldn't offer much in the way of protection.

Cole took a breath, delivering a sharp kick to a different portion of the mess. This time a metal rod tumbled from it and everything in the pile shifted a few inches lower. Cole seized the rod and jammed it against the pile repeatedly, until he was breathless and sweating and his muscles ached.

Finally, the gap was wide enough for him to push through, if he was careful.

He wrapped his sweatshirt around his palms again, lifting his body gingerly through in an awkward dance. He felt his shorts catch and tear, and he gritted his teeth against the pain of glass against his rib cage. Finally, he was out. He examined himself. He was covered in scratches—none very deep, but any exposure to the filthy metal presented a risk of infection. Still, he was out, free, and breathing crystal clear air with the beautiful night sky opening over him in the way he'd always loved … it reminded him of Davis.

Worsley had told him to walk toward a large vaulted campaign ad touting the Olympiads. The ad had been left up from the last election, when Parson Abel was still running for reelection. It was no longer illuminated, and some of the megawatt bulbs, designed to rise high over the city, were cracked, making the whole thing look like a relic from a ghost town. Still, Cole walked more than two miles until he reached the base of the sign, then followed a narrow gravel path downhill toward the tree line.

He walked for an hour, maybe more, following the landmarks Worsley had given him—some so vague they could easily have been misinterpreted: a junkyard here, a broken footbridge there. He was just becoming certain he'd made a wrong turn, when he saw the barn. It was unmistakably the barn Worsley had described: two stories high with five large windows, flanked by willow trees. To the right of the barn was a tiny shack, much like the one Cole used to share with his brother.

Cole took a deep breath and approached the shack. By then it was late, probably after ten, but Cole couldn't afford to wait until morning. He didn't have that kind of time to lose. He banged twice on the front door and waited. He banged again, harder, to no avail. Finally, Cole walked along the perimeter of the shack until he reached a window that was only partially concealed by a curtain; beyond it shone the faint but unmistakable glow of a lamp.

“Hey!” Cole shouted, banging on the window again. A figure moved inside. Cole squinted and could see that it was an old man, hunched but powerful looking. The man turned halfway around, looking toward Cole, but made no attempt to move. “Let me in,” Cole called out, banging again on the window. The old man turned back toward the table, ignoring him entirely.

Cole tried the base of the window frame. It was loose—unlocked. Before he could think about what he was doing, he slipped his fingers beneath the frame and pushed it upward. Cole slid inside, standing to face Braddock, whose lined face was quivering with rage.

“What the hell do you think you're doing, barging into my home?” Braddock yelled. His face was red and furious, but his eyes were tired. His shoulders were tense, but he didn't rise from behind the table. Cole saw immediately why he didn't rise to fight: the old man was wheelchair-bound. A fighter, unable to defend himself against an intruder. It was a horrible irony, and something in Cole stirred.

“I need your help,” Cole said. “I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need to talk to you about the Olympiads.”

“Go to hell,” Braddock said. “All you Priors come sniffing around here, looking for more ways to win. You already have everything you want. Why can't you just leave me in peace?”

“I'm not a Prior,” Cole told him, surprised Braddock wouldn't have seen it right away. At this, Braddock frowned and squinted.

“Then what do you want with the Olympiads?” he wanted to know.

“I need someone to train me,” Cole said, struggling to keep the urgency out of his voice. “They're letting Gens in this year. I need a coach who knows the competition.”

“I can't help you,” Braddock said. “I'm out of the business. You're best off getting out of here. I don't want no trouble. If you're a smart kid, you won't compete. It's all about money. Everyone wants money, money, money. But it only causes problems.”

“I'm not in it for money,” Cole said, even though it was only half true. “It's a little about money,” he corrected. “Just so I can get to someone I care about and help her. It matters so much,” he said, breathless, feeling his face heat up.

Braddock twisted his mouth, thinking about something.

Cole held his breath, trying to hold his gaze steady.

Then Braddock's eyes changed again, hardening. “Love,” he growled. “You love this girl you're trying to help? Listen to me, kid. Take a look at that.” He pointed toward a black vase sitting on the mantel on the opposite end of the tiny room. “That's where love got me. That's what happened to my wife. So beautiful, so kind. And they killed her. Didn't even care we had a kid together. Those bastard Priors killed my wife anyway. I don't want shit to do with those Priors. You're smart you'll get the hell out of here and stay away from their corrupt, rigged contest.” He practically spit the last words, shaking a little as he gripped the arms of his seat. “Go,” he said again, yelling now.

“I won't go,” Cole said. He stood, staring at Braddock, who blinked back at him, his jaw clenched. Cole felt a flutter of breeze against his neck; he'd forgotten about the open window, and he hoped their yelling hadn't drawn attention. But the breeze came from behind him, and the window curtain blew backward. Had the door swung open, or—

Cole turned fast, but not fast enough to prevent the intruder from knocking his feet out from under him and grabbing him in a stranglehold. Cole struggled, choking, his vision blurred. He blinked and it cleared slightly to reveal the face of his attacker … a pretty, delicate face. A girl's face.

Cole struggled free and leapt to his feet again, only to find himself facing a tiny girl about his own age, wielding a kitchen knife. She jumped up onto the table, seeming to defy gravity. Her dark hair was long and hung in dreadlocks almost to her waist—it was frizzy, wild, as though she'd never tried to tame it. The girl was fierce. Dark brown eyes seemed to take up half of her face, overshadowing a slender nose and delicate jawline. Her shoulders were narrow but muscular. Cole could see she wasn't a stranger to battle.

“What the hell?” Cole shouted, but instead of an answer, he was met with several plates hurtling through the air. Cole ducked to the side, narrowly dodging them. Next, the girl threw the knife. Cole barely registered it hurtling through the air but he somehow managed to avoid it by an inch. Her aim was impressive—her fury was monstrous.

“Get
out,
” she demanded, letting out a bloodcurdling scream.

“Stop,” Cole heard from Braddock, as Cole dodged two more plates. A shard of glass scraped his forearm, leaving a sharp sting and a line of blood in its wake. The girl was crazy, a monster. He didn't want to fight her—she was just a girl—but he'd be killed if he didn't do something to defend himself. Cole moved toward her and kicked a table leg, hard, until it broke in half—causing the entire table to collapse. The girl did a backflip off the edge of the table, landing steadily on her feet as silverware and debris crashed around them. She grabbed another knife from a rack on the wall before he could stop her, and turned toward him, wielding it impressively.

“Who are you?” he demanded as she moved closer, backing him toward the wall with her knife. She'd obviously been trained well; could Braddock have trained her himself? He'd never encountered a girl who was any kind of match for him, let alone one who was a real threat.

“She's my daughter,” Braddock said, just as the girl uttered her name.

“Damaris. If you don't leave us alone of your own accord,” she continued, “I'll
make
you leave.” She moved closer, as if to strike—but Cole reached for the mantel, grabbing the black vase that he now knew was an urn. He held it aloft. He knew what the urn contained. He knew she wouldn't dare hurt him while he held it.

“Stop!” she shouted. “What is it you want?”

“I want your father to teach me what he knows,” Cole told her.

“No,” Braddock broke in. “If you want instruction, Damaris can decide whether
she
wants to take you on. And that's a hell of an offer.”

Cole felt his jaw drop open. In his peripheral vision he could see Braddock waiting, gauging his daughter's response. Braddock didn't speak for her, and she only glared. Damaris whirled, stabbing the knife into the door frame with all the force she seemed to possess; only the handle protruded. In an instant she was next to Cole, claiming the urn from his grasp before he could process what she was doing.

“What's in it for me?” she asked calmly, replacing the urn on the mantel.

“If you're going to train the boy,” Braddock said, a hint of a smile forming on his lips, “his first order of business is to make us a new kitchen table.”

Cole stared at Braddock, willing him to change his mind. Braddock stared back, unmoved. Cole felt himself relent. If Braddock had trained Damaris, maybe there was something there. And maybe he could eventually change Braddock's mind about training him himself.

“I can do better,” Cole told them. “If you train me and I win the Olympiads, I'll split the winnings.”

A long silence filled the room. Cole could tell Braddock didn't care about the winnings. But he could also tell that somehow, in the last five minutes, he'd earned at least a little of the man's respect. Damaris looked at her father and he looked back, but he gave no indication of what he was thinking.