Ascending the Boneyard (26 page)

I wonder how many of those rosary prayers were answered.

I wonder if that's why my mom wanted to visit a place like this.

I follow the fence around to the back of the sanctuary, where I stumble across a weedy, overgrown cemetery. The markers are homemade stone-and-iron tributes, and every single grave is decorated with flowers—freshly cut, brightly colored flowers.

It's strange, this place, confusing. The sanctuary is quiet and empty. The whitewashed walls remind me of the hotel where we met the Prophets, down to the dark outlines of accent wood throughout the chapel and the layers of dust coating the pews and pictures. But this place isn't like the hotel, or the school, or any of the rest of the maps on UpRising. It's not dead or abandoned; little signs of life exist everywhere I look. The lit candles. The fresh flowers. It's almost like I'm not in the Boneyard anymore, like I'm playing a completely different game. Even though it confuses me, I like it here. I like the calm, the safety of it. I haven't been anywhere this serene in at least1,580-some-odd days.

I find my way back inside, relieved that Mason's still sitting in the pew. She might be praying or might not—I can't tell. Doesn't matter. Either way my mission in this moment is to let her be, to do whatever it is she wants to do here. Maybe she
needed
to come to a place like this. I'm not sure why I think that, just that it's the first truth I've felt in a long time.

At the far end of the room I spot a table filled with mostly lit votives, and I wander over to it, wondering if it would be disrespectful to light a candle when I'm not even Catholic. They must have a sign posted, something that says what you're supposed to do. But all I see is a Bible lying open on the table. It's old, has that look like it's printed on onionskin, on paper so thin you could tear it just by looking too hard. I hold my breath, lean in just barely. I don't know much about the Bible, only that this one is open to Genesis, and that “genesis” means “beginning,” and I think how strange that is, too, since I only seem to be steered toward endings. Bad ones. But I read what's on the page anyway.

It's the story of Abraham.

It's the story of how God wants Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac.

God wants Abraham to sacrifice his son.

Devin.

The worthy will sacrifice the lamb.

Mason.

I freeze for a second, then sprint into the pews, only to find them empty.

The pew.

The chapel.

The whole fucking sanctuary.

Empty.

I spin around a few times. Maybe she went outside like I did, to get some fresh air. Maybe she went out to look for me. I stagger through the courtyard, along the fence, down by the cemetery, scan the entire space around me, every inch. Fear peels off me in sheets as I realize . . .

She's gone.

Mason.

Is.

Gone.

23

I don't even get
two seconds to ponder the thought.

The entire building begins to rumble. I hit the deck, waiting for it to stop, but it doesn't, so I lay panting on the floor, breathing in dirt and dust and microscopic particles of things that used to be whole, and then I see them: cockroach after cockroach heading straight at me across the floor. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing to hell I knew what I did wrong this time. Every time. Everyone. Gone.

I have to get out of here.

I scramble to my feet, run into the chapel, but the shaking and rumbling just get louder, stronger. A cloud of dust blows in through the open doors. It takes a while for enough of it to clear away to reveal the outline of soldiers storming the sanctuary courtyard. I can't tell if they're commandos or NIM—the dust is still too thick to make out any details.

As they burst into the chapel, my eyes go straight to their gray-purple-black fatigues. I don't know why, but their presence is not completely reassuring this time.

“What is this?” I call out. “Why are you back?”

“The area is compromised.”

No shit. “Where's Mason?”

The commandos spread out, search the chapel and the courtyard, leaving two men in the room with me, weps at the ready.

“Where is she?”
I yell.

The others return to the chapel, shake their bowl-cut heads in silent affirmation.

I'm the only one here.

“She can't be gone. . . .” My words ricochet against the vaulted ceiling, then hurl back down to the dirt floor. “I saved her. Jesus, man, I got her here. How can she be gone?”

“Your signatures,” says the commando with the barrel leveled at my chest.

“
My
signatures?”

“Your movements,” he says, impatient.

The blood drains completely out of my body, spills into a crimson pool around my feet.

I did this?

My phone. My signals. My signature.

My fault.

“She's gone?” I ask. No amount of blinking can outmaneuver the flow of tears hitting my eyes.

The commandos say nothing.

“Was it NIM?” I demand.

Silence.

“Where'd they take her?”

Silence.

“Why did you ask for my help after the bird die-off?”

Silence.

The absoluteness of nothing.

“I was supposed to help,” I say, fighting to keep the break out of my voice. “I was supposed to save it. I thought you wanted me to save it.”

“It was your signatures,” he says again.

They swarm in as my knees give out, grab me as I start to fall. As the room freeze-frames around me, they prevent me from total collapse onto the floor.

“
I
did this.” The words rip out of me, grinding, shrieking, metal on metal. “I made it happen. I couldn't fix it.”

“It was your signatures.”

I try to pull away. “
I know.
You fucking told me that already!” I free one arm from the commando's grip, reach into my pocket, pull out my phone.

I shove it at him.

The commando hesitates for a half beat, then grabs the phone and disembowels it before handing the empty shell to his fellow soldier.

“Now cuff him,” he says.

What?

“Cuff me? Why?”

The commando jerks my hands behind my back, wraps zip ties around my wrists, and pulls tight.

“Why are you doing this? Aren't we on the same side?”

“You can't help us,” he says. “And we can't help you.”

No one can help you,
Ravyn had said.

And just as they begin to drag me toward the awaiting Jeep, I catch the first glimpse of the patch on his arm, the almost minuscule embroidered letters:

NIM.

23.5

I ran after her
at first, in complete shock.

In disbelief.

She was leaving. And I couldn't speak.

Couldn't scream.

Couldn't stop her.

And then I just stood there, crap-excuse-of-a-loser-son that I am, and watched her go.

24

All I can do
is kick and rant as they lift me by the arms and legs and carry me toward a waiting Jeep.

“Shut up,” one of the commandos snaps.

“Make me.”

He accepts the challenge.

My heavy head throbs like a bitch, but I keep shouting for Haze and Mason even after the commando's thrown me into the back of his covered truck. If he wants me to shut up, he'll have to muzzle me. Or shoot me.

I hear the engine start up and the gears grind, and I topple backward as the truck lurches forward.

I scream, but they don't answer me. I bang my head against the thick plastic window, kick at the sides, slam my feet against the truck liner, knowing they could stop at any minute, come back here, beat the crap out of me, or worse.

But they don't pull over, don't stop. They don't even turn around in their seats. It's like they can't hear me. Like I don't exist.

You mustn't question the mission.

Son of a bitch. Oldest trick in the book and I fell for it like an idiot supreme. Played right into their hands. Delivered the last two people in the world I could trust right to them on a silver fucking platter, the whole time thinking I could still be Worthy, that I could Ascend.