Blood Zero Sky (17 page)

My transformation is nearly complete, but one task remains.

I walk around the empty platform for a few minutes before I discover the bathroom, tucked away behind the escalators. I place one hand on the door reading women. The picture on the door shows a little white outline of a woman in a skirt. Grinning, I remove my hand. No skirt here.

I go into the men’s room instead.

It isn’t a clean place. Toilet paper is strewn everywhere. Dirty, wet footprints range all over. But somehow I like it. It lacks the pretense of the ladies’ room—no little sachet of potpourri here, no fake plant in the corner. There is no mistaking this room for anything but a place to piss, and this rare glimmer of honesty comforts me.

But my business here is not excretion—at least, not the typical kind. I walk to the row of white, ceramic sinks, unsling my bag, and toss it into one of them. Then, I step up to the vanity and confront myself.

I’m no beauty queen, that’s for sure. Dark half-circles cling under my eyes. My face looks ashen. The buds of crow’s feet are almost imperceptible at the corners of my eyes, but they’re there all the same. My lips look thin and pale, my hair dark and plain, with a few ethereal wisps bristling from my otherwise slicked-back, pony-tailed mane. And of course, there’s the standard blemish: the black stain of the cross on my cheek. Despite all of it, I can’t quite shake the disquieting feeling that I’m sort of pretty.

I run the water over my hands, as hot as I can take it, until steam fogs the mirror and hides my reflection. I try three different soap dispensers and finally find one full. I rub my hands together, washing them slowly, enjoying the scald of the water, the thick breath of the steam, the smell of the dirt and piss and emptiness all around me.

In one unfogged patch of mirror, I catch another glimpse of the cross under my eye, dark as a bruise beneath my pale skin. I take the knife from the waistband of my pants and hold its blade under the blistering-hot water. My hands, now removed from the heat, tremble.

With the slowness of a high priest at a sacrificial ceremony, I raise the blade before me, eyeing its length, measuring its sharpness, fearing it and refusing to fear it. This is what must be done, so that the rebels will take me as one of their own, so that Blackwell and Jimmy Shaw can’t track me. So all I have been will die. So Rose might one day emerge from her Company cocoon into a new world.

This is my choice.

I bring the knife to my face, feeling the heat of the blade on my skin before the bite of its edge.

Now, the pain—God, it hurts more than I had imagined it would—I have to finish fast.

Push harder.

Oh, God. Ow.

At least the knife is sharp. As it passes through the skin of my cheek my stomach turns mightily. I hear myself whimper. Now that I’ve loosed the flap of skin, I have to cut underneath the implant to break the wires.

Breathe, breathe, steady . . .

I push the point of the blade under the edge of the cross, aiming for the place where the four arms meet. I push slowly, carefully; if I move too fast, I might go too deep and cause irreparable damage. I cut underneath the cross then try to pry it free; I lift its edge and watch in disgusted fascination as the skin of my cheek rises with the tilt of the blade. But I can’t break the wires.

Dammit!

The nausea is so bad I’m gagging; my head throbs, my brow pours sweat. I wiggle the knife blade, seeing stars pass before my vision with each movement, and finally give one last hard, upward jerk. There’s a sickening, metallic
snap
.

~~~

The first thing I’m aware of is the taste of puke in my mouth. I roll over and spit. I open my eyes, but they’re too clouded with tears to be of any use. My stomach feels horribly hollow, empty, twisted. As I slowly rise onto my hands and knees on the dirty floor, only now do I realize that I must’ve blacked out.

With one blindly groping hand, I find the knife, just a few feet away. With the other hand, I find the sink and pull myself upward, with badly trembling limbs, to an upright position. Finally, I rise from my knees to my feet. Blinking, squinting, I look at myself in the mirror. Blood has stained my face, my shirt, my jeans. It’s smeared on my hands, and drizzles down my face like rain from an overflowing gutter. I reach into its source, not bothering to wash my hands or clear the blood away to see what I’m doing. I reach beneath the loose flap of skin, grip the hard, thin, metallic edge of the cross, and pull as hard as I can.

At first, there’s nothing—hardly even pain—then, slowly, the cross moves, and agony swells behind it like a tsunami. There’s a sound like the tearing of fabric, mixed with a beastlike scream that must have—but surely couldn’t have—come from me.

And the cross comes free.

I toss it into the sink and it clatters there unimpressively. I lean forward, my face in my hands, leaning against the white ceramic, and cry like a child. Tears mingle with my blood against the slick, smooth surface of the basin, and slide together into the devouring black maw of the drain. As I listen to myself wail, noticing how the sound echoes in the dirty little restroom, I feel strangely detached from the whole scene, as if I were not myself going through this horrible ordeal, but somebody else entirely.

After a few minutes it occurs to me that if I don’t take action soon, I’ll lose enough blood to pass out again and will probably bleed to death before somebody finds me. Slowly, delicately, I raise my head toward the spinning lights of the ceiling. Slowly, delicately, I turn on the water and take some into my cupped and trembling hands. I wash the blood from my face, trying but failing to avert my eyes from the mirror and the cavernous wound under my left eye. When I’ve washed it out as well as I can withstand, I rummage through my bag—realizing I neglected to bring bandages—and pull out one of my spare shirts. I tear it into strips, fold some of it into an absorbent patch, and tie it in place with some thinner strips, as tightly as I can tolerate. Gingerly, I remove my bloodstained shirt, leaving it in the sink, and replace it with the last clean one from my bag. Despite my planning, my stock of clean clothes is already gone. I fish the small, black cross out of the sink in front of me, wondering at how light it is, walk over to the nearest stall, and hold it over the commode.

My apartment, my car, my career, my life—everything I’ve ever desired is right here in my hand. It’s amazing how good it feels to be throwing it all away.

Looking back, it seems incredible how long it took me to understand the ways and means of deception. After all my time working in marketing, how could I not have known? Of course the Mark of the Beast would be a cross.

Drop. Splash. Flush.

And I’m finally, finally free.

This is where the revolution begins.

—Chapter Ø13—

Somewhere inside the hot womb of the earth,
through what must be miles of tunnels, I wander. The harder I try to retrace my steps, to find my way back to the rebel camp, the more lost I become. Now there is some kind of track under my feet, but whether it was made for a subway system or to haul some kind of ore out of the ground, I do not know.

I feel I’ve been swallowed by a python and am passing through his narrow bowels, waiting to be shat out or reborn or . . . at the thought of the word
shat
, I almost laugh. It’s been a long time since I was capable of humor. I realize now how much I’ve missed it. Already my exile, as terrifying as it is, has lifted a grave weight from my shoulders.

As I walk, though, the insanity of my situation strikes me. The fact is, I have no idea how to get back to the warehouse headquarters Ethan and his rebels took me to last time. And even if I did somehow stumble onto it, there’s no guarantee they’ll be happy to see me . . . quite the opposite.

Still, I press on. Concrete walls weep with moisture as I pass. Dizzy, lost, delirious, I step into a place where the tunnel widens into some sort of small, underground station. I pass a large set of gears, now rusted to stillness. Chains hang from a ceiling obscured by darkness and distance, braided with cobwebs and frayed electrical wires. Somewhere, the rustle of a rat. I’ve grown used to the sounds of the rats by now, the whisper of silence, even the—

Click.

Behind me. Not a rat. Not my imagination.

“May Fields. You’ve come back to us.”

I turn and my flashlight finds Ethan Greene, his strange, handsome face looking somewhat tired, somewhat amused. His white gun is trained at my head.

“The light,” he says, gesturing for me to shine my flashlight away from his face. I aim the beam at his shoes, but not away from him completely. I want to be able to see the expression on his face. My fate, my future, and even my life depend on how he reacts in the next few minutes.

The barrel of his gun never wavers for a second; it remains locked on my forehead. Now, he shines his light on me. Even through the glare I can see the strange look register in his face. Still, when he speaks his voice is even.

“Take the bandage off.”

With the involuntary deliberateness of one who’s lost too much blood, I remove the makeshift bandage, wincing as I pull the last layers free from the already-drying gore.

Ethan stares into the chasm of flesh on my cheek, his expression unreadable. He could put a bullet into that open wound right now, I know. The hole is already begun; his aim is steady. And why shouldn’t he? What am I to him but a spy and a tie-wench, a life-long Company hack, born into its inner circle? Suddenly it hits me: he has no reason to trust me, no reason not to shoot me. I was foolish enough to think that by cutting the cross out I would prove my devotion to the Protectorate. It could just as easily be interpreted as an act of loyalty to the Company, as proof I’d be willing to mutilate myself in the service of the great corporation and in doing so make myself their perfect spy, the perfect candidate to infiltrate and expose the “anarchist rebels.” If Ethan’s thoughts take this tack, he kills me now.

Blood runs down my face again. Suddenly, my eyelids grow unbearably heavy.

“Why are you here?” Ethan asks.

“Jimmy Shaw sent me.”

His nod seems to say,
Good, at least you’re honest.

“Why?”

“So I could lead Blackwell to you. To wipe out the camp.”

His eyes narrow. “And so you’re here for that reason? To lead them here?”

“No,” I say. “I cut out the cross so they couldn’t track me. I came to warn you that they’re coming for you.”

“To warn me,” Ethan seems to taste these words as one might a sip of questionable wine.

“And to join you,” I say.

Ethan’s snorted laugh is not exactly derisive. “You already rejected us once. That seemed like a pretty good choice. So tell me, why would a future Blackie want to join a bunch of miserable unprofitables?”

“Because,” I say, searching for words, trying to pin down the elusive thoughts slipping through my mind. “Because you’re free.”

“Nobody’s free,” Ethan says.

The barrel of his gun gapes at me. I’m waiting for the bullet, almost hoping for it. I’m too tired to endure any more questions, any more thinking or walking or working or searching, and I’m struck with the deep and overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep for a thousand years. The gash in my face pours blood like a great, weeping third eye.
Let me live or die,
I think,
just no more questions.

And suddenly, as if he heard my unspoken thought, Ethan holsters his gun.

“No one came with you?”

“No.”

“No one followed you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“They probably counted on tracking you with the cross . . . I’m sure they never imagined you’d have the guts to cut it out. You know if you betray us, I’ll have to kill you? I’ll have no choice.” He approaches and takes my face in his hands, makes me look into his eyes. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.” I’m about to fall like a tree under an ax.

Out of a bag I hadn’t noticed, Ethan produces a device like a magic wand. He passes it over my head, my arms, my legs, my body. It emits a small humming sound.

“We’ll check you over closer later, but it looks like you’re clean,” he says. “Sometimes they bug people and they don’t even know it. Alright.” He produces a strip of cloth from his pack and begins passing the blindfold around my head over and over, until I’m wrapped in a cocoon of deep darkness. “Let’s go,” he says.

I feel him put an arm around me, guiding me, steadying me.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I can walk.” But the words come out slurred.

Ethan laughs. “Sure you are,” he says. We travel down the tunnel for a few minutes before he continues, “Maybe I’m an idiot to trust you, but I have to hand it to you, you’re tough as hell.”

We might have walked for minutes or days; time, like so many other things that once seemed indispensable, has become a worthless commodity. At first, I try to rely on his strength as little as possible, but soon I’m leaning heavily on him.

Finally, Ethan tells me to stop and steps away from me for a moment. I hear the guttural grinding sound of a heavy door reluctantly swinging open, then his hand is on my shoulder again, leading me on. As I step through what I imagine must be a doorway, I feel, for the first time in what might have been miles of walking, fresh-smelling, cool air on my face. The space around me seems to open up, ringing with echoing voices, laughter, droning music. Without ceremony and without a word, Ethan pulls the blindfold from my eyes. I blink, surprised. This is not the warehouse Ethan took me to last time.

Surrounding me is what can only be described as a subterranean village. Two rowdy, pale-faced boys brush past me, chasing a ball. To my left, two men and two women crouch next to a tiny, gas-powered stove, frying what smells like bacon. They laugh together.

Ethan starts walking, and I follow slowly, my legs feeling leaden.

“Look up,” he says.

Above, a great domed ceiling soars, its vast, yellowish glass face swirled with amber. It’s lit from behind and glows down on us like a great glass sun. The light it casts over everything is pleasant if somewhat dim, the color of melted butter, and it lends the stark concrete walls and floors an air of comfort and hospitality.

Everything we pass seems perfectly ordered. Tents have been pitched in precise rows. A pack of what look like old gasoline-powered motorcycles stand perfectly polished in utterly straight columns. In one cordoned-off area a huge blanket is laid out. Upon it sit what must be thousands of white guns like the one Ethan carries, each placed a uniform distance from its neighbor. Two narrow-shouldered Asian men kneel in front of different guns, both working with nimble hands as they snatch various tools from leather belts at their waists, pull a gun apart, clean it, inspect it, reassemble it, put it back in its exact place, then move on to the next one. The men glance up at us as we pass, and I expect they will call out a greeting to Ethan or give some utterance to the questions that cross their faces as they notice me, but they look back to their work without a word. Ethan leads me on.

“This is your headquarters?” I ask.

“Isn’t that what Shaw sent you to discover?”

“What’s it called?”

“We won’t be here long enough to name it,” he says. “Soon, the squads will discover us—even without your help—and we’ll be forced to abandon it.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, not knowing why. It isn’t my fault they have to live this way. Not exactly. . . .

We’re passing down another long row of tents, nearing the far wall of the chamber that, I imagine, must’ve been an underground train station once upon a time.

Something dawns on me. “How did you know I was coming?” I ask.

“The squadmen aren’t the only ones with eyes and ears,” he says with his mysterious, lopsided grin. “Besides, some of us have been hoping you’d come back. Most of us felt that once somebody’s declined to join us, they shouldn’t be given another chance, but others thought we should make an exception for you.”

“What do
you
think?” I ask. “Your decision is the most important one, isn’t it?”

He throws me a sidelong glance, a look half admonishing and half amused.

“It’s true that I’m the general of the Protectorate’s fighting forces, but we have no leader here. There is an elected governing council, twelve members. On our tiny scale, we might be the last democratic government on earth. And as for what I think of you . . . ” his lips move, as if chewing his thoughts before spitting them out. “I don’t believe a person’s soul can change, and you’ve been a tie-girl all your life. But I do believe a person’s circumstances can change. I believe things can happen to bring them closer to their true, maybe dormant selves. And I believe in a brutal thing called destiny that’s been known to make kings into slaves and vice versa. In other words . . . ” He stops walking abruptly, turning back to face me with flinty, amused eyes, “I’m still making up my mind.”
Then, he calls over his shoulder, “Ada!”

The kind-faced, middle-aged woman who brought us our food last time I was in the camp appears from a narrow doorway in the curved concrete wall so quickly she must’ve been watching us from there, perhaps waiting to be called.

“Stitch her up, would you?” Ethan says absently, not looking at the woman but still eyeing me.

Ada walks up to me with quick steps then stops abruptly, taking me in with a motherly yet business-like glance.

“Jesus, Ethan! Were you going to let her bleed to death on her way here? Poor dear,” she says to me. “I’ll stitch up your face very well; you’re so beautiful, we don’t want a nasty scar to ruin you.”

Ethan snorts. “You might be doing her a favor if you let it heal ugly. I suspect beauty is a burden Miss Fields might not mind being relieved of.” He looks at me and smiles, half conspiring with me, half mocking. “In any case, she won’t need her looks here.”

Ada gives him a reproving frown, takes my thin hand in her soft, plump one, and leads me toward the narrow doorway from which she appeared.

“Be quick, the council is waiting,” Ethan calls after us. “I’ll send word when we’re ready for her.”

Ada waves his words away as if swatting at a fly.

“Come here, poor girl,” she whispers. “We’ll fix you very well.”

In my delirium, she’s the mother I hardly knew, and I release myself into her care with relief, almost with tears.

The room we enter is a dimly lit kitchen with cinder-block walls and clean, sparsely appointed countertops. To one side of the kitchen stands an old, cheap-looking table with a pale, laminate top and four greenish vinyl chairs surrounding it. Ada gestures to the table and helps lift me onto it, manipulating my long frame with surprising strength and ease.

“Forgive me,” she says. “This may not look like much of a hospital, but I promise it does the trick. There’ve almost been miracles performed here.” She pulls open a drawer in a cabinet I hadn’t noticed and takes out some gauze, a bottle, a small plastic box, and several white towels.

“Lay back,” she says, and eases me down, placing one rolled-up towel under my head. Next, she picks up the plastic bottle, begins to uncap it, then stops, remembering something. She crosses to the door and closes it. “Don’t want the children to hear this,” she says.

I wonder, fearfully, what sounds the children aren’t meant to hear. Before I can ask her, she’s at my side again. Above, one bare light bulb hangs from a wire, and in its glare I can see a shiny, raised scar on Ada’s face, just under her left eye. She must’ve undergone the same trial I’m facing. This knowledge helps to steel my nerves, and I wonder how many others have walked down these tunnels and torn from themselves the mark of civilization.

In the next moment, Ada is obscured; she’s thrown a towel over my forehead.

“Close your eyes.”

Cold, the alcohol on my face. I hiss in pain, bite my teeth together so hard I’m afraid they might break. Ada removes the towel from my eyes and blots my wound. Next, from the plastic box she takes a needle and thread and, placing one hand on my forehead to steady me, begins stitching. The pain comes in pricks and tugs and a general burning and throbbing, but I’m so deep in shock and so low on blood that I can muster no response to the pain but to lay there and take it.

I stare at the slightly swinging light bulb hanging above me, watch it become a twin of itself as my eyes lose focus and I fall toward unconsciousness. Somehow, the sight reminds me of the duality of my life: the dutiful worker versus the irreverent dyke, a life of wealth versus a life of banishment, the Company versus the Protectorate, God versus Satan, good versus evil. Now, these distinctions blur in my mind like the light hanging over me. All these reciprocal elements, these warring factions in my life; what if—if—but sleep erases these thoughts.

In my dreams, I am somehow aware that I will awaken a new person, reborn, resurrected like Lazarus. In my dreams, I am a warrior.