Dandelion Iron Book One (32 page)

Like I couldn’t say no to him, even though he’d played my sister and might be playing me.

I held him as he sobbed.

It all came down to choices. He didn’t think he had a choice. As for me?

I was going to choose, free and clear, to believe him, to believe in him, even though I didn’t have the truth. He was torn up, that was clear, about what he had done and the things he might have to do. Like keeping secrets from me. Like wanting to leave to protect us but unable to walk away.

Couldn’t blame him. Having to choose between love and saving the world is an impossible situation—choosing one will destroy the other.

Chapter Twenty-one

Without the money and science the ARK provided, the Mayo Clinic could not have cured cancer. America turned itself into a factory to create the atomic bomb during World War II. Likewise, it took the nation and another war to find the key to reversing the DNA mutations that cause cancer. Thank you, Tibbs Hoyt.

—Dr. Kristinn Poper
Executive VP of Research,
Mayo Clinic
July 2, 2043

(i)

The front door opened and closed. Wren and Petal shuffled in followed by the sound of a body being dragged.

Micaiah wiped his face, and I gave him a kiss on the cheek. We then moved into the living room. Pilate lay next to the fireplace on a dusty carpet. The furniture was long gone, but old clothes and blankets lay stacked on the hearth next to framed pictures of families and the relatives of strangers. Happy faces smiled at us. Happy or not, it wasn’t good salvage. The blankets weren’t either, but they were good for us. It was going to be a long, cold night out looking for Sharlotte and our headcount. The sky was already black—the storm had stolen the twilight.

Petal adjusted some bandages on Pilate, and then sank down beside him and fell back asleep. If you could call being high as a kite sleeping.

Micaiah left and came back with an armload of splintered cabinetry. He’d also found a little cache of canned tomato soup. Another bit of luck. We’d eat and get going.

Wren had other ideas. “We’re going to stop here for the night.” She sat on the window seat. In her hand was the bottle of Pains whiskey, which she’d had before. She took a slurp from it and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“No,” I said. “We have to find our people and make sure our headcount is safe.”

“Not in the dark, Cavvy.” Wren looked at me disgusted, then guzzled more whiskey. “Use your head.”

“What about Sharlotte?” I asked.

“We’ll find her in the morning. She was going to push our beefsteaks up the old highway through Golden toward Boulder. We’ll look for her there.”

Wren was calling the shots, but how clear was her head?

“So you’re going to get drunk tonight? What if we get attacked?”

She shrugged.

“I hate watching you drink, Wren.”

“Then don’t watch.”

Micaiah unsnapped a frame, crumpled up the picture, and jammed it into the fireplace. I felt bad about him using the pictures as kindling, but then again, every one of those people were prolly dead.

He broke sticks and placed them in a pattern over the torn photographs. He struck a match and soon we had a fire going. The darkness and storm would hide the smoke and the fifty-kilometer-an-hour wind would dissipate the smell.

Not sure if the boy knew how to make a fire before our little adventure, but watching him now, he was doing a good job. He jammed an old pot full of snow next to the flames to melt.

I was feeling faint from my wounds, troubled by Wren’s drinking, and so I picked up Petal’s bag of tricks and looked for more EMAT, or any adhesive that might help me with the pain. I found the spool, but it was empty. Dang. I sat on the hearth with Tina Machinegun on my lap.

Micaiah watched his fire burn. We were all quiet for several long moments.

Wren drained the last of the bottle and stood up. “Okay, pretty boy. You need to dose Cavvy with Skye6, and then you and I are gonna have us a real long conversation, and every time you get cute about the truth I’m going to smack you.”

“No,” I said. I used Tina Machinegun to push myself to my feet. I wanted no part of that evil drug, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to let Wren intimidate my boy into spilling his secrets. “You leave him alone, Wren.”

My sister shook her head and grinned at me. “Love has made you stupid.”

She was wrong. Dead wrong.

Love had made me brave.

(ii)

Wren threw a chair leg into the fireplace. The chemical stink of varnish burning blasted out. The living room was downright hot, but dark, like a back alley in the pits of hell.

“Sit down, Cavvy,” Wren said in a slur of words. “This is between the boy and me.” She walked up to him. “Who grabbed you? Those gals weren’t Outlaw Warlords. Too armed and trained and nasty. Was Miss Desert Messiah really your long lost auntie?”

Micaiah didn’t say a word. He moved away from her, looking both wary and worried.

“You’re going to tell me who you are,” Wren growled. “Don’t make me beat it out of you.”

My sister was determined to pluck the apple off the Tree of Knowledge and eat the whole thing. She pierced him with her drunken gaze. He stood, turned and pierced her right back.

I was off to the side, trying not to fall down, wondering how I could stop Wren.

“I’m not going to tell you who I am,” he said. “Not until we’re out of the Juniper, and I can give you the reward money for saving me. I will tell you a few things though.”

I held my breath, hoping for the truth, but afraid of the Pandora’s Box we might be opening.

Wren swayed a little and gestured for him to continue.

“The woman you faced was one of my aunts, Renee Vixx. They can heal almost any wound except for brain trauma or spinal cord injuries. There are now three left … Rebecca, Ronnie, and Rachel. The last of the identical quadruplets. The other soldiers are called the Cuius Regios. You can think of them as foot soldiers. They will follow any order my aunts give them, but the Regios can’t heal like the Vixxes. Now, that’s all you need to know. That, and if you get me out of the Juniper, you’ll be six million dollars richer.”

My mouth went dry. I couldn’t believe it. Identical quadruplets, all nearly bulletproof? What he was talking about sounded like cloning and genetic engineering. But that was strictly illegal and highly unlikely—something you might see on the sci-fi show
Altered
, but not in real life. Had to be another explanation.

“You really think I believe you’ll give us that kind of money?” Wren asked. “And I ain’t buying your fairytale about killer aunts. How can they heal so well, or are they not human?”

Micaiah shrugged.

Wren huffed out a laugh. “You know, but won’t say. That won’t cut it. You’re gonna tell me everything. If we’re going to get your jacked-up ass to Nevada, you’re going to tell me exactly what kind of hell you’ve brought down upon us.”

Micaiah shook his head, slowly, firmly.

“I could make you talk,” Wren said.

“No, you can’t.”

Wren jerked the Colt Terminator on her right hip out of its holster, dropped the magazine, but caught it with her left hand. She then tossed it up, ejected the shell in the chamber, snatched it from the air like she’d done in Mrs. Justice’s office, while at the same time catching the falling magazine and slamming it back into the butt of her pistol.

Quite the juggling act. The whiskey hardly slowed her down.

She tossed him the extra bullet, which he caught on instinct, and then she leveled her Colt at his forehead.

Wren hadn’t snapped back the action to load another bullet into the chamber. If she pulled the trigger, it would dry fire.

Micaiah didn’t know that. To him, she was pointing a loaded gun at his face.

“Talk. Now.” Wren whispered. “Pilate’s life is hanging on by a string. My little sister got shot up saving you. And you’re playing with Sharlotte’s heart as sure as I’m standing here. You don’t care about nothing except for your own worthless skin. I want to know why you and your superhero aunties think that skin is so important.”

Micaiah’s voice quavered. “I won’t tell you. So shoot me.”

Wren stepped forward in a flash, gun in his face, and drove a fist into his stomach. Micaiah’s legs crumbled beneath him. She’d knocked the wind out of him. The bullet he’d caught dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

“Talk. Now.” Wren repeated.

A sick horror clenched my stomach. She’d hit him. She’d actually hit him.

“No.” Micaiah gasped.

“Don’t make me do this.” Wren cocked her head, blinked, and breathed deep. “Who are you?”

The boy didn’t answer.

She lifted a boot to kick him, but I shoved her back.

And lowered Tina Machinegun’s barrel at my own sister’s chest.

“Get back.” I filled those two words with venom and a quiet rage. “You’re drunk, and I won’t watch you beat the truth out of him. To get to Micaiah, you’ll have to kill me. If I don’t kill you first.”

Wren’s sneer crashed off her face—surprise, shock, and finally, a sadness washed through her eyes and sobered her up. She could’ve taken me easily even if I wasn’t suffering and weak. But me pointing a gun at her broke something inside her.

“Cavvy, what are you doing?”

“Leave him alone.”

“But we’re family. He’s just some stupid johnson. What are you doing?” she asked again. She’d lost her swagger and her voice fell weak from her lips.

I had my finger on the trigger of the machine gun. I stared her down. Her gun wasn’t loaded. Mine was. “Sharlotte and I love him. We trust him. We’re going to help him get to Nevada. His secrets are safe as long as I’m around. End of story.”

Micaiah looked on from the floor. As I fought for him. As I stood up to the sister who had terrorized me growing up, who had ignored me, who had beat on me, who had hated me. For the first time in my life, I was going to fight her and I was going to win.

Wren stiffened and, yeah, she’d lost her swagger for a minute but wasn’t a second later and she found her smirk. “End of the story? For me it is. For you, it’s just the beginning. Fine, Cavvy, you want to play house with this johnson, okay, but when Sharlotte gets wind of this, she is going to come after you. Shame, but I won’t be around to see you two fight over some lying sack of boy.”

She snapped the action back on the Colt and slammed it into her holster. “We’ll just see how y’all do without me. Won’t be no marriages on this trip, I don’t reckon, but a whole lotta funerals instead.” She strutted to the door.

“Where are you going?” I asked. I wasn’t aiming the rifle at her anymore, and I felt the shame of what I’d done keenly. You don’t aim a gun at anything you don’t want to destroy. It’s the first rule of gun safety. Still, I couldn’t have stood by and watched her hurt Micaiah. Never.

She turned and looked me dead in the eye, swallowed hard, and said in a sorrowful fury, “Before, on the
Moby Dick
, you said you couldn’t take that shot ’cause you couldn’t risk me. That you loved me. And earlier today, when that Vixx skank had me, you couldn’t take that shot either. Now, though, now I bet you could. Wouldn’t even aim. Wouldn’t even care if you killed me.”

“Wait.” My head was swirling again, the adrenaline of the confrontation getting to me.

She didn’t. She took off into the blizzard.

I wanted to go after her, but I couldn’t. I fell.

Again, Micaiah caught me.

“I need something for the pain,” I said in a long breath. I felt deflated, torn, horrible for pointing our family’s M16 at my sister.

“God,” I whispered, “what have I done?”

Chapter Twenty-two

War is no big deal. We’ve been killing each other since Cain and Abel. What’s important is how we choose to live once the bullets stop flying. Once the bloodshed is over, what kind of people do we want to be?

—
Former President Jack Kanton
48th President of the United States
On the 29th Anniversary of the start of the
Sino-American War
July 28, 2057

(i)

Though I hated the idea of doing drugs, Micaiah gave me a half-dose of the Skye6, 2.5 milliliters. The half-dose was enough to push most of the pain away, but not all. I was left hurting, but still feeling floaty, while I sat on the hearth next to the popping fireplace.

“You’re good at giving people shots,” I murmured. “You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”

A sad smile painted his face. “I could lie to you and say my mother has Type 1 diabetes and I grew up giving her shots. That would be a really good lie, wouldn’t it?”

“It would. But what’s the truth?”

“The truth is that I’ve already let too much slip by because I hate lying to you, Cavatica. I hate it.”

“Okay,” I said softly. “Tell me why you knew so much about the Hays beef market back on that first night. You knew how much our herd was worth. How?”

“By listening.” He winked at me. “You guys were constantly talking about Howerter, the CRTA, and the price of beef. I can do a lot of things well, but the thing I do best? I listen. And draw connections.”

We ate hot tomato soup from the old cans. It had a tinny, acidic taste to it, and we had to share the one spoon I carried around with me. Juniper folks always carried spoons. Forks were a luxury, we used our Betty knives mostly, but spoons were a necessity.

Both Pilate and Petal were laid out on the floor by the fireplace, and it was hard to tell who was the patient and who was the doctor. I hated Pilate, but I couldn’t imagine a world where he wasn’t walking around, smirking, and saving us. I needed him, and not just for security. He was the closest thing to a father I had, and yet, what a miserable excuse for a man he was. In some ways, he even made Wren look sane.

Wren. My poor sister. I picked up the bullet she’d thrown at Micaiah and put it in my pocket.

After eating, Micaiah and I moved to the cushioned window seat where he’d fashioned a musty-smelling nest of moth-eaten blankets. My dress and leggings had dried, and I was glad for their warmth. The living room glowed red from the coals in the fireplace, while the corners were as shadowy as the abyss. The window showed us the unbroken windy-white of the storm.