Fuse (Pure Trilogy 2) (11 page)

They walk up to two young women Pressia’s age and a younger girl, hunched against the wall. El Capitan introduces the one with a twisted lump of skin on one side of her face as Margit. The other is a friend of Margit’s who’s blind. El Capitan doesn’t give her name. “Dome worshippers,” he says with disgust.

The blind one says defensively, “What would you have us worship instead?”

Bradwell hates Dome worshippers. He shoots back, “The Dome’s your enemy, not your god.”

Margit says, “When you hear the New Message, you’ll turn your tongue.”

Bradwell opens his mouth, but Pressia grabs his arm. “Let it go.” She walks toward the young girl they’ve been talking about—pale and cleareyed with dark red hair.

“Name is Wilda,” El Capitan says. “Burned the clothes in case of any kind of surveillance.”

Wilda is wearing an old, ill-fitting dress that gapes at her neck, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Pressia hasn’t seen a Pure other than Partridge and Lyda. Because this girl is so young, she seems doubly Pure and vulnerable. Pressia wants to protect the girl, maybe because of the way the girl looks at her, so desperate and lonesome.

“A girl who’s a Pure but not a Pure?” Pressia says.

“Whatever she is she’s got a New Message from the Dome,” El Capitan says.

“The truth!” Margit says.

Wilda has a small wooden boat in her hands. “What’s that?” Pressia asks.

Helmud shouts, “The truth!”

“It’s a boat. Helmud whittled it from wood. Gave it to the girl.”

Pressia looks at the little boat. “I like your boat,” she says to the girl. “Nice work, Helmud. I didn’t know you whittled.” He lowers his head, suddenly shy.

El Capitan squats down, imbalanced by the weight of Helmud on his back. “Say it for them. Tell ’em.”

Helmud shakes his head. He doesn’t want to hear it.

The girl tucks the boat in her pocket and looks at all of them. “We want our son returned,” she says, her lips pursed as if her mouth doesn’t open all the way.

Pressia nods, encouraging Wilda to continue.

“This girl is proof that we can save you all,” she says and then pulls her lips into a thin tight line, her chin to her chest. Pressia is alarmed by how a face that’s so perfect can look so anguished. Wilda’s cheeks flush and stiffen. Her lips look as hard as knuckles. Still, more words come. “If you ignore our plea, we will kill our hostages . . .” She squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head wildly back and forth. She doesn’t want to say another word, but they’re in her throat, working her lips. “One at a time.” She starts to lift her right hand, but she grips her own wrist, stopping herself, and starts to sob.

“It’s okay,” Pressia says. She looks at El Capitan and Margit. “Tell her she can stop.”

“Stop!” Helmud says, rubbing his ears.

“But she can’t,” El Capitan says. “She’s not programmed to stop.”

Even though Wilda looks at Pressia wide-eyed, pleadingly, the girl still wrestles her arm from her own grip and makes a small cross on the center of her chest then marks it with a circle.

“The New Message,” El Capitan says wearily.

“What does it mean,
They can save us all
?” Pressia never got to be a girl like this—without scars and marks and fusings. This was denied her. They made this girl Pure. Could Pressia have her Purity back? Could she one day see her hand—her real bare hand—again? Could the crescent-shaped burn on her face be erased? What about Bradwell’s birds? What if El Capitan and Helmud could be their own people?

“Hostages, Pressia!” Bradwell says. “They’re going to kill people.” Pressia’s embarrassed that her first thought was of being made Pure again, but doesn’t like Bradwell correcting her either. He puts his hand on the curved wall of the culvert and shakes his head.

Margit says, “They’re going to save us. The hostages will be made new!”

“New,” Helmud whispers to Pressia. “New!”

“The Dome isn’t going to abduct people to make them shiny and new!” Bradwell says.

“The spiders,” Pressia says. “That’s how people will be held hostage and killed. That’s why they’re here.”

“If we give them their son, they can make us all Pure!” the blind woman says.

“Partridge,” El Capitan says, under his breath.

The girl stands up, totters a moment, and then starts to walk toward the entrance.

“Wilda!” Pressia calls.

Margit runs to Wilda and twists her elbow. “You can’t go nowhere,” she says. “You got to tell them to save us!”

Pressia shouts at Margit, “Let go of her! You’re scaring her!”

Margit releases Wilda’s arm. Wilda pulls her arm quickly to her chest, rubbing it, and shouts, “We want our son returned!” But it’s more of a rebuke than a message.

The blind woman staggers to her feet and sways as if drunk. “We can be made Pure! It’s the way of the First Bible. God gave us his only son. We must return him!”

“Stop worshipping your oppressors!” Bradwell says. “You know why you’re blind? They did that to you. They did all of this!”

The blind woman hisses, “What proof have you got? I’ve got the Dome itself! I’ve got this girl! This Pure girl!”

“This Pure girl,” Helmud says, his voice full of hope. Does Helmud think that the Dome can save him? Separate him from his brother and make him Pure? Pressia would love to believe she could be made Pure, shiny, and new, as Bradwell put it. “This Pure girl!”

“Shut up, Helmud!” El Capitan shouts, and then all the voices rise up so loud that they bounce around the culvert walls—even Helmud yells back at his brother, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

Wilda squeezes her eyes shut and screams, “This girl is proof that we can save you all! We can save you all! If you ignore our plea, ignore our plea! We will kill our hostages, one at a time.” She then scrapes a cross on her chest and makes a circle around it so roughly that it must hurt.

The air goes quiet.

Wilda opens her eyes. Pressia goes to her and kneels. The girl looks at the doll head, touches it gently. Pressia offers it to the girl, and she cradles it and Pressia’s arm, rocking back and forth, soothing herself. “We want our son returned. This girl is proof.” She climbs onto Pressia’s lap.

Pressia rocks her as she rocks the doll head. “Hush. It’s okay.” Pressia has memorized the first Message, the one written on small slips of paper that flurried down from some kind of airship. She recites it: “We know you are here, our brothers and sisters. We will, one day, emerge from the Dome to join you in peace. For now, we watch from afar, benevolently.”

The girl nods. They’re speaking the same language.

The blind woman says, “What’s happening?”

“Hush,” Margit says. “Just hush.”

“The cross,” Pressia says softly to the others. “The kind with the wreath around the center point. It’s the same one printed at the end of the first Message.” She looks at Bradwell. “The two Messages are almost identical in some way, right?”

“In what way?” Bradwell says.

“I don’t know. They just feel like they’re the same length, the same form. You know?”

El Capitan says, “Twenty-nine.”

“Twenty-nine?” Bradwell asks.

“Words. Each Message has exactly twenty-nine words,” El Capitan says.

“It’s going to be okay,” Pressia whispers to Wilda and rubs her narrow back.

“Okay, okay,” Helmud coos.

Holding the doll head tightly, the girl whispers, “We want our son returned.”

“I know,” Pressia says. “We’re going to take care of you.”

B
RADWELL LIFTS THE GIRL
, who’s still gripping Pressia’s doll-head fist, while the blind woman curses and claws at Bradwell. “She’s ours! Let her go!”

“Back off!” Pressia shouts, and she shoves the woman. She and Bradwell carry the girl off quickly.

Margit yells at El Capitan, “Let us all be Pure! You know their son! I know you do! Hand him over! If you don’t hand him over, we will hunt him down ourselves!”

“Don’t threaten me!” El Capitan says.

“It’s not a threat!”

The blind woman says, “Didn’t the Message open your heart?”

“Shut up about my heart!” El Capitan says.

“My heart!” Helmud says.

“Hand over their son!” Margit shouts.

The blind woman screams, “Pure! We can be Pure!”

“Pure! Pure!” Helmud calls back, like it’s some kind of birdcall. Margit grabs Helmud’s shirt and yanks as hard as she can. El Capitan swings the rifle around and aims it at her. “Don’t give me a reason. I’m trigger-happy. Call off your friend too.”

“We’re willing to die for the New Message!”

“Kill us!” the blind woman shouts.

“Really?” El Capitan says. He cocks the rifle. They’re both quiet. The blind woman knows the sounds of a gun. Helmud shrinks on El Capitan’s back, laying one cheek flat against his neck.

Margit takes her friend’s hand. “Jazellia, the angels will watch over her every step! Have faith!”

Up ahead, Bradwell’s voice rings out. “Spiders! They made it!”

El Capitan and the two women run out of the culvert. Spiders are everywhere. The Groupie is gone. The pale, burned clothes smolder. Bradwell, gripping Wilda to his chest, and Pressia run to the car. Helmud’s whittled boat pops out of the girl’s pocket and falls in the snow. No going back for it. They slam the doors as spiders click over the hood.

One of the spiders gets too close to El Capitan. He fires at it, misses.

The blind woman screams. Margit says, “The Dome sent these creatures. The Dome is good!” Her eyes snap to one spider, skittering over a rock, and she watches its small, swift movements. She reaches for it.

“Don’t!” El Capitan calls out.

But it’s too late. The spider crouches and springs at her. It hooks its pronged feet through her sleeve and into the meat of her upper arm. Her eyes go wide as a red bead of light flashes on its bulbous body Blood seeps from her skin into her sleeve. Her face goes pale. She raises her hands in the air. “It chose me!” Her voice is a mix of joy and pain.

Another spider is circling close to the blind woman’s leg. El Capitan shoots at it, misses. “Run!” he shouts. “Or I’ll kill you! Go, go, go!”

“Go,” Helmud says.

The blind woman pulls on Margit’s arms. They turn and run. El Capitan sprints to the car. In the backseat, Pressia holds the girl, who keeps her eyes on the doll’s eyes; maybe she’s in shock.

“Get in!” Bradwell shouts from the driver’s seat. He revs the engine.

El Capitan sees the boat in the snow. He could make it, he’s pretty sure. “I should get your goddamn boat, Helmud. You made that beautiful goddamn boat!”

“Get in!” Helmud says, throwing his weight toward the door.

A spider runs over the toe of El Capitan’s boot. He jumps. Fires. A plume of snow and dirt rises from the bullet hole. He grips the handle of the passenger door just as a young man runs toward him screaming.

A metallic spider is embedded in his thigh; his pant leg runs dark with blood.
Too late for you
, El Capitan thinks. Maybe it’s too late for all of them. His army isn’t ready. It probably never will be. The Dome has sent little spiders to kill them.

El Capitan’s going to leave the guy there. What can he do? But Pressia jumps out of the car and runs to the man.

“Leave him,” El Capitan urges her. “Spiders are everywhere!” He tells Bradwell to stay with the girl. He runs to Pressia.

“We can’t help,” El Capitan tells her. “We have to go.”

“We
can
help!” Her fingers run lightly over the spider’s back, which glows with a red digital clock:
00:00:06
. . .
00:00:05
. “It’s counting down!”

“Down!” Helmud cries out like a command. “Down, down!”

El Capitan grabs Pressia by the ribs and lifts her and runs. Helmud grips his neck. The spider emits a long, slow beep. El Capitan dives.

The spider, locked onto the man’s leg, explodes.

His ears are ringing. His vision is black. His shoulder feels like it’s plowed into a wall. His breath is caught in his throat. Helmud moans.

Pressia puts her hands on his chest. “El Capitan? Can you hear me?” Her voice is tinny and distant.

“Yeah,” El Capitan says gruffly, as her face—her perfect face—comes into view. She’s reaching over his shoulder and tending to Helmud.

She tries to pull them up. El Capitan stands so fast his vision fades again for a second. Pressia steadies him, but he pushes her away. “I’m fine.” She runs to the car, looking back to make sure he’s following. He is, though his steps are leaden.

“Don’t look!” he hears Bradwell shout, maybe to the little girl. “Don’t look!”

Helmud repeats it, burying his face behind El Capitan’s back. “Don’t look. Don’t.” But El Capitan does look back at the exploded man—his body already charred, his clothes on fire, smoke trailing in the air.

El Capitan reaches the car and puts his hands on the hood to keep his balance. He presses his forehead to the window for a second. Cool glass.

“Hurry up, Cap!” Bradwell shouts.

“Hurry,” Helmud says.

Something darts up the heel of El Capitan’s boot. He sees a small bulky movement under his pant leg—a spider’s on him. He whips off his rifle and rams his calf with its butt, but the spider’s legs pierce his skin and drive into his muscle. He feels sick, but he straightens up, blood trickling down into his boot.
Don’t look
, he tells himself.
Don’t look
. The others are in the car, calling his name. They can’t see the lower half of his body, so he tugs up his pant leg, and there, above the cuff of his boot, in the densest part of his calf muscle, is a robotic spider. Its black humped back shows a timer, counting down.
07:13:49
. . .
07:13:48
. . .
07:13:47
. The rest of his life and Helmud’s too, meted out in hours, minutes, seconds.

“Goddamn,” El Capitan says.

“God,” Helmud says, pleadingly. “God, God, God!”

I
T’S LIKE THE CITY HAS GROWN
a layer of movable skin, a clicking black scrim that’s covering everything in sight—the hunched buildings, the broken walls, the plywood roofs on handmade lean-tos. Pressia closes her eyes, but the clicking sounds like the eyes of a thousand dolls.