Unravel Me (40 page)

I don’t know whether or not I’ve killed him.

We’re screaming for the people to follow us, we’re herding them back to the compounds,
yelling for them to stay down, to stay out of sight; we tell them help is coming and
we’ll do whatever we can to protect them and they’re trying to reach out to us, to
touch us, to thank us and take our hands but we don’t have time. We have to hurry
them to some semblance of safety and move on to wherever the rest of this decimation
is taking place.

I still haven’t forgotten the one man we weren’t able to save. I haven’t forgotten
number 27.

I never want that to happen again.

We’re bolting across the many miles of land dedicated to these compounds now, not
bothering to keep ourselves hidden or to come up with a definitive plan. We still
haven’t spoken. We haven’t discussed what we’ve done or what we might do and we only
know that we need to keep moving.

We follow Kenji.

He weaves his way through a demolished cluster of compounds and we know something
has gone horribly wrong. There’s no sign of life anywhere. The little metal boxes
that used to house civilians are completely destroyed and we don’t know if there were
people inside when this happened.

Kenji tells us we have to keep looking.

We move deeper through the regulated territory, these pieces of land dedicated to
human habitation, until we hear a rush of footsteps, the sound of a softly churning
mechanical sound.

The tanks.

They run on electricity so they’re less conspicuous as they move through the streets,
but I’m familiar enough with these tanks to be able to recognize the electric thrum.
Adam and Kenji do too.

We follow the noise.

We’re fighting against the wind trying push us away and it’s almost as if it knows,
as if the wind is trying to protect us from whatever is waiting on the other side
of this compound. It doesn’t want us to have to see this. It doesn’t want us to have
to die today.

Something explodes.

A raging fire rips through the atmosphere not 50 feet from where we’re standing. The
flames lick the earth, lapping up the oxygen, and even the rain can’t douse the devastation
all at once. The fire whips and sways in the wind, dying down just enough, humbled
into submission by the sky.

We need to be wherever that fire is.

Our feet fight for traction on the muddy ground and I don’t feel the cold as we run,
I don’t feel the wet, I only feel the adrenaline coursing through my limbs, forcing
me to move forward, gun clenched too tight in my fist, too ready to aim, too ready
to fire.

But when we reach the flames I almost drop my weapon.

I almost fall to the floor.

I almost can’t believe my eyes.

Dead dead dead is everywhere.

So many bodies mixed and meshed into the earth that I have no idea whether they’re
ours or theirs and I’m beginning to wonder what it means, I’m beginning to doubt myself
and this weapon in my hand and I can’t help but wonder about these soldiers, I wonder
how they could be just like Adam, just like a million other tortured, orphaned souls
who simply needed to survive and took the only job they could get.

My conscience has declared war against itself.

I’m blinking back tears and rain and horror and I know I need to move my legs, I know
I need to push forward and be brave, I have to fight whether I like it or not because
we can’t let this happen.

I’m tackled from behind.

Someone pins me down and my face is buried in the ground and I’m kicking, I’m trying
to scream but I feel the gun wrenched out of my grip, I feel an elbow in my spine
and I know Adam and Kenji are gone, they’re deep in battle and I know I’m about to
die. I know it’s over and it doesn’t feel real, somehow, it feels like this is a story
someone else is telling, like death is a strange, distant thing you’ve only ever seen
happen to people you’ve never known and surely it doesn’t happen to me, to you, to
any of the rest of us.

But here it is.

It’s a gun in the back of my head and a boot pressed down on my back and it’s my mouth
full of mud and it’s a million worthless moments I never really lived and it’s all
right in front of me. I see it so clearly.

Someone flips me over.

The same someone who held a gun to my head is now pointing it at my face, inspecting
me as if trying to read me and I’m confused, I don’t understand his angry gray eyes
or the stiff set of his mouth because he’s not pulling the trigger. He’s not killing
me and this, this more than anything else is what petrifies me.

I need to take off my gloves.

My captor shouts something I don’t catch because he’s not talking to me, he’s not
looking in my direction because he’s calling to someone else and I use his moment
of distraction to yank off the steel knuckle brace on my left hand only to toss it
to the ground. I have to get my glove off. I have to get my glove off because it’s
my only chance for survival but the rain has made the leather too wet and it’s sticking
to my skin, refusing to come off easily and the soldier spins back too soon. He sees
what I’m trying to do and he yanks me to my feet, pulls me into a headlock and presses
the gun to my skull. “I know what you’re trying to do, you little freak,” he says.
“I’ve heard about you. You move even an inch and I will kill you.”

Somehow, I don’t believe him.

I don’t think he’s supposed to shoot me, because if he wanted to, he would’ve done
it already. But he’s waiting for something. He’s waiting for something I don’t understand
and I need to act fast. I need a plan but I have no idea what to do and I’m only clawing
at his covered arm, at the muscle he’s bound around my neck and he shakes me, shouts
at me to stop squirming and he pulls me tighter to cut off my air supply and my fingers
are clenched around his forearm, trying to fight the viselike grip he has around me
and I can’t breathe and I’m panicked, I’m suddenly not so sure he’s not going to kill
me and I don’t even realize what I’ve done until I hear him scream.

I’ve crushed all the bones in his arm.

He falls to the floor, he drops his gun to grab at his arm, and he’s screaming with
a pain so excruciating I’m almost tempted to feel remorse for what I’ve done.

Instead, I run.

I’ve only gotten a few feet before 3 more soldiers slam into me, alerted by what I’ve
done to their comrade, and they see my face and they’re alight with recognition. One
of them appears vaguely familiar, almost as if I’ve seen his shaggy brown hair before,
and I realize: they know me. These soldiers knew me when Warner held me captive. Warner
had made a complete spectacle out of me. Of course they’d recognize my face.

And they’re not letting me go.

The 3 of them are pushing me face-first into the ground, pinning down my arms and
legs until I’m fairly certain they’ve decided to rip my limbs off. I’m trying to fight
back, I’m trying to get my mind in the right place to focus my Energy, and I’m just
about to knock them back but then

a sharp blow to my head and I’m rendered almost entirely unconscious.

Sounds are mixing together, voices are becoming one big mess of noise and I can’t
see colors, I don’t know what’s happening to me because I can’t feel my legs anymore.
I don’t even know if I’m walking or if I’m being carried but I feel the rain. I feel
it fall fast down the planes of my face until I hear the sound of metal on metal,
I hear a familiar electric thrum and then the rain stops, it disappears from the sky
and I only know 2 things and I only know 1 of those things for certain.

I am in a tank.

I am going to die.

I hear wind chimes.

I hear wind chimes being blown into hysteria by a wind so violent as to be a legitimate
threat and all I can think is that the tinkling sounds seem so incredibly familiar
to me. My head is still spinning but I have to stay as aware as possible. I have to
know where they’re taking me. I have to have some idea of where I am. I need to have
a point of reference and I’m struggling to keep my head straight without making it
known that I’m not unconscious.

The soldiers don’t speak.

I was hoping to at least glean a bit of information from the conversations they might
have but they do not say a word to one another. They are like machines, like robots
programmed to follow through with a specific assignment, and I wonder, I’m so curious,
I can’t figure out why I had to be dragged away from the battlefield to be killed.
I wonder why my death has to be so special. I wonder why they’re carrying me out of
the tank toward the chaos of an angry wind chime and I dare to open my eyes just a
sliver and I nearly gasp.

It’s the house.

It’s the house, the house on unregulated turf, the one painted the perfect shade of
robin’s-egg blue and the only traditional, functioning home within a 500-mile radius.
It’s the same house Kenji told me must be a trap, it’s the house where I was so sure
I’d meet Warner’s father, and then it hits me. A sledgehammer. A bullet train. A rush
of realization crushing my brain.

Anderson must be here. He must want to kill me himself.

I am a special delivery.

They even ring the doorbell.

I hear feet shuffling. I hear creaks and groans. I hear the wind snapping through
the world and then I see my future, I see Anderson torturing me to death in every
possible way and I wonder how I’m going to get myself out of this. Anderson is too
smart. He will probably chain me to the floor and cut off my hands and feet one at
a time. He is likely going to want to enjoy this.

He answers the door.

“Ah! Gentlemen. Thank you very much,” he says. “Please follow me.” And I feel the
soldier carrying me shift his weight under my damp, limp, suddenly heavy body. I’m
starting to feel a cold chill seep into my bones and I realize I’ve been running through
the pouring rain for too long.

I’m shaking and it’s not from fear.

I’m burning and it’s not from anger.

I’m so delirious that even if I had the strength to defend myself I’m not sure I’d
be able to do it right. It’s amazing how many different ways I could meet my end today.

Anderson smells rich and earthy; I can smell him even though I’m being carried in
someone else’s arms, and the scent is disturbingly pleasant. He closes the front door
behind us just after advising the waiting soldiers to return to work. Which is essentially
an order for them to go kill more people.

I think I’m starting to hallucinate.

I see a warm fireplace like the kind I’ve only ever read about. I see a cozy living
room with soft, plush couches and a thick oriental rug gracing the floor. I see a
mantel with pictures on it that I can’t recognize from here and Anderson is telling
me to wake up, he’s saying you need to take a bath, you’ve gotten yourself quite dirty
haven’t you, and that won’t do, will it? I’m going to need you to be awake and fully
coherent or this won’t be much fun at all, he says, and I’m fairly certain I’m losing
my mind.

I feel the thud thud thud of heavy footsteps climbing a stairwell and realize my body
is moving with it. I hear a door whine open, I hear the shuffle of other feet and
there are words being spoken that I can’t distinguish anymore. Someone says something
to someone and I’m dropped onto a cold, hard floor.

I hear myself whimper.

“Be careful not to touch her skin,” is the only sentence I can make out in a single
thread. Everything else is “bathe” and “sleep” and “in the morning” and “no, I don’t
think so” and “very good,” and I hear another door slam shut. It’s the one right next
to my head.

Someone is trying to take my suit off.

I snap up so quickly it’s painful; I feel something sear through me, through my head
until it hits me square in the eye and I know I’m a mix of so many things right now.
I can’t remember the last time I ate anything and I haven’t truly slept in over 24
hours. My body is soaked through, my head is pounding with pain, my body has been
twisted and stepped on, and I’m aching in a million different ways. But I will not
allow any strange man to take my clothes off. I’d rather be dead.

But the voice I hear isn’t male at all. It sounds soft and gentle, motherly. She’s
speaking to me in a language I don’t understand but maybe it’s just my head that can’t
understand anything at all. She makes soothing noises, she rubs her hands in small
circles on my back. I hear a rush of water and feel the heat rise up around me and
it’s so warm, it feels like steam and I think this must be a bathroom, or a tub, and
I can’t help but think that I haven’t taken a hot shower since I was back at the headquarters
with Warner.

I try to open my eyes and fail.

It’s like two anvils are sitting on my eyelids, like everything is black and messy
and confusing and exhausting and I can only make out the general circumstances of
my situation. I see through little more than slits; I see only the gleaming porcelain
of what I assume is a bathtub and I crawl over despite the protests in my ear and
clamber up.

I topple right into the hot water fully clothed, gloves and boots and suit intact
and it’s an unbelievable pleasure I didn’t expect to experience.

My bones begin to thaw and my teeth are slowing their chatter and my muscles are learning
to relax. My hair floats up around my face and I feel it tickle my nose.

I sink beneath the surface.

I fall asleep.

I wake up in a bed made of heaven and I’m wearing clothes that belong to a boy.

I’m warm and comfortable but I can still feel the creak in my bones, the ache in my
head, the confusion clouding my mind. I sit up. I look around.

I’m in someone’s bedroom.

I’m tangled in blue-and-orange bedsheets decorated with little baseball mitts. There’s
a little desk with a little chair set off to the side and there’s a set of drawers,
a collection of plastic trophies in perfectly straight rows on top. I see a simple
wooden door with a traditional brass knob that must lead outside; I see a sliding
set of mirrors that must be hiding a closet. I look to my right to find a little bedside
table with an alarm clock and a glass of water and I grab it.