Fuse (Pure Trilogy 2) (22 page)

Like Wilda, each of the children is programmed to say very little. “Propaganda,” El Capitan calls it. “Little spokesmodels for the Dome.” And their messages end, as Wilda’s does, with the gestured sign of the Celtic cross.

They call them Purified, as they aren’t really Pure, but remade. And all of them have developed tremors in their hands and heads.

Pressia hopes that they will be able to find the formula in combination with her mother’s vials and the third mysterious ingredient. Maybe they can save the children before they’re too far gone. She would never confess to Bradwell that she stares at her doll-head fist sometimes, squints until her eyes blur with tears, and tries to imagine the hand beneath it. The doll head gone? Maybe it’s another reason why she works so hard.

And now she says, “Willux is a stranger to me, Bradwell.” How do you organize the ravings of a crazy person? How is she to find some pattern that would make sense to one of the Seven or Bradwell’s parents?

Walrond left clues for them after all. Bradwell knows Willux better than she does. “I need you,” she says. “Wake up and help me.” But she’s not sure if he would help even if he were awake. He desperately wants the truth, but not the formula.

From a restless sleep, he coughs. His cheeks turn a deep ruddy color. The birds on his back contract, as if their air is dependent on his breaths.

“Easy now,” she says. “It’s okay.” Fignan buzzes to his bedside. His coughing subsides.

The fire is fading a little. She puts on her new boots and coat—OSRissued, gifts from El Capitan. She slides the iron bolt that El Capitan installed, and opens the door. A cottage is tucked deep in an orchard. The trees’ black branches bow so low that the limbs have started to root back into the ground. The air is cuttingly cold. She supposes Partridge is sleeping in some completely static temperature—and what would that be? Seventy-two degrees or seventy-three? She wonders if he ever thinks of her out here. There’s a chance they’ll never see each other again, and, for a moment, it’s as if it’s all over. Nothing will change. This will be her life. Here forever. And that will be his.

And if Bradwell dies, Pressia will live out her days here in this orchard cottage surrounded by trees that seem wired to the earth, alone.

Because the moon is full—though, as always, partially lost in a skein of ash—she can see the low, crumbling cement wall in the distance and, beyond that, to one side, the glowing fires of the tent dwellers and, to the other, an old dormitory, half of which is collapsed. That’s where Wilda stays.

There’s a light on in the dormitory and Pressia wonders if it’s Wilda’s light. What if nothing comes of Walrond’s Black Box? The girl will die.

She picks up an armful of wood from the neatly stacked pile and imagines what this place was like during the Before. When the ghostly girls were alive and well, did they pull fruit from the trees? She squints through the orchard—these stalks of wilting bouquets, rows and rows of blackened tethered limbs—and she sees movement. A shape darts so quickly that the fog swirls. Then nothing.

She looks at the small cottage. She hears Bradwell coughing again and then his voice—rough and raw. “Pressia!”

She drops the firewood, runs to the cottage, and finds him thrashing. She kneels next to the bed. His eyes are open but he’s still lost. “I’m here,” she says. “I’m still here.”

He coughs raggedly. She gets a cup of water. She lifts his head and puts the cup to his lips. “Take a sip,” she says. “You need to drink something.”

His eyes close, and he drinks a little then pulls away. She eases him onto his side.

She stands and paces. Finally, she rests her forehead against the stone wall, flattens her hand to the moss, and rubs it away. “Bradwell,” she says, “why don’t you come back? This can’t be the end.” She waits for Bradwell to respond even though she knows he won’t.

Pressia lifts her hand from the wall and sees colors—a bit of blue, a smear of red. She looks closely at the lichen. Are these reds and blues just another kind of mold?

She reaches up and rubs off more lichen, and beneath it, she sees more color—paint. She rubs and rubs, until she sees the side of a face—an eye, a cheek, an ear.

Who lived here after the Detonations? An artist? Did the artist keep painting in this little cottage and after running out of canvases, take to painting the walls?

Pressia grabs a washcloth and lightly dabs the moss away, careful not to damage the colors underneath. Faces emerge—one girl after the other—as if they were locked away. Ghostly girls.
Who can save them from this world? The river’s wide, the current curls, the current calls, the current curls
.

Was the artist trying to hold on to all those who were lost? Pressia remembers the feeling of being pushed up to the surface—those small hands at her back. True or not, she felt it.
They wade in water to be healed, their wounds to be sealed, to be healed. Death by drowning, their skin all peeled, their skin all pearled, their skin all peeled
.

Pressia knows what it’s like to be trapped underwater, and now it feels like she’s bringing each of them to the surface, one by one. There’s another mouth, open, as if holding the note of a song.
Marching blind their voices singing, voices keening, voices singing. We hear them ’til our ears
are ringing, ears are screaming, ears are ringing
. A blue eye, half closed, pained. There is a cheek, rounded and full.
They need a saint and savior, saint and sailor, saint and savior. They’ll haunt and roam this shore forever, haunt and roam this shore forever
. Another eye, lifted sadly by a worried brow. Lips, this time pursed as if about to say a word.

Bradwell breathes jaggedly, but it’s as if the girls are breathing. They breathe in,
Will
; they exhale,
ux
. He is their murderer. He killed them. The walls are filled with their faces. The room is filled with their breathing.

Will
.

Ux
.

Will
.

Ux
.

Pressia turns and finds Fignan at her feet. Walrond said to remember that he knew Willux’s mind. To know the secret, she has to know the man. To know the man, the mass murderer—the killer of these girls as well as most of the world—she has to enter his mind.

Will
.

Ux
.

She has to think his thoughts, walk his steps, breathe his breaths.

Will
, the girls whisper in unison,
ux
.

H
ER COT IS NUMBER NINE
on the right. This is a new place, a new room—temporary, as the mothers tend to be nomadic. But her number isn’t temporary. The next place the mothers move, she will still be number nine, even if it’s a row of pallets on the floor, even if it’s a row of bodies in a dirt dwelling. Maybe even if it’s a row of graves.

Why number nine? After the mothers found her, they gave her this cot, which belonged to one of the mothers who died in the recent battle. It seems cruel for Lyda to take her place. It’s hard to lie here, heart pounding into the bedsprings, knowing it should be someone else’s heart. But there’s no way around it. The mothers believe in order.

It’s night. The room is dark. Some of the children are still restlessly fighting sleep. She hears them asking for water, the mothers humming, the whispers of nightly prayers. It’s an incantation that helps her sleep.

But tonight she’s not sleeping. She’s been told that she’s finally allowed to see Illia. She’s wanted to see her every day since she returned, but she was told that Illia had gotten worse and was under quarantine.

Lyda’s requests have finally been granted, though, because Illia’s body is barely holding on. “The soul case is wearing thin,” Mother Hestra told Lyda. “Her time is coming.”

Lyda rests her head on her pillow, shared with Freedle. He was given
to her when she arrived. She’s to keep him safe for Pressia. His wings creak when he flutters them, but he’s still swift. She strokes his head.

When she was little, she had a stuffed ladybug that she shared her pillow with. Lyda was in charge of putting herself to bed. Her mother followed the method that told parents not to come when their kids called out at night. And now she is surrounded by an abundance of mothers. It feels good, safe. She’s earned a place here through hard work. Her muscles burn with fatigue. She’s learning to aim darts—the important action of the wrist. She’s practiced gutting Dusts and Beasts and hauled dirt from a new burrow being excavated. She’s dug up roots and, hunched over a bucket, skinned them for meals.

All the while she tries not to think of Partridge. The mothers have taught her that men are a weakness. They will only betray your love. Of course, Partridge isn’t a Death. He’s not one of those men the mothers hate with such conviction. But she’s still afraid that the more she misses him—his face, his skin, the way he looked at her—and the more hope she has that she’ll see him again, the more she has to lose.

The door opens; light sweeps into the room. Mother Hestra whispers her name.

Lyda pats Freedle quickly and runs to the door.

Mother Hestra says, “It’s time,” and leads her down the hall into a small room. Lyda needs to tell Illia about the Black Box, the seed of truth.

Illia is gaunt and pale. Her face is bare, covered with burns and scars from the Detonations and from Ingership’s abuse. Maybe she’s come to peace with it or is too tired to hide it. Lyda sits in the chair beside her bed. Illia stares at the ceiling. Lyda takes her hand and whispers her name. Illia doesn’t respond.

“The seed of truth,” Lyda says, “is in good hands. It’s with the people who will know what to do. Good people.”

Illia doesn’t move. Can she hear Lyda?

“Illia,” she whispers. “The truth is in good hands. You fulfilled your role.” Is she giving Illia permission to die? It’s been ingrained in Lyda to fight sickness and death, to fear them above all else. One day her father was sick; the next day he was gone—shuttled away to a distant ward.
She never got a chance to say good-bye. They got a notice saying he was dead. But the mothers have taught her death is part of life.

Lyda looks at Mother Hestra. “Has she been gone like this for a long time?”

“She’s half here and half in the beyond. Between life and death.”

“Illia,” Lyda says. “I know what you meant when you said ‘I miss Art.’ I know you meant Art Walrond.”

Her eyes flutter. She turns her head and stares at Lyda.

“The seed of truth—it’s alive. It exists. You did what he needed you to do.”

“Art,” she whispers. “I’ve seen him. He’s there; he’s waiting.”

Lyda’s eyes fill with tears. “You can go to him,” she whispers. “It’s okay now.”

Illia raises her hand and touches Lyda’s cheek. “If I’d had a daughter . . .” And then she lays her hand on her heart and closes her eyes.

“Illia,” Lyda whispers. “Illia, are you still with us?” She turns to Mother Hestra. “Do something! I think she’s—”

“She is going,” Mother Hestra says calmly “You knew that. She is going, and it’s okay.”

Lyda stares at Illia’s ribs, looking for breath. They’re still. “She’s gone.”

“She is. Yes.”

Mother Hestra hooks her arm around Lyda’s and says, “Let’s go back now. We will take care of her body.”

“Let me sit with her a minute.”

“Yes,” Mother Hestra says.

Lyda closes her eyes and says a bedtime prayer, one she used to whisper to her stuffed ladybug toy about the joy of morning light.

After a while, Lyda walks, nearly blind, back through the hall to cot number nine. She wants to tell them,
Someone’s died. Someone just left us
. But there’s no need to wake them. It was natural. Death is part of life.

She lies down and tries to sleep, but she doesn’t have the ability to rein in her thoughts. She imagines Illia and Art Walrond reunited in a place like heaven. Is it possible? Her mind darts to Partridge. Where is he now? Is he safe? Is he thinking of her?

She remembers the last thing he said to her.
You said good-bye, but I’m not. Because we’ll find each other again. I’m sure of it
.

Now he’s returned to some version of the life they once lived. It has rules, social order, and rigor. It has bath towels, starched shirts, and fresh paint. People expect things from him. The Dome has a way of changing you—beyond enhancements and drugs—just by the stifled air you breathe. In the Dome, she accepted what she was told. Her greatest fear was disappointing those around her. And yet the truth was there if she’d looked for it. She accepted—so easily, so readily, so
happily
—that those on the outside were less than human. She doesn’t despise her old self as much as she fears her. Her trapped life was so comfortable that she’d still be in it if she’d been allowed a choice. If her old self had been told that she would one day find herself out here, living among the wretches, she would have pitied her new self. But she’s lucky she got out.

When she’s sure everyone’s asleep, even Freedle, she pulls out the music box Partridge gave her—the one that belonged to his mother. She winds it and lifts the lid but lets only a few stray notes float on the air. Illia and Art—can they hear this tune? Where does the soul go after death?

She slips the music box back under her pillow.

How can Partridge remember the world outside—hold on to the strange idea of it—once inside the Dome?

She’ll be erased. She knows it. The Dome won’t allow her to exist.

She let him go once. Every day demands that she release him over and over again.

She clenches her fists and thinks,
Will he find me again?

And she tells herself,
No. Don’t want this. Let him go
.

She opens her hands, spreads her fingers wide.

P
RESSIA IS BENT TO HER NOTES
written on wood and stones. The problem is clear. Willux was crazy. He was crazy when he detonated the planet and he was a crazy young man. On one page, he scrawled
Good Ole Buck
in one corner,
Collins
in another—buddies of his?—and the rest of the page is filled with entwined snakes. One page is just the numbers 20.62, 42.03, NQ4, and the words
I was forged by fire. Made new by flames
. What does it mean? He seemed fond of poetry and appeared to be working on one that shows up a few times with various alterations.