In the End (Starbounders) (16 page)

I hear Brenna cry out, “No!” as Tank laughs.

“Drop it, girlie,” he says to Brenna. Her knife falls to the ground next to where I’d been standing. She takes a step back, but Tank yells for her to stop. “We ain’t in Fort Black anymore, and this ain’t the Arena. I could kill you now and no one would ever know.”

I can tell he’s getting closer by the sound of his footsteps on the loose gravel of the parking lot. “You killed my buddy Pete, and I’m all tore up about it, so I need some cheering up. I was also looking forward to what I was going to do to cupcake there. I know you’d rather fight men than be with one, but we’ll see how much fight you have left after I’m through with ya.”

The pain in my chest is subsiding. My lungs scream for oxygen, but I make myself draw in a silent breath instead of gulping in air. I wish my gun were still in my hand. I turn my head slightly, but I don’t see it on the ground. It must have flown off, out of sight, when I fell. But as soon as Tank’s familiar foul smell hits my nose, I jump up, onto him, going for his rifle.

“What the . . . !” he screams. He’s shocked that I can move, that I’m not bleeding to death on the ground, so I do manage to get a hand on the gun, but he just covers both my hand and the rifle’s action with his enormous mitt and clamps me tight to him with his other arm.

“You ain’t
dead
?” he says, grunting. “Oh, cupcake, you’re gonna
wish
—”

A pair of arms wrapped around Tank’s neck cuts off his words, along with his oxygen. He needs at least one arm to fight Brenna off, but he’s not giving up the rifle. He heaves me aside with his other arm and starts clubbing away wildly over his shoulder with it. He throws me too hard, though: Both the rifle and I are torn out of his grip. I hit the dirt on my back again, this time accompanied by a horrible crack.

I sit up and see that Tank has stopped struggling, and Brenna has stepped away from him. Both are looking with shock at Tank’s left shoulder and the spreading bright-red bloom on his dirty white shirt. He places his hand over his heart and looks up at me, confused. I stare at the rifle, still in my hand. The gun either fired accidentally when I dropped it, or I pulled the trigger without even realizing it. Tank stumbles to the side, almost falling. He gives me one last look of pure hatred before loping into the distance, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

I hop up, trembling. Suddenly the feel of the rifle in my hand is repulsive. I set it down on the ground, then, spotting my own Guardian gun, grab it. I look at the place Tank disappeared to in the distance. I’ve never shot a person before. I’ve killed Floraes, though, but it’s just not the same.

“Are you okay?” Brenna asks.

I shake my head. “He’s going to die out there.”

“Good. He should die.”

I try to tell myself that he’s a murderer and deserves to die. But what does that make me?

“You’ve never killed anyone before, have you?” Brenna gives me a look that’s almost motherly. It’s so out of character, it jolts me from my trance.

“I did. A long time ago.” I don’t recognize my own voice, it’s so eerily calm. I lick my lips and try to recover. “When everything first happened and I was just trying to survive day to day. I was alone and then had finally met another survivor. But he was going to hurt me, so I rigged a car alarm and set it off. The Floraes got him.”

“Well, Tank was sure as shit going to hurt you too,” Brenna says, her moment of tender concern gone. “He thought he
did
kill you. . . . Hell,
I
thought he killed you. Why aren’t you dead?”

At the mention of me being shot, the pain floods back to my breastbone. I touch the hole in the sweatshirt I am wearing over my synth-suit and wince. Pete pounded my chest with a knife, but the bullet was ten times worse. I’ll have bruises upon bruises. I cough experimentally, sending a sharp pain through my ribs. It stings when I move, but I don’t think there’s any internal damage. I may have lucked out again.

“It’s that ninja suit you wear, isn’t it?” Brenna asks. “Where can I get one of those? That might be even more useful than that Florae repellent sound thing you have.”

The emitter. I frantically scan the ground for my pack, spotting it a few feet from where I’d left it. Someone must have tripped over it during the scuffle. I spring over to it, my chest burning as I bend over to grab the emitter. I let out a groan.

The emitter is broken in two.

It takes a few seconds for the fear to hit me, but when it does I can’t move.

“That doesn’t look so good,” Brenna whispers, looking around. “You think it still works?”

I stare at the broken emitter, my legs heavy. I’ve relied on it so much these past few months. Now it’s gone. We’re sitting ducks.

I will my limbs to work and quickly sling the pack over my shoulder and, ignoring the pain that shoots through my ribs, spin in place with my gun. “We need to find shelter, now,” I hiss. Two loud gunshots had gone off. Maybe there weren’t any Floraes around to hear them. Maybe we’re still okay.

Yet out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of green streaking across the parking lot.

The world seems to slow. And now I see it—a Florae. It rises slowly over a car. Its eyes are milky and unseeing, but its ears—or earholes—are a hundred times sharper than our own. I know it’s heard us. And if one has, there will soon be many more.

Brenna and I look at each other. Our instinct, of course, is to run. But that would only make things worse. We’d go in different directions, and the Florae, with all its inhuman speed, would hunt us down in seconds. Our only hope is to stick together.

The two of us stand there as if time has stopped. I wish I could sign to her, like I did so many times to Baby. I hold up a hand to try and convey we should be still. She shows me she understands with a small, stiff nod.

And then everything happens at once.

I raise my arm and shoot the creature with my silenced Guardian gun before it can figure out exactly where we are. It falls, but there’s no time for relief. Another appears to our left from another car, attracted by the minimal noise. I turn to Brenna and put my fingers to my lips. She again nods her understanding.

We can make our stand here; there are plenty of abandoned cars to hide behind. But I don’t know how many are coming, and they could attack us from any direction. It would be pointless to use the rifle, as the sound of the shots would just bring more. They are only a few now, and far enough away for us to find someplace where we can be quiet and wait for Them to disperse.

I point behind us, to the shelter of the strip mall. We need someplace secure that we can hide.

Another creature appears a few hundred feet behind Brenna, listening. I take aim and silently mouth one word at her.

Run.

Chapter Twenty-four

We sprint past rows of cars toward the strip mall. I run silently, like I used to years ago, in New Hope, my mouth gaping. Brenna, on the other hand, makes a lot of noise, loping heavily along. She’s fast and strong but not light on her feet. Her loud shoes banging on the pavement will only bring more Floraes. I shoot three before we make it to the auto shop.

The door is already wrecked, the wood shattered by Florae claws. Whoever tried to hide in here before didn’t last long. The floor is covered in rust-colored bloodstains. Auto parts are scattered everywhere inside. A car is perched high up on a lift—a great place to hide, but I have no idea how to get us up there.

“Can you shoot?” I ask Brenna.

She gives me a hard look. “I
am
from Texas.” I hand her the gun, and she aims it at the open doorway. There’s about twenty bullets left in the clip, and I hope Brenna doesn’t waste them. A Florae appears and she gets off two shots before bringing it down. She grins. “See, no problem.”

I pull a knife and search the shop for a ladder or anything of use to fight the Floraes or help us hide. At the back is an office separated from the shop by a counter used to transact business with customers. Useless. I look wildly around for another advantage, and then it hits me.

Whoever used to own this place would want to lock up their money at night. There’s got to be a way to barricade this office. Then, looking up, I spot it—a metal gate that can be pulled down from above.

I hop up onto the counter and slide into the office. The actual office door is solid, made of steel, not wood. The outside windows are high up; a Florae couldn’t get through those. Leaping back on the counter, I stretch for the handle at the bottom of the sliding door. I jump and miss it, landing with a blinding shockwave of pain.

Chest throbbing, I check on Brenna. She’s holding a shooter’s stance, gun trained on the doorway. Two more Floraes lie dead on the threshold. She’s no taller than I am, but she’s more athletic. Maybe she can jump higher.

“Brenna, I need you here,” I whisper-yell, my voice echoing through the shop.

She backs toward me, gun still on the doorway, as I hop down from the counter. I take the gun from her and motion with my head at the gate. “Pull that down. It’s too high for me, but if we don’t get it, we’re dead.”

Brenna swings herself up onto the counter, eyes the handle, and leaps, grabbing it on her first try. The door comes crashing down, metal runners shrieking, but it jams to a stop halfway.

I run to help her, only to spot a trio of Floraes drawn by the screeching of the metal. I drop them each in turn with a headshot, but the closest one made it to within ten feet of us—and two more are jostling with each other in the doorway.

“Get that thing
down
,” I say, growling.

“I’m
trying
.” She slams it with the bottom of her fist in frustration, and it falls another few feet. I duck down to continue to shoot Floraes through the opening. It’s a bad angle, though, and one makes it all the way to us, slamming into the counter and wedging its head and neck between it and the bottom of the rolling gate. Its black-blue tongue flicks out of its mouth and it thrashes its head, razor-sharp teeth bared. It’s so close, it can almost taste us.

I shoot it and it slides back off the counter as another creature rams the gate. I pull the trigger but nothing happens.

I’m out of ammo.

There’s no time to retrieve another clip from my pack. I draw my knife and am just about to stab it in the eye when Brenna pushes the Florae away and jams the door down the last few inches. She closes the mechanism on the counter and locks it in place, grinning.

I slump against the wall. The Floraes scratch and scramble wildly against the rolling door and the other, regular door, but it looks as if, for the moment, both will hold.

“Amy—” Brenna starts to speak, but I shush her. We just have to stay silent until nightfall. They’ll wander away by then.

“But, Amy.” She’s panting loudly and I look at her closely. She holds up her left hand, its flesh ripped and bloodied. Her ever-present grin has disappeared. “I think one of them got me.” Her voice is surprisingly calm, but the look on her face betrays her horror.

“Was that from a Florae or from the gate?”

She turns her hand sideways. Gashes run across her middle and ring finger. The gate would have cut her palm, not the outside of her fingers. It wouldn’t have made such a deep wound. It looks like she was cut with a knife.

Brenna has been bitten by a Florae.

“What are we going to do?” she asks, eyes wide. “I don’t want to turn—”

“You won’t,” I tell her, stepping toward her and pinning the wrist of her wounded hand to the counter so that she can’t move. She twists her head to look at me, her eyes filled with terror.

“Amy, please. Don’t,” she whispers.

“I have to make sure you don’t change.” I look at her shredded, useless fingers.

“Don’t do it.” Her voice is unlike that of the Brenna I’ve come to know. The fear is taking over.

“My knife is sharp,” I say, willing the tremors out of my voice. “You’ll barely feel it.”

The truth is, I’m probably more scared than she is.

She takes a deep breath and nods. “Do it,” she says, resigned.

“Brenna, I’m so sorry,” I tell her as I bring the blade down.

Chapter Twenty-five

After a few hours, the Floraes stop beating on the door. I look at Brenna, lying like a rag doll where I deposited her, lifeless, on a beat-up couch. I had to do it.

I had to remove the infected area. It’s a long shot, but those “flu” injections Doc gave to everyone could actually be a vaccine. The instructions he showed me said to remove the infected area. I only cut off the fingers that had been bitten, her ring and middle finger on her left hand. It sickened me to do it, but I couldn’t let myself chicken out, not with Brenna in real danger.

After it was done, Brenna passed out, probably from the shock. I let her sleep for a few hours, making sure the bandage I made from an old shirt I found on a hook stanched the bleeding. Luckily, I found an old first aid kit with some painkillers in a desk drawer. They’re expired, but they seem to be doing the job.

“How are you feeling?” I ask when I notice her eyes are open.

Brenna sits up woozily on the shabby couch and looks at her bandaged hand, blood seeping through the dressing. “Like crap.”

“Well, hopefully this worked.”

“Yeah. I’ll be pretty pissed if you cut off my fingers and I still turn into a green flesh-eating freak.”

I move closer and sit on the arm of the couch. I explain the possibility of Doc’s vaccine. “And it was only two fingers. I thought you were tougher than that.” My joke comes out hollow, my concern clear in my voice.

Brenna laughs feebly, though. “Lucky it didn’t get my arm . . . or my face.”

I let out my own strained laugh, but we both know what will happen if Brenna turns into a Florae: I’ll have to shoot her. I’ve reloaded my gun and been watching her for signs of any change, but so far she’s been fine.

“Do you think those shots that Doc gave me really made me immune?”

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “But it looks good so far. And it’s been a couple of hours.” I don’t have a lot of faith in the vaccine working, but I want Brenna to believe that it will. I don’t want her last hours to be full of fear.

Brenna wobbles and lies back with a moan. “I don’t feel so good.” She’s starting to look a little green, but not Florae green, more like about-to-vomit green. I give her some water to sip, which seems to help. “Am I starting to change?”

“No. I think you’re nauseous because I cut your fingers off.”

I frown, thinking. Are you supposed to keep people who are in shock awake? Or is that just for a head wound?

“Are the Floraes still out there?”

“No, I think they’ve forgotten about us.” I glance up through the window at the darkening sky. “We’ll probably be okay if we whisper.” Not too long ago, I was afraid to speak at all, afraid to make any noises. Now I know Them better. I know what They are, how They work. “They’re more active during the day.”

Brenna’s eyes begin to flutter and I wipe the sweat off her forehead with the remains of my shredded shirt. “Brenna, stay with me.”

She opens her eyes, focusing on something over my shoulder. “It’s not easy, you know.”

“What isn’t?”

“Being a fighter . . . having to be twice as good because you’re a girl.” Her eyes settle shut again. She sounds like she’s whispering to herself as much as to me. “I can’t just be myself. I can’t just be Brenna. And now I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” I tell her, trying to inject my voice with confidence I don’t feel. “Soon you’ll be back in Fort Black, making out with that redhead you have a crush on.”

She laughs weakly. “How’d you know about that?”

“I saw you staring at her, after we went to get my bike that one day. I can put two and two together.”

“Well, don’t tell anyone about that. Her man would be real angry.”

“Like you care.”

Brenna’s wicked smile slowly drops and then we’re both quiet. Brenna can’t die. Not now, not here, without knowing what it’s like to be wanted.

My mind wanders to Rice, holding me in the sunshine of New Hope. And then Jacks, his body pressed against mine in a prison cell. The way he kissed me, I’d never felt anything like that before. Not even with Rice. It was as if my entire body was on fire, being consumed by my want for him. What would have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted? I let my mind go there briefly, then shake my head, blushing. I can’t think about that now. I can’t afford to.

Brenna’s shock is showing itself—she’s starting to tremble. I’ve got to keep her mind busy.

“How did you make it to Fort Black, anyway?”

“I was brought there. The caretakers at my foster care facility packed us all in a van and drove us over to Fort Black. I was only eleven. . . . I don’t remember much.”

“They brought you to a prison?”

“Yeah, I guess they thought the walls would protect us or something.”

I study her face. Her eyes are closed again, and her features are peaceful. I can see the little girl in them.

“Where are all the other kids?” I ask. “Are they still around?”

“Naw. They disappeared. I ran away from the doctors. . . .” Her brow furrows. “Wait, that can’t be right. I must be remembering it wrong. Our caretakers put us all in a room, but no one was telling us what had happened. One kid wouldn’t stop crying. I didn’t want to be with them anymore, so I ran into the exercise yard and hid. I never saw them again. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

There’s a ringing in my ears. Children gathered together, transported somewhere. Ken had said the children, children like Baby, were brought to Fort Black but got lost in the chaos. I slide my hand around the back of Brenna’s head and lift it slightly to look at the spinal column tattoo on the back of her neck.

“Brenna, why did you choose that tattoo?”

“Oh, I thought it was badass.” A tiny grin. “And I wanted to cover up an ugly old scar I had there, from foster care. I try not to think about back then, but the caretakers used to take blood, give us shots, make sure we were healthy in case someone wanted to adopt us. Even then I knew I was too old to be adopted. People just want babies, not preteens with too much attitude.”

My mind churns with the new facts. If Brenna was part of the experimentation group that Baby was, she could be immune. She might not change. Baby was bitten years ago, infected by a different strain of bacteria. Could Brenna now be fighting the new, mutated bacteria? It’s such a long shot. Ken said they’d tested that vaccine and it’s not effective. I try not to get ahead of myself, but a new spark of hope has permeated the air.

I let Brenna go back to sleep. Hours pass, and I nearly fall off the arm of the couch when I start to doze off. I move to a tattered chair across from Brenna, set my sound amplifier to maximum, and tilt my head toward her. If she moves, I’ll hear her. I try to get comfortable, but something is digging into my side. I reach into the pocket of my sweatpants and find Ken’s small notebook.

I’d completely forgotten about it. I open it and skim the pages. It’s his personal journal.

Day 46 in Fort Black: I am no closer to finding what I am after than I was in New Hope. Dr. Reynolds insists that there are answers here, but all I see are dead ends. I have even halted my main research, barring any new discoveries, and started working on a side project. This “Black Pox” that runs rampant here is easily treated. I am hesitant to share my findings, as I know I will be chastised for working on anything that is not a Florae vaccine. Even so, I’ve insisted on creating a quarantine zone, an area of my allotted space in the back wall, where those infected with the Pox can rest and die in peace. It’s a small comfort, but it’s something.

I flip ahead a few pages.

Day 52 in Fort Black: I still have not been able to speak with Kay. I am only allowed to contact the research staff in New Hope and discuss matters that relate to our research. I am concerned for her after her demotion, a fact I had to hear about secondhand from a lab assistant as passing gossip. The news was a shock. I’d been briefed on the escape of the girl those months ago, but no one mentioned my sister was blamed. I’m grateful for the information the assistant let slip, but if we were monitored, she’ll be punished. I hope she isn’t sent to the Ward. She’s a good worker.

Day 55 in Fort Black: Instead of sitting on my cure for the “Black Pox,” I decided to broach the subject with the Warden during one of our rare meetings. He was adamant that I keep my findings to myself, unwilling to give the people here even the slightest reprieve from the fear that binds them to him. I’m sure that as soon as he is able, he will report me back to New Hope. I should have known better than to suggest anything that would endanger his position.

Day 56 in Fort Black: As expected, I received a call about my non-sanctioned research and a long talk from Dr. Reynolds about the importance of my project. As if I didn’t know. I believed, just for a second, that the actual saving of lives might counterbalance the possibility of a Florae vaccine. But I was wrong.

Dr. Reynolds doesn’t see life in the same way others do. In his eyes, the good of the whole outweighs the good of the few. I can’t say I disagree. I just wish I could do more for the people who are dying around me every day. I can help them, and yet I do nothing. Dr. Reynolds has spoken. My hands are tied.

After thumbing through his journal, I understand Ken a little bit more. What Kay was trying to tell me—he’s not bad, he’s trying to do some good, but he has to play by so many rules, and he feels like he can’t make waves. She said to convince him to take Baby as his own test subject, but maybe I don’t have to. Maybe Brenna will be the key.

I turn to the end of the journal and I see an entry that makes me pause.

Day 73 in Fort Black: I came across a transcript today of a conversation between Doc and one of the guards, a man named Ellis Lawson—Tank. Doc recommended I take him on as a door guard, but his file is too disturbing. I have requested another guard with a less troubled past.

A few loose sheets of paper are tucked inside these pages. It’s a psyche-eval of Tank, and a lot of it is him talking about how much he likes Fort Black and wants to keep a place there. Eventually Tank mentions Jacks’s sister, Layla. I nearly rip the paper as I read.

I guess the one thing I’d complain about is I ain’t seen any action in a long while. Not since that sweet thing Layla got herself killed in that fire. Now, just between you and me, it wasn’t the fire that done it. I’m only telling you this because I’ve taken care of people for you before and you know that if you want someone gone without a fuss, I’m the one to come to.

I know some things about this place. Some nasty things. So I know if I unburden myself a bit, it stays between us. Just don’t tell the Warden, because he had a talk with me about how I was to leave Layla alone and the importance of family and whatnot. I wasn’t going to cross him—I know better than to go against the Warden—but everything worked out so perfect. I don’t see how you can put a glass of water in front of a man dying of thirst and tell him not to drink. And that Layla, she sure was a sweet thing. Not like all the women around here now, all tough and worn from hard living. No, she was soft and fresh. I’d just stare at her sometimes when no one else was looking, just drinking her in.

Well, Jacks had her locked up real good and, like I said, I didn’t want to piss off the Warden, so all I could do was look—that is, until the night of the fire. Jacks let her out then, and I saw her in the crowd. . . . Well, I waited until it was all chaotic-like, and took my chance. I pulled her behind the cellblock and, well, let’s just say I showed her what it meant to be a woman. And that part was amazing, but it was nothing compared to what came next.

I can still feel her neck in my hand, the way she struggled for breath.

I stop reading then, my own breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Tank, not the fire, killed Layla. I force myself to read the rest, to learn what happened.

I didn’t let her go quick. I’d ease up a little and let her have a bit of air, then squeeze again. There’s nothing like the feeling of having a life in your hand, but it ain’t the same as killing a man. Killing those girls is like every good thing that ever happened to you happening again all in that moment.

When I was done with her, I threw her body in the Yard with the others who died and the fire did the rest. Jacks and the Warden never knew it was really me who killed her. No one ain’t never going to know about this, right? It’s just between you and me? Good. I wouldn’t want the Warden to know. He wouldn’t like it. It’s nice to tell someone, though, someone who understands.

With shaking hands I fold the papers up again and stick them in between the pages of Ken’s journal, placing it in my pocket.

I sit back and stare at Brenna’s still form. She was right. Tank deserved to be devoured by the Floraes. He’s more of a monster than they are.

I try to rest, but broken images flash through my mind. Fire. A young girl’s body, beaten and broken. Tank’s evil sneer. Jacks’s pained face whenever he mentions his sister. Eventually I drift into a fitful sleep.

When I wake, Brenna is moaning. I jump up. She’s shaking, sweat beading her neck and forehead. I put my hand on her head; she’s burning up with fever. I check my watch—twenty hours since she was bitten. I feel more confident that she won’t change, but I still can’t be sure.

I wake her to give her more pain medicine and a sip of water. Her eyes flutter open for a moment and then close. What she really needs is antibiotics. Her wound is probably infected, and this auto lot office isn’t the best place to recover.

Suddenly Brenna opens her eyes wide and stares through me. “They’re gone now. All the Floraes. There ain’t any around for at least a mile.”

“Shh—you need to rest. Besides, how do you even know they’re gone?” I whisper, stroking her head, trying to calm her.

“I can’t hear them anymore.”

I pause, my hand resting on her head. “What do you mean?” I ask slowly.