Rise (22 page)

I pulled the tattered curtains away just an inch, exposing an intact piece of glass. A soldier came down the road. He looked over the end of his rifle as he scanned the buildings. He paused a moment in my direction and I froze, not moving my hand away from the thin curtain. He was younger than I was, his face gaunt, his cheeks hollowed out. He squinted for a moment before he finally looked away.

For a long while I stayed there, my finger pinning the curtain away from the glass, waiting until I was certain he wouldn't return. I could feel the eight-hour journey in my movements, in the dead ache in my legs, the throbbing in my lower back. I needed one night to rest, to prepare for what lay ahead in the morning, but it was too dangerous to stay at the mouth of the tunnel. I stepped out of the apartment, scanning the road for any signs of the King's men. When it was clear, I started east, as the rebel had said, looking for the first secure place I could find.

There was an old apartment complex a few yards ahead. Some of the rooms had been set on fire. The sign had fallen and smashed on the pavement, leaving a thin layer of colored glass in its wake. But it was set back from the road, the inner courtyard empty. A parking lot sat beside it, a few cars laying there, belly up, like dead bugs.

I started up the inside stairs, spurred on by an explosion that sounded half a mile east. Moving along the outdoor hall, I finally found an apartment that was unlocked, the inside raided for supplies. I moved the remaining furniture against the entrance, not stopping until it sat in a pile, a desk chair wedged beneath the doorknob.

There was only a handful of dried fruit left in my pack. I forced myself to eat it, despite the tense sickness I held in my gut. I listened to the sounds of the Outlands, the occasional gunshot splitting the night. Somewhere someone screamed. I lay my head onto the dingy mattress on the floor, curling in on myself, trying to get warm.

Soon the sounds outside grew louder. A Jeep barreled past. As the night persisted, I thought of my father, of the stillness of his suite, the look he'd shared with the Lieutenant when Moss and I were questioned. It was nearly impossible to sleep, my body awake, alive, my thoughts sprinting ahead of me.

The morning was coming for us both.

THE SOLDIER HAD BEEN DEAD FOR A FEW HOURS. MY HANDS
shook as I worked the jacket from her body. Her arms were heavy, the limbs locked in place, as I inched them out of the sleeves. I tried not to look at her face, but it was impossible. My gaze kept returning to her white cheeks, the lips that were parted slightly, dry and cracked in places. Her eyes were covered with a thin gray film.

I'd found her several blocks away from the motel, slumped against a burned-out shop. Her head was bleeding in the back, the blood congealing in her ponytail. It looked like someone had surprised her while she patrolled the Outlands—probably a rebel bent on retaliation. I paused, holding her cold hand in mine, as I took off the other sleeve. The name
Jackson
was embroidered on her lapel.

I tucked the gun we'd taken from the man at the motel into my pants, the knife in the side of my belt. It would end soon. I wrapped the jacket around my shoulders, taking the cap that was curled in her hand, a thick blood spot on the back. I looked at her one more time before going, noticing the tiny tattoo on the inside of her wrist, of a bird in flight. She couldn't have been much older than me.

I started toward the Palace mall, knowing this would be the easier part of security to get through. Soldiers strode in and out of the back entrance, acknowledging one another with a nod as they went. It would be harder to get access to the tower stairs, which in the first days of the siege had been guarded at every point. The soldiers had been stationed there through the night, changing every six hours, at six and twelve.

A few Jeeps were lined up near the back entrance, creating a low barrier against the building. Two soldiers were talking, their shoulders leaning against the wall. I had a flash of Arden that night in School, how she'd strode past the guards confidently, signaling with one hand as if she'd spent her whole life outside the wall. I held my shoulders back, meeting their eyes quickly as I saluted them. I pretended to adjust my cap, covering the bloodstain on the back as I pushed through the heavy door.

Inside, the Palace mall was quiet. The sound of boots on marble echoed through the long halls. A few soldiers walked toward the old gaming rooms, but they hardly turned as I entered. I'd decided on one of the staircases on the north side of the tower. It was down a narrow hallway, more secluded than the others.

I kept past the closed shops, their grates pulled down, the mannequins silhouetted in their front windows. Far above me, the giant clock stared out, the second hand slowly inching toward the twelve. I ducked down the narrow hallway and saw the soldier bent forward, working at a scuff on his boot. I didn't speak until I was within striking distance, my hand on my gun.

“I'm here to relieve you,” I said. “Little early, but I'm sure you don't mind.”

He let out a low laugh. “Nah, not at all.” He pulled his rifle from its spot beside the door. I glanced down the hallway, knowing the other soldier would come in a few minutes. As the man sauntered off, turning left into the Palace mall, I ducked inside the stairwell, beginning the long climb, feeling the slow, painful burn in my legs.

The lower floors were unlocked, opening up to rows of small single rooms, where many of the Palace workers slept. I moved through the halls, turning in to the twentieth floor, then the twenty-fifth, switching staircases to avoid being seen.

When I reached the last flight, my legs burned, the short, sharp pains shooting through my lower back. I took slow, even breaths, trying to calm the shaking in my hands, trying not to think about my swollen stomach, now hidden beneath the jacket. I kept going back to that moment in the suite when my father had turned away as the soldiers grabbed me, looking down to the executions below. Whoever he was to me, whatever we shared, he'd grown numb to it. He didn't
feel
anymore, not the way a person should. I had to hold that in my mind, that memory, to have any chance.

I peered inside the door's small window. The corridor outside the suite was quiet. A lone figure was coming toward me, his shoulders hunched forward as he walked, studying a piece of paper. He wore the same red tie he'd had on the day I left. Before I could turn away, Charles looked up, his eyes meeting mine. I crouched back into the stairwell, waiting there, wondering if he'd recognized me.

Within seconds the door swung open and Charles ducked outside. “What are you doing here?” he asked. He glanced over the railing, into the center of the airshaft, looking for soldiers. “Where did you get that uniform?”

He scanned the jacket and cap I'd stolen from the soldier, the pants I'd found in the motel room, the boots laced up my ankles. His face screwed up in concern as he looked at the rifle slung over my back.

“I didn't know you'd be here,” I said. “You're all right. I was worried you'd be punished for what you did.”

“I talked my way out of it,” he said. “I said you were my wife, that I was afraid, I didn't know what you'd done. It was the truth, wasn't it?”

“I need to find my father,” I said.

Charles checked the small window in the door, pushing us back, out of view. “You can't do this,” he said. “They've been looking for you. They've had patrols canvassing Death Valley for the past week. You should be in hiding, not here. Especially not now.”

“I won't spend my life waiting for him to come for me,” I said. “You saw it, Charles—you saw what he's capable of. How many more years, decades, will this go on?”

He paced the landing. In the fluorescent light his skin looked thin and gray, and he looked incredibly tired.

“I don't have time,” I pleaded. “Please.”

He let out a deep breath and pointed upstairs. “He's in his office,” he said. “He's supposed to be meeting with the Lieutenant in an hour.”

“I need the codes,” I said.

Charles let out a low, rattling breath. “One, thirty-one,” he said. “He changed it to your birthday.”

I paused, watching him, wondering if he knew the significance of what he'd just told me. I'd never known my birthday at School. Caleb and I had decided it was August twenty-eighth, and that date stuck in my head, the actual day passing while I was in Califia. Hearing it now, it was a small reminder of the knowledge my father carried. He was the only person who knew these things about me.

“I won't implicate you,” I said, nodding to Charles before I turned to go. I didn't reach the second step before he caught my hand, bringing me back to him. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pulling me to his chest, so my cheek was pressed against him. He held me there, his hand on the back of my head.

“Be safe, will you?” He reached for my hand, squeezing it one last time, and I had the strange urge to laugh.

“I will,” I said. “I promise. Don't worry about me.” It was a lie, of course, but the way Charles's face changed, the way his expression softened, made me feel the tiniest bit of relief. Maybe I would be okay. Maybe it would all be over within the hour, and I would be back in the Outlands, moving through the tunnels again.

I started up the next two flights, trying to push any other thoughts out of my head. I held the air in my lungs, waiting for my heart to slow. I punched the code into the keypad, letting myself inside. As I started down the corridor to his office, another soldier passed. I kept my eyes down, the brim of the hat shielding my face. I raised my hand in a quick salute and he strode by, starting into a room at the far end of the hall.

Every muscle in my body tensed as I approached my father's door. I rarely visited him in his office except for the few occasions I'd been called there to be questioned. From outside, I couldn't hear anything. I looked at the thick curtains beside the door, then knocked, quickly stepping behind them.

I tried to slow my breathing but I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. My hands were cold and wet. I grabbed the gun at my waist, trying to stop the trembling in my fingers as I watched the edge of the door, waiting for it to open. There was the gentle clicking of the lock, then the knob turned, my father peering out behind it.

I slipped into the hall, resting one hand on the door to hold it open. “Go inside,” I said, keeping the gun aimed at him. “If you call for anyone, I'll have to shoot you.”

His face was relaxed, his eyes meeting mine as he stepped back, farther into the office. I closed the door behind us and locked it.

“You're not going to kill me,” he said. He clasped his hands in front of him, his brow furrowed. He looked gaunt, his face drawn. It was as if the past weeks hadn't happened, as if he'd stayed as he was that day, never recovering from the illness.

“Don't be so certain,” I said, keeping the gun on him. I blinked away the sudden tears that blurred my vision.

“If you were going to do it, you would have already,” he said. He stared at me, his eyes fixed on mine. “The real question is why you came back here. Am I to receive another lecture? Do you want to tell me that these choices I've made, the choices that have kept everyone safe, were wrong?”

“There won't be any more executions in the City,” I said slowly. “You will step down today and will give temporary control to me while the City transitions.”

His cheeks went red. The veins in his face became visible, his hands squeezed tightly together. “Transitions to
what
, Genevieve? Tell me, since you seem to know, what exactly will this City transition to? The lawlessness that came after the plague? The riots? Before me, people couldn't get water without being shot. You want the City to return to that?”

“Lower your voice,” I said.

“If you want to see what's on the other side of this revolt,” he said, holding up his hands, “then go ahead. But there is a darkness coming that you cannot possibly imagine.” His eyes were locked on mine. He stood there, begging me to fire at him.

He turned away, back toward his desk, and it took me a moment to register it: the quick sleight of hand, how he'd tucked his fingers into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. His arm came up, the gun visible, his face fixed in concentration. I fired just once, the sound of the shot startling me. He stepped back, falling down on his side, the weapon landing on the floor.

I went to him, kicking the weapon across the floor. I stayed by his side, my chest heaving, watching as his expression grew foreign, his face contorted with pain. He held his chest, pressing at the wound to the right side of his heart. I helped him toward the ground, setting him down on the floor. The blood was coming fast, the stain spreading on his suit jacket, the dark fabric torn where the bullet had gone through. I knelt beside him, half expecting him to push me away. But we stayed like that, his hand tensing around mine as the color left his face. Then his eyes squeezed shut. His breath slowed to a stop, until I was alone again in silence.

IT WAS OVER. THIS WAS WHAT I HAD WANTED, WASN'T IT? NEWS
of his death would spread through the Trail. The army from the colonies would eventually arrive. The City would transition to new power. It was supposed to be better now.

I kept hold of his hand, noticing the coolness that spread in his fingers. The way the blood ran, dripping off his jacket and onto the floor, where it sunk into the thick carpet. He was slouched against the front of the desk, his shoulders curled inward, his chin pressed to his neck. I didn't feel any relief now that he was gone. Instead I thought only of that photo, the one he'd held in his hand the day we'd met, the paper wrinkled under his touch. It had disappeared from my room the first week I was in the Palace. Beatrice had spent hours searching for it. He had seemed so amused in it, his eyes lingering on my mother, studying the way her dark bangs fell into her eyes. He'd seemed happy.