The Benders (22 page)

I lower my head and try to focus. He can’t want it as much as I do. He can’t
need
the freedom like I do. I picture Ethan in my mind. Then Clay. Auntie. I picture Mama dying so we could live. But not like this. Mama never wanted us to live like this.

My heart pounds; my senses attuned. I rev the engine, grit my teeth, and roar.

They wave the yellow flag.

I gun the accelerator and feel the quad jerk forward under my rear. The front wheels come up off the ground and slam down again, eating up dirt as it tears forward. My vision jostles and so does my lance. The tip dips down, almost dragging in the dirt. I groan and lift the heavy wooden pole up to my waist. Goddamn it. I’m not going to mess this up. I’m going to win.

My opponent speeds toward me, a blur of wood and tires and dust. It’s hard to see where to aim, let alone actually maneuver. Instead, I focus on driving straight and keeping my lance level. We zoom closer, closer. When I see his face, gunning for me like a demon, I almost lose my nerve. I tense my body and hold on tight.

Wind whooshes by my face as an object whips by, brushing my cheek. My lance strikes something hard. It twangs out of my grip and sails away. I hear wood cracking and a gasp from the crowd.

And then it’s over. I’m past him. I take my hand off the accelerator and sit, panting. When I turn the quad around to face the center, my jaw drops.

My opponent lies on his side. One arm is splayed out like a broken wing, a glistening bone fragment poking out below the elbow. He’s rocking back and forth in agony, legs pistoning like they can run away from the pain.

Shocked, I look back at my lance. Oh God, what did I just do? Is he hurt? Did I break his arm? I felt it hit him, but I didn’t think it was that hard. I glance back at the crowd in confusion.

“Well, folks,” says the announcer, “we have an unexpected winner. Everyone loves an underdog, right?”

The crowd begins clapping. Some guards push shrill whistles through their teeth. Up on the platform I find Auntie’s face. Tears are slipping down her cheeks and she blows me a tiny kiss. I smile, even wave a little. I didn’t kill my opponent and I’m not dead either. Relief puddles in my veins. But then my eyes track over to Lord Merek, who stands at the door to his compound, glancing back. He must’ve stopped to watch my joust. I wish he hadn’t. He’s looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. His gaze feels like a hand cinching around my arm. I duck my head, hop off the quad, and walk toward the other winners. As I pass by my wounded opponent, he lets out a tortured moan.

I did that to him. I lower my head, all good feeling draining away.

When I get to the winner’s circle, most of the other benders pat me on the back. Mister glares and paces the roped-off area like a caged animal. Doc and the guards escort the bender off the field and our eyes are drawn to the last contestants. Nada on one side and a bender named Crete on the other.

Maybe she has a chance. Crete’s about five-foot-seven with thin arms and legs. The lance looks comical in his arms, probably a lot like how it looked in mine, though I’m slightly shorter and thinner than Crete. Nada, determination written on her face, strides to her quad, jumps on, and holds her hand out for the lance. Even though it probably weighs as much as she does, she fits it against her body and doesn’t grimace when she’s forced to hold it there for long minutes.

They’re stalling the joust on purpose, I think. But Nada would hold that lance until her arm fell off. Crete has no idea what he’s dealing with.

They wave the yellow flag and both quads take off. It’s clear from the start that Crete can’t control the quad and hold a lance at the same time. Nada, teeth bared like a mad hyena, guns for Crete’s wandering quad. Her lance has dipped a little, but just before impact she manages to lift it to chest level. Crete does the same.

It would be a mercy if Nada loses, but she’ll be devastated if she does. I watch them charge toward each other, my feelings in knots.

They smack into each other at the same time. Twin cracks echo through the square. Two bodies go flying, their quads stuttering forward without riders. Both land with awful thuds.

As the swirling dust settles, I clutch my hands over my mouth and hold my breath. Please let Nada get up, I beg God, whoever. Please.

Slowly, the bodies twitch. Nada waves an arm and Crete rolls onto his side. The guards run out and pull both injured benders to their feet. Nada has a busted lip and what looks like a dislocated shoulder. Crete seems in a little better shape with a cut on his forehead and a dazed look on his face. The announcer steps up.

“Well, lords and ladies, it appears we have a tie. We turn to our good Lord Merek for a pronouncement of who will be moving on to the next round.”

All eyes turn to Lord Merek. He’s watching the joust from beside the guards’ bench. When they turn to him, he straightens his velvet waistcoat and studies Nada and Crete. Finally, he sighs and points to Crete.

Just like that, Nada is eliminated and I can’t help but feel relieved.

I grit my teeth as Nessa leans over me and stiches up the gunshot wound in my shoulder. She’s numbed the area and extracted the bullet. Hurts like hell, but compared to stitch-ups of the past, this is the least painful. I think about Dr. Rayburn’s trembling hands months ago back in the church. People say you forget the pain of past wounds, but it’s a damn lie. I can remember his tweezers, hot from a fire, diggin’ around my flesh. I’ll remember it forever.

My eyes drift up to the ceiling of Nessa’s house as she leans over me, pressing her body into mine as she finishes. I try not to think about her breasts on my chest. She’s my mother and I don’t want her rubbing up against me. However, she seems to make touchin’ me a priority. Even now, as she holds a bandage over the stitched up wound, her fingers trail over my bare skin. It’s weird and I don’t like it. I roll away from her, onto my good shoulder, and stare out the window. Dawn breaks. The smoke from the exploded tank still climbs into the pink sky.

“All set,” she says, standin’ up.

I sit up and place my good hand on the bandage. A deep ache rests inside the muscle, but the area around it’s still numb. I’m sure the pain will come with time. It always does.

“Thanks,” I manage. “That numbin’ stuff probably goes for a month’s wages.”

She looks at the vial of liquid on the nightstand. “What we have at our hospital is worth more than everything else out there combined.” She gathers her materials and places them in a plastic case with a red cross on the top. Then she walks to the door. “Breakfast?”

“Well, yeah,” I stand on weak legs. “But what about the wounded? All those boys.”

Nessa’s face shows no concern. “They have their own combat medics. They don’t need me.”

My brow furrows. “Then what are you doing here? You ain’t military.”

She grips the doorframe. Her red nail polish is chipped. With her disheveled hair and bloody clothes, she looks less frightening, more human. “My work…” She studies my face. “It’s experimental.”

I glower. “Isn’t it always?”

“Yes.” She smiles like I’ve given her a compliment. Then she turns and tromps down the stairs. “Eggs coming right up.”

I walk to the window and stare out at the dead subdivision and beyond to the curl of smoke waftin’ in the morning breeze. When I move my injured arm, it flares with pain, so I rest it at my side. I can still smell the stink of burnt bodies. Still hear the cries of the boys who were picked off before their nineteenth birthday. Nessa better have some answers.

When I make it down the stairs, Ethan has joined us and waits quietly at the kitchen table, head down. I sit beside him and put my good hand on his shoulder.

“All right, bud?”

He nods, but there are dark circles under his eyes. I doubt anyone got any sleep last night with all the shootin’ and explosions.

“Mom says the fighting’s over.” He stifles a yawn.

I flick my eyes up to Nessa. She’s at the stove, fryin’ eggs in a pan. When she brings three plates of eggs to the table, I turn to her.

“You said you had answers. I wanna know who the Free Colonists are.”

She blows out a big sigh, sets down her fork, and looks at me. “You won’t even let me eat?”

I shake my head.

“Fine.” She pushes the egg plate away. “Who needs warm eggs anyway? Those people”—she says, pointin’ out the window— “are lunatics. They want to take over this military instillation. They think if they can get their grubby hands on the fire power, they can control the Breeders and all the medical advancements.” She places her hands on the table and clacks her nails on the wood. “There’s only two things worth a damn in this world: weapons and medicine.”

“Anyone with half a brain knows that,” I watch her carefully. “Why attack now? Ain’t these weapons been here for a century?”

Nessa pushes a messy strand of auburn hair out of her face. “Because they’re idiots.”

“They blew up your plane,” Ethan says.

She gives him a narrow gaze and he drops his head. “They got one plane operational and used their
only
bomb to blow up our plane, yes. They don’t stand a chance otherwise.”

“They had a tank.” I fork some eggs and shove them in my mouth. “That’s something.”

“A tank with no ammunition. Look,” she says, frownin’, “these
people
think that freedom is the only goal. They’re maniacs. They don’t think rationally. They have no idea what it means to prop up a society that has burned itself to the ground.”

“In my opinion,” I say, takin’ another bite of egg, “you’re underestimatin’ these people. Freedom is the strongest motivator I know.”

Nessa pushes up from the table, clearly irritated. “No, Clay,” she says, almost spitting, “Fear. Fear is the strongest motivator. And if you don’t start toeing the line, I’ll show you exactly how motivating it is.”

She storms out of the kitchen and up the stairs, slammin’ a bedroom door behind her.

I turn to Ethan. “She’s easy to work up.” I smile and scrape her eggs onto my plate. “Want some?”

He nods, a tiny smile on his lips.

“You should be careful.” Ethan takes a bite and looks up at me. “She gets mean when she’s angry.”

I stop chewin’. “She done something to you?”

He shakes his head.

“Listen, Ethan, when I get the chance, we’re bustin’ outta here. If there is such a thing as the Free Colonies, maybe we should go there. We’ll get Riley and your Auntie and head there. If they got balls enough to take Nessa on at her own base camp, they’re the kinda people we gotta be with. Okay?”

He nods, but there’s no spark in his eyes. He doesn’t think I can escape Nessa. I stare out the window at the orange dawn and wonder if even I’ve stopped believin’. And when another headache crops up at the back of my skull, it’s all I can do to make it through this breakfast.

The front door blows open and footsteps scamper toward us. I’m outta my chair in seconds, lookin’ for a weapon. The fork by my plate is the only thing I can grab before the intruder blows into the kitchen.

Betsy runs in, all outta sorts. Her hair is a curly mess that looks like it’s been slept on for weeks. Her round face is pink as a boiled ham. Her bare, filthy feet slap on the tile as she runs at me.

“Dr. Rayburn, I tried to tell her to follow the rules, but she wouldn’t listen.” Betsy licks at her raw, red lips and shakes my arm. “She keeps on saying she’s going to escape.”

“Betsy,” I pry her fingers from my bicep, “I ain’t Rayburn. I’m Clay.” I don’t tell her Rayburn’s dead.

Her eyes search my face in fear and bewilderment. Then she shakes her head. Strangely, her hair seems to slip sideways on her head. Is she wearing a wig?

“No, no, no. I told her. I told her.” She balls her hand into a fist and slams it into her own forehead with a smack.

“Stop that.” I grab the hand that’s pulled back to smack herself again. She tries to fight me, but she ain’t strong. Suddenly all her weight is on me as she tilts forward still murmuring nonsense.

I half-carry, half-drag her limp body to the table and plop her into my chair. Ethan looks completely stunned. “She okay?”

I shake my head. “Not by a mile. Get me a glass of water, will ya?”

Ethan gets up and does as I ask. I lean forward and peer into Betsy’s face. It’s drenched in sweat and scrunched up like she’s tasted something sour. She shakes her head over and over and her hair slumps to the side. Definitely a wig. That’s when I notice strange markings. Peerin’ closer, a roadmap of scars crisscross behind her right ear.

“What happened here?” I pull up the wig and study the stitches.

Betsy snaps upright like a tightly wound toy. Her eyes flash to mine and her hands clamp down on her wig. “Nothing. Nothing.” She attempts to straighten her hair, but messes it up further. The back is now the front with long, tangled curls coverin’ her eyes.

“What happened to you?” I reach for the wig. “Let me see.”

“No!” She tugs at the wig at the same time I do and it slips off.

I gasp. I don’t mean to, but the shock at what I see short-circuits all manners.

Her bald head is covered with so many scars it’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins. The stitched-up cuts look like a street map of a busy city etched into Betsy’s flesh. Some cuts are old. Some look very fresh—angry red lines with black stitches still holdin’ the skin together. How many surgeries? And why?

She shoves the wig back on, but her hands tremble so bad it takes her three tries to get it right. “Follow the rules,” she mutters over and over.

I point at Betsy’s covered head. “Did Nessa…do this?”

Betsy clenches her flowered dress into her fists and continues to shake.

I stare at broken Betsy who seemed like a nice girl before she was damaged. “If Nessa did this…”

“What?” says a voice behind me.

I whirl around.

Nessa stands in the kitchen entrance, cleanly dressed, hair coiffed, and hands clasped at her waist. She raises one trimmed eyebrow at me. “If I did this, then what, Clay?”

“Why?” I point at Betsy’s dissected head.

Nessa lifts one corner of her mouth and shrugs. “Someone had to be the guinea pig.”