The Ward (12 page)

No
, my head cries out.
Stay quiet!
I stumble backward, positioning myself between Dunn and Aven. As though I could somehow block her from his sight. “It was my fault, sir,” I insist. “She’s not speaking sense right now.”

“Who is
she
?” Dunn points, seeing the sickly girl—my Aven—on the bed for the first time.

“A friend.” No need for him to know more than that. “She’s not contagious. . . .” Except for that.

He motions to the Bouncer, like he wants him to test her. Only out in public is random testing legal without a complaint. Not here in private. But this is Dunn. He can do what he wants.

The Bouncer pulls out the needle blood scanner, and I see Aven’s mouth open in fear.

I could distract him.
Now, the fresh
.

“Sir,” I start, anxiety pitching my voice a dozen octaves too high. I sound panicked. . . . I am panicked. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere, from my toes up to my throat. “My report. I found this—”

I reach for the canteen dangling off the edge of the bed frame and push it into his hands. Chief Dunn takes the canteen from me, not understanding, and I lead him away from Aven’s bed, closer to the door.

In a hushed voice, I tell him, “It’s fresh, sir.”

He unscrews the cap, eyes on me. “You know as well as I do, it’s been years since we’ve found an uncontaminated groundwater source,” he says, taking a whiff. His face registers nothing.

“Tasted it myself,” I insist, confused. Yet another reaction I’d never expected: doubt. Maybe I should have, though. Years I’ve been searching for fresh with no luck.

Shaking the canteen, he listens to hear how much is in there. “The governor would be pleased, to be sure. Location?”

“Quad Nine. A building with a red star painted on it, under the subway system.”

“You said Ten on the recording,” he reminds me.

“I had a tip. One of your guys, actually. Officer Cory. Officer Justin Cory,” I tell him, happy to offer credit where credit is due, give the officer a slice of the pie. Without him, I wouldn’t have found anything at all.

Chief shakes his head. “I know the name of every man assigned to me, Dane. There’s no Justin Cory in the DI.” Then, aiming his finger at me like a gun, he says, “Find out who this guy is and report back. Could even be a reward in there for you if he turns out to be someone interesting.”

I nod, but my head’s on a roller coaster, confused, even though it all lines up. . . .
Justin Cory was lying?

I mean, of course he was. The way he spoke to me, too polite. And his lack of brawn. So the question is, who is he?

Chief opens the door, and he doesn’t look back at Aven. “This goes to the lab immediately,” he says. “If it turns up good, I’ll send a scout team out to gather more samples first thing tomorrow, five a.m. Don’t get your hopes up, though. More than likely, it’s just a pocket with low salinization levels. Not enough to pipe off for mass consumption.”

As the patrolman follows Chief out, he takes the light with him. Leaves us in darkness.

“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” I say, from just behind the door, watching as they leave, all the energy being sucked from my limbs. I’m exhausted. After hours of sleep, I’m exhausted.

Soon the sound of their footsteps is too far away to hear, and I look down the empty hall toward the Bedrosians’ apartment. Even the body is gone. Everything is back to normal—the candles replaced, flickering like they never died out.
Almost
.

If only the bloodstain were gone too.

11

9:30 P.M., SATURDAY

I
don’t know what to do. . . .

It’s been more than four hours since the raid. Afterward I rehydrated Aven with some soup—she couldn’t keep it down at first. Then she could, and it seemed like she was feeling better, too. Now though, even in sleep, her breaths are short and erratic. And when I take her hand, it feels clammy in my own. Cold.

But the Tank—

If I go, I’ve still got a chance at meeting with this “Officer Cory” guy. Since he’s not really with the DI, he won’t know I just met with Dunn—no reason for him not to give me the green he promised. And if there’s a reward for passing on information about him to Dunn, so much the better. Aven and I will need more to make it to the end of the month, especially if she’s sick.

But as I move to her bedside and feel her cheeks—I don’t like it. They strike me as too warm.

I inhale and rub the bridge of my nose, racking my head for an answer.

I’m only
sixteen
.

How am I supposed to tell when she
needs
the doctor? If we had the money, I’d call him every time her temp hit 98.7. But we don’t. . . . I have to make the calls. I have to tell “bad” from “worse.” Right now, I don’t think this is the worst. She’s sleeping—that’s gotta say something.

If I stay, all I can do is make her comfortable: feed her daggers, get her water.

But if I go, we’ll have the money to pay for the doctor by the time I get back.

I don’t like this plan.

Leaving her alone turns my stomach like swallowing motor oil. Squeezing Aven’s hand, gentle, I head to the bathroom. If I’m going to leave, I should at least not look like I almost died.

I pull a paste pill from the cabinet and brush my teeth; no need for water. The foaming action is activated by the saliva in the mouth, and when I’m done, all I have to do is take a minty gulp. It occurs to me that I should probably clean my head wound before leaving, so it doesn’t get infected. After all, we don’t even have enough money for one sick person in this apartment, much less two.

Using some filtered rainwater, I soak a tiny corner of our washcloth, readying myself for the damage. I don’t particularly want to look at myself. From the barbed sting going on above my eyebrows, my face feels like the kind of ugly that’s best left in nightmares.

Good thing we don’t have a real mirror.

On the wall, hanging from a nail, we keep a tin lid. Aven pulled it off an empty coffee tin way back when, and it works all right so long as we keep from denting it.

I bring my temple closer, but it’s hard to see for myself. Rarely do I find myself wishing someone was around to take care of me; now is one of those times. And it would be especially nice if that someone were named Derek.

Oh, how his girlfriend would love that.

The thought makes me queasy, so I dismiss it, and squint to examine the wound.

Where the brick got me—the largest of the cuts by my temple—the blood’s crusted. I wipe away the dried, flaky reddish-brown bits. After a few dabs, I have to pull back. Not from pain . . . from surprise. I’d expected the two flaps of separated skin to be, well, separate, but already they’ve joined together. Formed a seam. Only in a few spots, where the slice was deepest, can I see tender, pink flesh underneath.

I’ve always been a fast healer, it’s true. This is
really
fast, though. Not that I’m complaining . . .

I toss the cloth onto the laundry pile and walk back quietly, careful not to wake Aven, then look around for something to wear. Normally, I’d just sport my red leather suit since the festivities usually get rolling after the race, but that’s at Derek’s. And destroyed.

After a few minutes of scrambling, lifting trunks, and tossing aside pants that haven’t fit my butt for years, I find my outfit for tonight’s soiree. In a lovely pile, accompanied by only a few dust balls. Perfect.

Black tank, check.

Grommet-and-buckle black leather vest, check.

Tan suede leggings, check.

Spare canteen, check, as Dunn now has my other one. I run to the bathroom, turn the spigot, and fill it only halfway. Don’t want to over ration.

Back in the main room, I find my Hessians: check, and check. Last, I throw on my utility belt.

Knowing that I’m going to be cold for the walk, I buckle on both my sleeves. A jacket’s around here . . . somewhere . . . but I’d just take it off when I got to the Tank anyway. Then I’d lose it. Better to be cold for a little while.

One last time, I look to Aven. On her wrist is the cuffcomm I’ve given her, just in case. I reach under the bed for the orange bottle and take out another Dilameth, which I leave on the bedside table with the water.

“Feathers?” I whisper, kneeling closer.

Her eyes stay shut, but she musters a “hmm” so I know she’s heard me.

“I’m going to the Tank, but I’ll be back soon. You have the comm. Don’t forget?”

She tilts her chin, up then down, an even weaker response than the last.

I stand up, walk to the door. Hope she doesn’t open her eyes just then. Leaving her hurts, physically hurts. In more ways than I can pin. Guilt twists itself in my gut, insists that I’m not doing the right thing . . . going to a party, of all places. Even though I’m going to help us.

But that’s not even the worst of it.

My imaginings, they’re what do me in. Every time I step out the front door, I picture what coming back could look like. Because if my worst memory is of the time I found Aven alone but alive at the sickhouse, I can think of only one thing that’s worse—finding her dead in
our
home.

Alone.

PART TWO

12

9:45 P.M., SATURDAY

T
he cracked, Mad Ave solar-powered streetlights shed an eerie, fragmented bluish glow over the boardwalk. I’m trying to pass a family of four on either side, but they’re buying seeds from a vendor, probably for a private roof plot up north, and they’re lollygagging. It’s damn near impossible. Though the Tank isn’t far from here—a straight shot down—tonight is so crazy, it’ll take me twice as long.

As I finally weave through them, my spare cuffcomm buzzes on my wrist. I look down, see a message from Benny:

Towed your Rimbo back to the garage. Looking into the problem, may take a while.

Sure, sure . . .
Benny says it’ll take a while, but if I know him, he just doesn’t want me to hound him every ten minutes. He’ll have an answer soon, no doubt.

I keep on through the market, slowing when I spot Zora’s cart. She’s my favorite, a gap-toothed little punk kid with a red afro and so many freckles on her face, you’d never know what color her skin really was. She’s the smartest sneak on the walk. Always offers to check for airdrops from her wealthy West Isle grandma. Then, when her dad goes on break, she’ll call me over—ladle me a bit of bona fide black market Upstate fresh, for Aven. Her grandma gets it by way of the Mainland, and I doubt there are even a hundred people in the Ward who can afford the stuff.

But living off rainwater ain’t so bad. So long as it rains.

“Hey, Z!” I shout across the avenue.

She sees me and waves.

I start to walk closer, but a push to my shoulder sends me rolling forward. I spin around, angry, and spit, “Watch it!” before realizing that the push was by no means an accident.

It’s Kent. . . . He laughs at me, lazy, thin lipped. Threads of his ink-black hair fall in his face. With his hands in the pockets of an oversize trench, he drawls, “If it isn’t the ‘Red Rider,’” and strides up with rubber-band legs—all loose and relaxed, ready to mess with me. “I was so hopeful, and look here, now you’ve ruined my whole night.” He throws up his arms. “Of course, your being alive is an easy enough problem to fix.”

Jones passes me by and nods, smirking, his ponytailed sandy hair pulled tidily out the back of his round cap.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, and turn around, hoping for a smooth getaway.
I’m not in the mood for this
.

But Jones is there, cutting me off.

I face Kent again. He’s been joined by the Dreaded Duo. Tanzii’s and Neela’s arms are looped around each other like shadows. The girls watch me, adjusting their tops to reveal a bit more flesh, and they snigger. It kills me. More than the Derby guys, even.

All I’d need is one of them . . . just one other girl at the races would even the balance enough.

“You’ve got some fuel on your face, honey,” Neela says when she sees me looking at her. Coyly she points at me, bowing her knees together. Then she goes wide-eyed, fake as those dolls with the movable eyelids.

I know better than to touch my face though. We’ve been through this one before.

“Don’t you have tulips to plant, Neela, or whatever it is that you do all day?” I pretend to flick her away like she’s a bug on my thumb.

If only it were that easy.

She rolls her eyes, and when she looks at Kent, I see her barely nod in my direction.

Uh-oh—
she’s calling in the big guns, and Kent’s been dying for an excuse to pummel me as it is.

I look up; they’re still there, and Kent’s just getting closer.

“Hope you enjoyed your lucky streak while it lasted,” Kent says, laughing as he nears and cracking his knuckles. “After tonight, I’m not sure you’ll be fit to hold a steering wheel.”

His eyes always target me like he’s looking down a gun barrel, so why do I always wonder if he’s actually going to do it? Kent hasn’t clobbered me bloody yet, but each time we get into a row like this, it feels more and more likely.

I ain’t gonna find out if tonight’s the night, though.

I smile, and I wave, and then—though I sorta hate myself for taking the coward’s way out—I turn on my heel, and I run like an animal.

Booking it through the labyrinth of steel-wheeled wagons, with the old fabric warehouse in view, my breathing goes too ragged and I have to stop. I pull over, nearly tripping on a girl I swear I know—shortish, dread-headed, wearing fairy wings and probably on her way to the Tank. I don’t say hi; I just duck under one of the striped umbrellas that dot the boardwalk.

From here I can spot the HBNC Patrol hornets. They’re buzzing around the building’s exterior. Crouched farther beneath one of the vendor’s carts, I watch them through the wheel’s spokes, waiting to see if Kent or Jones catches up.

No one comes.

I grow impatient—the Tank is less than five minutes away, so I slide out from under the cart and start walking. A hundred paces out, from behind me, I hear a swishing noise.