The Ward (36 page)

“I’m going to have to run tests. Many, many tests. So we don’t accidentally hand out doses of immortality . . .” Callum has started to look a little dazed.

“
After
you’ve figured out the cure part,” I remind the absentminded professor in him.

“Naturally.” He casts me a glance like he didn’t need the reminder. “And I still don’t understand how the spring would protect against the poison. Your bookie didn’t happen to mention that, did he?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Just said it would.”

“Hmmph,” Callum grumbles, scratching his ear. “I admit that there’s still quite a bit we don’t know about the water. I don’t like it, but we’re going to have to take it on faith that he knows what he’s talking about. And, considering he’s been around the stuff for more than five hundred years . . . I think it’s safe to assume he does.”

Together we turn to face the West Isle skyline, still visible through the dirtied, cracked window. Callum watches it like he’s waiting for something to happen at any moment. Which, if we wait long enough, it will.

“Then, the last order of business: distribution,” he says, leaning up against the bare white window frame. “I’ve been thinking about how best to get Aven the new serum once it’s made. I figure you’ll have some tricks up your sleeve as far as the rest of the Ward goes.” Callum says it to me so naturally. Like, of course I do.

Like it’s not a plan to prevent the government-sanctioned extermination of hundreds.

I almost laugh out loud, but then I realize it’s kind of a compliment—Callum
trusts
me. He barely knows me, and he thinks I can do this.
I kind of like it
.

“You first,” I say nonetheless, looking over at him. Just ’cause he thinks I have tricks don’t mean I
actually
have them.

At least not yet, I don’t.

Callum flips closed his cuffcomm, and the Ward Hope Hospital schematics he’s projected onto the wall disappear. The wall goes back to blank, with its peeling paint and cobwebbed corners.

“You really think that’ll work? Will you have time to make two separate batches?” I ask. “What if the night guard catches me? Tampering with the water supply is probably one of the biggest crimes around. . . . I know from experience. It’s how I ended up in the DI jail.”

“Don’t worry,” he insists. “I already know how to make the water stronger—I can make enough for just the hospital within the next few hours, which is all the time we have if you’re going to put it in the water system before the final night rations go out at ten. It’s making the serum for the hundreds of others that will take time. The hardest part for you, Ren, will be getting in. I’d give you my ID badge, but it’s too risky,” he insists. “The receptionist will have seen your image from the Wanted broadcasts. You can’t just walk in through the front door.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I say, confident.

I’ve totally got tricks up my sleeve when it comes to sneaking into, and out of, places.

“All right.” Callum eyes me before sitting down in front of his scope. “Your turn,” he says, and glances at his comm for the time.

I do the same and have to remind myself to breathe. My stomach goes all knotty—time just keeps passing, faster by the second. I’ve got no plan, and I’ve got to make it to Ward Hope by ten. . . .

“All right,” I repeat slowly, hoping that an idea magically appears in my brain. “Distribution.”

Come on . . . come on
.
Think
.

Of course, it’s impossible to think when you’re telling yourself to think, ’cause all you’re doing is saying that one word over and over. Not actually
thinking
.

“Well . . . we’ve got to find a way to get enough vials of the cure onto every sickhouse rooftop in the Ward. All before . . .” My voice trails away; I sink into the thinking part.

There are sickhouses all over the U. We can’t just walk around, handing out some magic cure to everyone. . . . That would take forever. Not to mention that people might be suspicious of taking some strange medicine they’ve never heard of.

I scoff to myself. No one gets suspicious when they hear it from officials.

“They have to think it’s their ‘cure,’” I say aloud.

Callum looks up. Nods. Waits for the rest.

I go on. “We can’t swap one for another—whatever poison they’re giving out will be down people’s throats as soon as it’s on the roof. Everyone’s gonna be waiting in their stairwells at least an hour beforehand, guaranteed. So we’ve gotta get to them before the squadrons come through. Late enough that everyone still thinks our cure is coming from the government, but early enough that we’re not around when the actual aeromobiles arrive.”

“That’s less than six hours away,” he says. “And it’s going to take me half that long to make the cure. How do you propose we do it?”

Rooftop distribution. Countdown clock. Quick getaway.

Uh-oh
.

“What if—” I start, excited. But then my fingers start fidgeting. I press what’s left of my nails into my palms and begin pacing the length of the room. I’ve got an idea all right, but no way is Callum gonna like it.

Spit it out
.

“We need the other dragsters.”

I let the idea hang in the air, and wait for him to grab it. Or swat it. And . . .

I think I see a swat coming.

Callum’s mouth takes the shape of
Oh, hell no
, so I cut him off before he can object. “It’s the best way—they’re fast, and once they learn the truth, they’ll want this plan to work as much as we do.”

Shaking his head, “No, absolutely no. I just don’t think it’s safe, Ren. On so, so many levels. One, you’ll be on the U, an entirely residential area, piloting those
death traps
—which, let’s face it,” he says, waving his hands around, and I know I’m not going to like what comes next, “are really no more than scrap metal excuses for mobiles.”

Say what?
I shoot him a glare made of so much evil, I think I actually see him step back, afraid. Raise his hands in surrender.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Perhaps that was uncalled for. But they’re dangerous, and dragsters are notorious adrenaline junkies, yourself included. Not to mention how many people we’d be trusting with incredibly sensitive information.”

“Callum, this was never gonna stay a small operation. Not with so many sick. And . . . though I know it’s not the same on the Isle, those of us who live here in the Ward—well, we all know someone who’s sick. Someone we love is always dying. That’s just the way it goes. Curing the Blight is probably the only thing that we’d ever be on the same side for.”

I can only hope that it’s true. The Ward’s also got a “survival of the fittest” mentality that could get in the way.

“Answer honestly: Can you depend on them?”

I don’t know
.

Would Kent ever be on my side, for anything? Even this? He owes me. “I think so,” I say. I saved his butt today. “And I don’t have an idea that’s better than this one.”

I flip open my comm, punch in Ter’s number, then type my message:

Dragster meeting, ASAP—Derbies too. Bone Vault. Bring Benny.

—R.R.

Even though this is an unregistered cuffcomm, I use my racing initials, short for “Red Rider.”

“You sure they’ll show?” Callum asks, watching over my shoulder as I flip the comm shut.

Not in the least
, I think to myself. Especially not if they know that I’m the one calling the meeting.

I open the cuffcomm again and send him another message:

Keep me dead, will ya?

Terrence will know what I mean.

“Now they’ll show,” I say, nodding.
Hoping
.

41

7:30 P.M., SUNDAY

T
he Bone Vault is a dismal place. No one ever comes here, and I don’t blame them.

Light would help, though—I glance around the space, then up at the chandelier. It’s pieced together outta decades-old clavicles and smooth, gray skulls that look like they died laughing.

I decide against touching the thing and curse the insane architect whose idea it was to decorate a house of the dead with
the actual dead
. Even after the Wash Out floated new and old bodies to the surface, but left us with no more land to put them . . .

Really?
This was someone’s brilliant solution?

Joke’s on me, though, I suppose. When the Blight hit, the Ward had a place—ready and waiting—to stash our bones.

Reluctant, I reach for the skull to my right and pluck a candle from one of its eye sockets. When I strike a match from the pack in the jaw, an orange glow turns the Vault into a bona fide nightmare.

Now I can see too much. I wish I’d left the candle alone.

All across the ceiling hang bony odds and ends. Worn molars, sharp, white knuckles, strung up side by side.

Without warning, the same way you imagine your own death—a mobile crashing, a racer knifing you in the gut—I imagine every one of these bones belonging to Aven. Each knuckle grows muscles and skin and fingernails. Becomes a hand, her hand, and it reaches out from the ceiling. For me.

I’m socked into nausea, ready to vomit. I double over the stone bench, head between my legs, and heave. Sliding off the bench, I huddle close to my knees on the dusty floor. I use my palms as blinders to block out the bones—I can’t look at them. Clutching my gut, I wait for the sick feeling to pass.

A slight wind sets the candle flickering. Shadows grow and shift. Some rustling sound kills the dead quiet, but I see nothing. In here, I’m swallowed whole. It’s not just Aven anymore. This place is a monster. I’ve landed myself in its belly. Keeping me company is every body it’s ever eaten, every body it will ever eat.

Imagining the overflow of bones come tomorrow morning—that plants my feet. I’m standing on the barbed wire of guilt. I want to run, find Aven, but it’ll just follow me. It fences in every choice.

“You in there, Ren?” I think I hear Ter call.

I peek my head out the window to check, and I see him standing there, face pressed against the glass. I inhale and slide down to the floor again with relief, watching my imaginary beasts scatter. Now all I’m left with are the real ones.

“I am,” I call back, hearing his footsteps as he enters the Vault.

He finds me hunched on the floor, like I’m hiding from something. Quickly, I stand up. Brush off the floor’s grime.

He folds me into a great, big bear hug.

“Ter?” I say, my voice muffled, nose pressed into his armpit. “Umm . . .”

“You’re alive,” he sings, holding on a few seconds longer before backing away.

When I’m able to breathe again, “I commed you, didn’t I?”

He starts laughing—it bubbles and bubbles and doesn’t stop until he has to slow down for air. “The rumors were insane, Ren—you scared the hell out of everyone. I found out from Derek.” Ter breathes out, solemn all of a sudden. “He was pretty messed up about it, actually. Which kinda surprised me, you know?” Seeing my face, raised eyebrows and pursed lips, he waves his hand. Adds, “Not that he shouldn’t have been upset. But, I mean, he was just your bookie.” Then Ter pauses. Looks down at me. In the dark of the Vault, with just candlelight to see by, the whites of his eyes are glowing.

I can only guess at what’s coming next.

“You guys didn’t have a thing . . . did you?”

Like hell we didn’t. Thank goodness
. I shake my head, about to open my mouth when Ter and I hear the sounds of feet shuffling, and the tail end of a conversation.

“. . . divers found her boots and everything. Even left a calling card—”

Can’t tell who’s talking—they’re too far away—but they’re definitely talking about me. I wrinkle my nose. Mouth the words
“Calling card?”
at Ter, who points to my bare feet.

“A photo, inside your boots?”
he mouths back.

Then I remember. The picture I took from Callum’s place. I’d stuck it in my poor Hessian and forgotten about it. Bet I was walking on that photo all day and didn’t notice.

“Someone saved my boots though, right?” I ask, raising my voice.

Ter rolls his eyes, pulls me into his arms again, and actually gives me a noogie. In a whisper, “They’re
boots
, dummy. I’ll buy you a new pair.”

“. . . whatcha think this is about, anyway?” the voice asks, now just outside the window.

It’s Jones, definitely. Antsy. Worried. Nerves of glass.

Throwing me a sideways glance, Ter mouths the same question, but I don’t answer. No time.

“Daresay we’ll find out soon enough.”

That’d be Kent. I’d know the breezy sleaze of his voice any day. Just hearing it, and the hairs on my neck bristle.

Craning my neck around the alcove, I watch as they enter the Vault and exchange easy armshakes with Terrence.

He’s not a girl. They don’t hate him. A few more steps bring Kent into the main sanctuary. He sees me, and his face twists in disgust.

Still?
Has he forgotten already? I could’ve let that Omni plow into the canal, left him stuck there in the pit.

“What is she doing here?” he snarls as he presses the black derby farther down his forehead. Nudging a stray dark hair behind his ear, he looks to Ter, vexed.

A dozen slurs are batting against the roof of my mouth, wanting out. I swallow every last one of them. I breathe deep. “Boys,” I say, walking into the sanctuary with my gaze to the floor, my hands at my sides. Any other day, I’d come out fighting. Today, the first round is theirs.

I won’t fight them with my eyes.

I won’t store a fist in my pocket for later.

I open my mouth, about to begin, then realize someone’s missing. I look at Terrence. “Where’s Benny?” I ask. He’s going to be the hardest to see. . . . I don’t like anyone worrying about me, him most of all.

“Said he’d show later. I’m sure if he knew you weren’t dead, he’d be here right now.”

“But you are dead,” Kent interrupts. “There was a party and everything.” A dark smile worms across his lips.