The Ward (9 page)

Once more, I’m sick to my stomach.

She’s beautiful
.

See, I never wanted to be five foot ten, have buttery-yellow hair like Aven’s or the kind of baby blues that turn guys into puddles. I never wanted to be pale-skinned, though I could have done with a few less freckles. What I
have
wanted was to be able to run a hand through my hair once in my life, and not always have my own personal spiral skyscrapers on my head. I’ve wanted my body, small and dense, to be small and willowy. My eyes to be dark, but still interesting.

I’ve wanted to look like myself, just different.

So, basically . . . her.

It’s pretty awful, coming face-to-face with the person who is your version of perfection. Which means Derek didn’t bring me here because he
likes
me, he just felt bad.

I swallow the realization like swallowing needles
—I never stood a chance
.

I don’t want to go out there. See him. But I know my priorities: Aven. Officer Cory.

Giving in to that silly, stupid feeling I get when Derek’s around is not on the list.

If only feelings listened to a list.

8

W
hen I step out of the bathroom, I harden myself before seeing Derek. But I stop walking. Gasp. Too easily distracted by the fact that he lives in a bloody palace: oriental rugs, a brass chandelier, instruments that I don’t even think we have names for anymore. So what if it’s all a bit threadbare? You don’t come by this stuff mint.

He glances up from his spot on a red velvet sofa-looking thing. “How are you feeling?” he asks, eager, and I follow his gaze. It rests for a slow moment on each limb and each scrape, inspecting my injuries.

His looking at me like this makes me feel naked. Even with his hair mussed and tattered clothes—he’s still a mess from the rescue—it don’t matter. I go lock-lipped and awkward. No idea what to say . . .

Normally, I’d fake it. Act comfortable, play around. Be one of the guys. That’s when I was the premier dragster. A winner. Right now, I’ve never felt more like a little girl, even when I was a little girl—beaten down, saved by a silly white knight from a mess I couldn’t get myself out of.

“Good,” I say, because it’s all I can think of, though I’m fully aware how ridiculous it sounds.

He scowls. Even that looks good on him. Somehow, knowing that he’s got a girlfriend has actually made me want him
more
.

“You can tell me that you feel like death, Ren. I’m not your competition.” He doesn’t even give me time to react to that before pointing toward the table. “Here. I picked up some food. Let’s eat.”

I eye the goods. “Lihn’s,” I say, approving. I know Lihn herself. She runs a smart business. Bought up a few abandoned roofs in underpopulated quadrants up north for growing things on.

I like her especially ’cause she gives me free winner’s grub. And this food is
real
food. Expensive, and hard to come by. Half homegrown, half air-dropped by her family on the Isle.

“Excellent choice. I’d know these cartons anywhere.”

Derek laughs, passing me a pair of porcelain chopsticks and a random carton. “Of course you would. She is right downstairs, after all.”

Wait a minute. Lihn’s Take-Out is the holy gateway to the betting hall Derek runs. Every time I come to place a bet, Lihn acts as gatekeeper.

“She’s downstairs? You live above Lihn’s too?”

“The betting hall is a few flights down. I own the building,” he tells me.

Well, that answers the question of his drainage system.

“The other racers don’t know, though, that I live where I work, and it could be . . . problematic . . . if they found out. So keep this quiet, if you would?”

I cross my heart. “Scout’s honor.”

Without warning, the TV hologram flashes in front of us.

“Autoupdates,” Derek says, when I jerk around, surprised. Most folks in the Ward don’t have one of these things—they eat up too much electric, if you even have electric. Which most don’t.

Projected onto a canvas of scattered light in front of us stands the 3-D image of a middle-aged man. He’s at a podium—Governor Voss. I know him from pictures hanging at DI headquarters. Crowded in front is a group of dapper men and women, some sporting those posh, itchy vests they love to wear on the Isle.

“Governor Voss,” one man calls out. “What do you have to say regarding yet
another
outbreak of the Blight on the West Isle? How does it continue to spread? And why can’t you stop it?”

Simultaneously, Derek and I roll our eyes.

“Not this again,” I mutter. “Whenever some old rich family from the West Isle contracts the Blight, it’s news. People in the Ward get sick every day. You don’t see us calling press conferences over it.”

Still, I can’t pull myself from the light screen. The governor looks much older than in pictures. His face is hard, gaunt. You could cut sheet metal on the angles that make up his jawline. But his nerves betray him—he fidgets at the podium, then catches himself. His body goes still. “A team of scientists is looking into how it continues to spread to the Isle, despite Statute Two.” He’s slow with his words. “Transmission of HBNC is illegal and still punishable by arrest. Additionally, the local task force conducts random testing for contagious members of the Ward’s community.

“To the people of the West Isle: I am doing everything in my power to limit the spread of this disease.”

With that, his fist drops down like a hammer.

“What about the water crisis?!” one man yells. “Perhaps it’s time for another Appeal to Upstate?”

’Cause that ended so well the first time. People shake their heads and look at him like he’s crazy.

The NYC Appeal of 2054 may, or may not, have included heavy-duty artillery against Upstate New York. Upstate just laughed and turned into their own country on us—taking their freshwater with them. Easy enough after the Wash Out.

“There will not be another Appeal,” Governor Voss answers, dismissing him with a hand wave. “Unfortunately, Upstate has no intentions of lifting their water embargo, and they continue to auction off the stores. Therefore, until we find a local source, the Division Interial has been working with an undercover scout who conducts regular searches for freshwater. Next question.”

Holy brack
. That’s me he’s talking about. It’s just . . . it’s funny. Me. Important,
outside
of the Ward. Sure, in these parts I’m known, but the West Isle? I almost laugh, but stop myself, hardening my face. Using one chopstick, I spear a dumpling and eat the thing whole. I glance at Derek—he’s totally absorbed.

A woman calls out, “Governor Voss, how does Mrs. Voss fare?”

The governor’s breathing stalls, his nerves clearly taking a hit. He scratches his chin, rubs at his temples. Of all the questions, this is one that gets to him. “She’s not faring any better, but thank you for asking, Lauren. This conference is over.” The governor steps down from the stand and leaves the room, followed by his advisors.

The pixels of light from the image scatter on their own.

“What’s wrong with his wife?” I ask Derek.

He looks at me, surprised. “The Blight. You hadn’t heard?”

“No electricity, remember?” I shake my head, then wince. “Ow,” I groan, kneading the nape of my neck with my knuckles. Whiplash is a beast, though it’s hardly the worst. Every time I move my face, even just a little, the split skin on my temple pulls open.

“Finally.” Derek laughs, his mouth full of noodles. “She’s human!”

“What do you mean?” I poke at my gash, looking up, even though I know I won’t be able to see it.

“Ren, I think that’s the first I’ve heard you complain all night. You nearly . . .” His expression drops, and he stands up from the sofa. “I should sew that up for you. Might even be able to make sure it doesn’t scar.”

I’m feeling bold. Maybe it was almost kicking the bucket. Hell, I almost went and demolished the bucket with a two- by-four. “So, you wanna doctor me up?” I ask, one eyebrow raised. “I can play nice.”

He laughs, surprised, then confusion registers, and his expression sours.

Too bold, perhaps?

“We almost lost you,” he says, serious, his back turned.

We. Not I.

“What about Aven?” Derek goes on, and still I can’t see his face. “What would’ve happened to her if you didn’t make it?”

There it is: the one card in the deck that makes me feel guilty about racing. I sink into the plush velvet, suddenly very tired.

He turns. I don’t want to look at him, but I can’t help myself. He’s standing so close to me, I could count his eyelashes if I wanted. I find myself looking up, noticing things like how his eyes match his hair, which makes no rational sense—his hair is as coppery as a penny that’s been around the block a few times, and his eyes are perfectly brown. But somehow, all his colors work together.

“You only get one life, Ren. Why are you so damned ready to die?”

I choke back breath, words, and don’t even notice when my fist is no longer balled up by my side but close to his body. He’s reached for it, turned it upward so that my palm faces the ceiling. My lifelines stretch longer and clearer as he extends one finger at a time.

“Don’t you want to make it here?” he asks, drawing a fingertip along the crease of my lifeline. The sensation of just one small square inch of his body pressing against mine is too much—a cross between a tickle and a bonfire. “Or here?” His touch is still on my life, somewhere in the future. The corners of his lips turn down, and I can tell he’s eyeing my temple. “I should sew that up for you.”

“You said that already,” I whisper.

Then he shakes his head, like he’s waking up from a dream. I watch the moment end right before my eyes, unable to stop it. Something just broke, and even though I can see him pulling away my hand is still in his, he’s still holding it.

“So you
do
wanna play doctor?” I grin, trying to get back whatever we lost.

He steps backward. “I’ll get the needle from the med kit.”

I really wasn’t serious about
that
part of the doctor bit. As much as I might have imagined his hands on me, that particular dream never involved a sharp needle and thread.

“Bleeding’s stopped,” I insist, now that my head is corked back on. “It’s fine. Looks worse than it is. Besides,” I say, pausing a moment, “your lady friend wants me gone.”

Why did I just say that?

My head must be more uncorked than I thought. You do
not
mention the girlfriend after a Relationship-Defining Moment with Taken Boyfriend!
Bad form, Ren, bad form
.

Derek stops midstep and spins around, two little lines deepening between his brows. “What?”

Well, the damage is done
. “I overheard her.”

Derek has gone quiet.
Say something else. . . .
“You must have a giant filtration tank.”

Wow. I almost want to add “baby” to the end of that to make it sound like a bad euphemism.

“I don’t—she’s not—” he stammers, not looking at me. “She’s my friend Kitaneh. We’ve known each other for forever.”

Jeez, I didn’t ask for her frikkin’ biography. And really, do I believe him? Maybe they’re not “official” or whatever. Hoping to change the subject, I just mutter, “You sure you should’ve wasted all that fresh on me?”

Derek looks at me like I’m made of stupid. “Your temp was too low. And don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t a waste.”

I look around for the stairway—things just got too awkward. “I should go. Aven . . .” I start, without any intention of finishing. “Thanks for dinner . . . and everything else.”

“You can’t thank me for that.” His face is sad, like he didn’t just save my sorry butt.

“No?”

“No.”

I leave it.

Derek backs away, and his gaze drops to my shoulder where, I imagine, it lingers just a little too long. Turning from him, I wish I knew what to say. How to not turn into an tongue-tied mess. I walk to the door that leads out to the stairwell and feel his eyes on me every step of the way.

Forget him
, I tell myself, even though telling yourself to forget something is the quickest way to make sure you remember it.

Aven is waiting
. Aven, alone, wondering where I am. Not knowing why this race has taken so long. She must be worried.

If she’s still . . .

There it is, the only thought that could make me forget all the others. And after a night like tonight—especially a night like tonight—that worry . . .

Home, get home to her
.

It’s stronger than diesel fuel.

9

6:00 A.M., SATURDAY

C
rossing town is a pain—ramshackle rooftop suspension bridges the whole way. Old, rickety things, thrown together early on, when no one knew if the waters would keep rising. And though I’m only one quad north of Derek, the ’Racks are as far east as possible before you hit open ocean.

So . . . lots and lots of bridges.

I grip the cord on either side, fighting against the wobble, and try to ignore how old these planks are. I try not to look down, either. A hundred feet under the bridge, a wide-open canal flows where a street used to run. Instead I look ahead, to a view that’s clear for miles. Miles and miles of water. Glancing left, just a few blocks south, I can see where Ter lives. A massive black tower, fitted with electricity. The Trump Card. Its windows are dark at this hour though, even if it is the Ward’s swankiest residential building.

Our well-to-do citizens aren’t
that
well-to-do.

I face my route once more, continuing the slog across one bridge, then another, until thick smoke ahead stops me short. Following its trail, I find the fire, then I listen.

I groan when I hear it, the sounds of woozy laughter.

A beggar campout up ahead, atop the roof of a sickhouse for patients who are no longer contagious. They’ve set up tents pitched from old, holey blankets, around a metal pit filled with burning planks stolen from bridges or boardwalks. This sickhouse isn’t much different from a homeless shelter—sick with family don’t end up here. Mostly these folk are drifters, hopped up on pain meds that work a little too well—“daggers,” they’re called, and they’re pricey. I should know. Meds don’t come free, not even at the sickhouses.