Fragmented Souls, page 44
“Once we get in, Malick and I will find rides,” Ryker radios from the front, her voice even more breathy over the walkie. “Jasper will join the group going to the prison — once you’re in, you’re on your own.” With these words, everyone seems to still, the pressure and risk of this mission sinking its claws into our skin.
“Today’s her birthday,” Tequila whispers solemnly as she leans into Buckey, her breaths curling through the frozen air, her shoulders shaking as she holds back tears.
“Snap out of it,” Uri says abruptly, his voice booming louder in the enclosed space. “You’re acting like she’s already gone. If any of you were in her situation, she wouldn’t let her emotions get in the way, she would fucking fight till they tore her apart.” We straighten at his words, at his strength. “I owe her my damn life, and I intend on getting her back, or to die trying.” Uri gets to his feet, not looking any of us in the eyes as the truck screeches to a stop. His speech does nothing but dump gasoline on the pit of fire already blazing in my chest.
We stay silent, a collective breath drawn in as a six-code knock pounds against the door. Uri raises his gun, unlatching it on our side and flinging it open. Two Hunters stand before us, both the man and the woman holding an arm out to us, revealing a howling wolf tattoo previously concealed under their sleeves.
“Rita — Mitch,” Até nods in greeting as she sticks knives into her black combat boots.
“You have ten minutes to climb the stairs and get to floor fifteen before they cut the surveillance in the halls. It will be turned off till someone notices, which hopefully will be longer than thirty minutes — we’ll try to get you as much time as we can,” Rita instructs, leading us to the entrance, then disappearing into the shadows with Mitch.
As we climb, all twelve of us work to prevent the sound of our footsteps from bouncing off the stairwell walls, but even the lightest shuffle travels up and around us. No one speaks, and I swear the pounding of my heart can be heard by everyone around me, and the thin sheen of perspiration covering my skin can be seen by all in the dim light.
When I was younger, my mom had a saying she would repeat to herself when fear gathered in her chest. “If you can dance with the demons and sing with the angels the devil will let you live. For you are able to do the one thing he could not.”
It seemed to calm her, but no one understood what it meant, and I never got to ask. My grandma said it had something to do with willpower and facing your fears. “If you can meet your demons and still sing of the good in life, your fears will lose their power and no longer possess the ability to drown you.” This saying has been playing on repeat ever since we got in the truck and has become louder as we climb the stairs. It’s more than fitting because today, my fears intend to suffocate me and laugh as they push my head underwater. We have no room for errors and can allow no hesitations on our way to get Harley. A minute could be the difference between a warm and cold body.
A timer beeps on Uri’s watch as we reach the fifteenth floor, signalling it’s time to split up. They go through the door to find the stairwell that will take them to the twenty-fifth. We continue up, heading to the seventeenth floor, to find the door that will lead us to the thirtieth.
The most daunting thing about this building is the way the stairs were designed. It’s not one continuous staircase going all the way up. They’re separated after the eighteenth floor, continuing at the ends of different halls. Some head up, some head down, and some skip two or five floors. It was most likely designed to slow down intruders, rather than for fire exits or anything like that.
The humidity in the air clings to my clothes and restricts my lungs as we move in twos through halls and up stairs. Tequila and I lead, her movements fast and noiseless, the gears in her head turning on overdrive.
The halls we run down are mostly empty. Asteroid said they’re mainly used by cleaners or low-level workers. He’s been right so far; we’ve only run into four Hunters who greeted us with respectful nods, accepting us without question.
“Left,” Finn whispers, running with the map Asteroid drew up for us. Finn doesn’t hold a gun, only medical supplies and his knives, though I made sure Rey had an extra in his pocket just in case.
We sprint down the hall reaching the final flight of stairs we must climb before we are on the same floor as the torture room. I feel sick — anticipation, fear and nerves fizzing and swelling in my stomach at the thought of seeing Harley, wondering what state I’ll find her in.
Tequila opens the door a foot, holding her breath as she cautiously peers around the edge, listening for footsteps, whispers, anything. Suddenly she pulls back, getting out of the way before the door has a chance to slam on her neck. I grab her arm as she stumbles back, her eyes wide with paralyzed fear. Before I can ask what the hell just happened, four Hunters burst from the stairwell, bearing rifles and gas masks.
Without hesitation, Buckey and Johnny open fire, taking out two of the Hunters, injuring the third and the fourth, who mistakenly stumbles in Rey’s direction. Rey pounces, somehow getting on the fourth Hunter’s back. I swear Rey’s fucking laughing as the Hunter lurches, slamming both of them into the wall, trying to rid Rey from his back. Rey’s unfazed by the impact as he takes his knife and jams it into the Hunter’s throat.
I turn back to the door, letting go of Tequila as the third Hunter grunts, releasing his gun as a bullet buries itself in his shoulder. He twists, somehow dodging the rest. The Hunter locks his eyes on Finn, then lunges towards him. I don’t have time to shoot. I spring forward, knocking the Hunter off course, slamming his head into the floor. He punches, hitting my shoulder and jaw, the pain radiating through my bones, only to be dulled by the adrenaline spreading through my muscles. I move to his back, wrapping my legs around his chest and pressing my fingers into his eyes. He screams, clawing at me as blood warms my fingers. I grip his head, and in one aggressive twist, I break his neck, and his screams cut off, his body falling limp.
“I can hear more coming,” Tequila hisses, closing the door of the stairs and attaching something to the handle. I can hear them too, not only coming from the stairs but from the way we came. We’ve been radio silent since we started up the stairs, so even if we wanted to call for backup — even if we could, no one would answer.
“If we go down this hall and take two lefts, there should be another stairwell that leads to the torture room,” Finn offers, helping me to my feet and moving us along. As we run, the approaching footsteps grow louder, drowning out my thoughts.
“Now would be a good time to set it off,” Rey says, covering his ears. Johnny does the same. Without question and before Tequila warns us, I cover mine too. She pulls something from her pocket and presses a button that triggers a popping noise. Then the hall fills with a series of high-pitch screeches that makes my vision tipsy. The sound only lasts a couple of seconds, but even that short time with my ears plugged is enough to make me stumble a couple times.
I shake my head, turning the corner, correcting my vision just in time to be greeted by five Hunters. For a second, they remain calm, nodding at us before seeing the blood spotting our faces. They run at us, not firing, most likely ordered to take us alive, but that doesn’t stop us. We take down two Hunters, their bodies twitching and their faces twisting into an expression I can only describe as inhuman. We miss the rest, everyone still slightly disoriented by the noise.
“Here,” Rey yells, heading into a room as the faint sound of footsteps begins to thunder in my ears, the threat stabbing my gut. None of us think to question his decision before filing in after him. We’re trapped either way. We may as well have a door between us.
“Help me move this,” Buckey says, pushing a large filing cabinet in front of the door, sliding it in place just as the pounding begins. Finn crouches down, covering his ears.
The room is dim, so I can only make out the outline of beakers and a metal table in the middle of the floor. I can tell by the way Rey is looking around, awestruck, that it must be a lab. Johnny smacks him across the head, bringing Rey back to reality.
“What do we do now?” Tequila asks, sliding something into her pocket. Her face is pale, and her sweat is now tinted a berry colour as her red hair begins to show. I toss her my hat, and with a terrified smile, she slides it on.
I crouch down, shaking my head, racking my brain for a simple solution. We can’t go out the windows or through the vents, and there’s no back door. There’s only one way out, and we’re running out of time.
I stand, straightening, checking my gun as I move to the door. I can count ten or so voices arguing on the other side, maybe more. I wave Buckey over, gesturing to the filing cabinet.
“Are you crazy, you can’t go out there, we’re outnumbered.” Tequila grabs my arm, pleading with me to think about this.
“Listen,” I hiss, pulling my arm away. “Either way we’re fucked. I’d rather die than be trapped here and taken in the end — and for every second we waste, the chances of Harley dying and J being left alone increase — if I have to, I’ll kill every single Hunter out there, by myself.” She looks at me, searching her brain for another solution, only to end up nodding when she finds none. Her understanding gets the rest of the gang to slowly gather around us. “Once we move this, the door will open, and they’ll stumble in. I don’t think they’re allowed to kill us right away, maybe not at all, so we already have the advantage,” I explain, watching as they nod.
Buckey and I get in position, everyone else pressing close to the wall, raising their guns and pointing to the place the Hunters will fall. “On three,” I whisper, pushing my fingers through my hair before pressing my palms to the cool metal. I watch the gang’s terrified faces transform into determination, the weight of their deaths clamping to my head and squeezing. I look to Buckey, who nods. “One...two...three.” We move the cabinet aside, watching as the door flies open.
Chapter 32
(Harley)
When Imperium cautiously releases me from my dream-filled stupor, I’m no longer in the cell. Mary’s not lying with her blanket pulled over her face. Levi’s not sleeping or watching over me. I’m in my custom-made room, designed just for me, for this day.
The chair I find myself in is slightly rusted and creaky. Wires twist around my ankles and stomach, holding me in place. It’s barbed wire; every time I move or breathe, the spikes dig further into my flesh. I don’t see why that’s needed when my handcuffs are chained to the table. I’m not going anywhere.
I lift my head to find a large camera positioned directly in front of me, the lens cap on, red light blinking. A thick cord runs out the door, moving past Luke, who is stationed in the corner of the room, a purple welt on his forehead and a silver bracelet locked around his wrist. He’s not looking at me, but I can see the scratchy redness of his eyes when he glances around the room. He doesn’t move when he hears my shifting body. He only taps the side of his ear, listening, whispering to the air.
“Luke?” I whisper, my ears ringing, dizziness flowing around my brain as hot blood drips down my stomach and ankles. Luke keeps his head down, shaking it slightly, warning me to stop, that they’re listening, watching.
The handle jiggles, and the door opens to let AC and JC in, both wearing all black, their hair greasy and slicked-back, ready for an audience.
“Happy birthday, Harley,” JC smiles, pressing his palms into the table while AC removes the camera lens. AC has a fresh cut on his lower lip, drops of blood falling to his chin. He looks scared, as though he’s seen a ghost.
“What’s that for?” I groan, my forehead aching as I look at them. I have a concussion, a goose egg somewhere on my head. That’s how they got me here without waking me.
They both smile as JC removes a small needle from his pocket, the liquid in it muddy.
“We are using you as an example of what will happen to those who go against us, even the ones made for power,” he says, pouring foul-smelling clear liquor down my arm, stinging my irritated skin.
“I did nothing to threaten you — except being born. You started this. I only wanted to save my brother. I didn’t even know what I was,” I snarl, twisting my hands against the metal.
If they hadn’t taken J, I might have gone my whole life without knowing about the rulers. The leaders made things worse for themselves. They brought me here. They put me in the position to learn more, to connect.
“Exactly. If you weren’t born, none of this would have had to happen,” he smiles, injecting the substance into my veins, causing the light blue lines to turn a darker shade as it mixes with my bloodstream, slithering toward my heart.
“I have a brother and a dad. The bloodline won’t end when you kill me,” I mumble, wishing I could keep my mouth shut for once.
“Yes, but after the injuries your brother sustained while in our care, it would be a miracle if he can even have kids — and if by some chance he survived your poorly planned rescue, can have kids, and if your dad is still alive, worse comes to worst, we just kill them,” AC laughs.
I stiffen, suddenly and sharply as a high-pitch scream slices through my head, sending my vision out of focus. My chest pulls inward. My fingers curl, the muddy liquid swirling through my brain, my lungs, igniting my soul. Then it stops, and all I feel is stiffness.
“What—”
“I call it liquid pain, I created it. It’s a more extreme version of what Maddick gave you,” JC says, letting the pinprick from the needle pool and dome — it doesn’t stop. The blood keeps coming until the surface tension breaks, the red running down to my elbow. I can no longer clot my own blood.
“Where is he?” I interrupt, not quite sure if I wish Maddick were here or if I’m glad he’s not.
“Not one for these types of events, never had the stomach for it. He’s probably in his stupid garden,” JC laughs tensely, moving beside the camera, glancing at the door, waiting for someone, maybe even relieved that his twin isn’t here. “Honestly, Harley, I might be so talented that the drug stops the soul rulers from talking to you altogether.”
“Fat fucking chance,” Bellum screams at him, her voice scratchy and strangled.
“Language,” Pulchritudo scolds.
“Shut the—”
I almost can’t stifle my laugh, but I manage to keep my face passive.
“The camera…” AC continues, cracking his knuckles, filling the silence with his obnoxious liquid voice. He talks as if water is pouring from his mouth, as if he’s drowning in his own saliva. “…will display your execution on the floating billboards throughout the cities and on the screens we have set up in the towns. Your friends in No Man’s Land might even be able to see some of it.” He removes the lens cap, looking for JC’s approving nod.
My heart sinks. It lives in my abdomen now, in an empty pit, filled with venomous spikes. I not only left them with no explanation, left them alone, but now they have to watch me die. J has to watch me die. Jimmy, the love of my life, has to watch me die. It will kill them.
“Did you figure out how to use my blood and bone marrow yet?” I ask, choking on the bile and fear dancing on my teeth.
“No, but we have enough samples not to need you anymore.”
“If you kill me, your soul will be taken in my place, you do know that, right? I’ll still be here threatening your power, and you’ll be dead — are you ready for that?” I exclaim, leaning into the barbs, letting the pain fuel me, not hold me back.
“I do, yes.” He stands straighter, clasping his hands behind his back. “That’s why I’m not participating. Someone else is very excited to be leading this.” JC nods toward the door, and when he does, I get the feeling that a part of him, even a part of AC, doesn’t want the person to come in. I don’t either.
An older man with a salt and pepper beard and greying hair hobbles in, using a cane to balance. He has freckled, wrinkled skin and round red scars scattered over his face, signs of his drug-driven life. His light eyes glare at me, almost changing colour every time he blinks, unable to decide what they want to be. “I think you’re familiar with our father, Boris — well, I guess you know him as Bob,” JC introduces.
My eyes widen, watching the man move in front of me. His transfermation, standing upright rather than slumped over my kitchen table, hung over from the drug and alcohol-filled parties, has changed his whole appearance.
“Miss me?” he gloats, his voice so deep and off-centre it makes my world spin.
In the many years he’s lived in my kitchen, I’ve never heard him speak or say anything to me at all. I never saw him move, except to watch my fights. I’ve never seen him as anything but a hopeless addict, not a retired leader. That day when I yelled at my mom, she told me there was so much I didn’t understand. She looked over at Bob for a second, terrified, silently warning me of the man who watched me for years. He tested my leadership by making me take on the responsibilities of the Warehouse.
“You bastard,” I spit, lurching toward him.
“Don’t worry, your mom’s fine, maybe a little heartbroken but fine. By the way, that line, ‘My mom died when my dad did,’” he mimics my voice, “Now that — that was a good touch.” He smiles, “Luke, get me a chair.” He snaps his fingers, not looking away from me.
