Shards and Ashes

  I try not to gag. “What is that?”

  “The smell of bodies rotting.”

  “Where is it coming from?” I whisper.

  He nods into the darkness. “The old labs where the scientists worked before they built the Dome. The place where they figured out how people could walk in the sun again.” His tone is sarcastic. We both know no one can walk in the sun. Everyone in Burn 3 is hiding, above and belowground. “The labs are abandoned now. At least, they’re supposed to be.”

  The hair rises on the back of my neck. “Who’s in there?”

  He stops, the edges of his coat floating in the ankle-deep water. “You really don’t know what they’re doing down here, do you?” His expression is a twisted mixture of terror and wonder, as if he can’t fathom the idea.

  I shake my head, afraid to answer.

  “They’re stealing kids so they can sell them for parts.”

  I couldn’t have heard him right. I want to run and pretend this guy inhaled too much burning plastic—that everything he’s told me is the delusion of a rotted mind. Anything to avoid asking the next question I know I have to ask. “What kind of parts?”

  He doesn’t hesitate. “Why do you think they call them Skinners?”

  The ground slides out from under me, and I stagger.

  My sister . . .

  He reaches out and grabs my elbow to steady me. “If they have your sister and she looks the way you say, we have to hurry.”

  The words turn over in my mind, but I can’t make sense of them. There is only one word caught in the tangled threads of my thoughts.

  Skinner.

  I push past it, forcing myself to hear what this stranger is saying. “If she looks what way?”

  “Light-haired,” he says. “It’s rare. I haven’t seen someone with light hair since—” He stops, his expression defeated. “Rare things are always worth more money to the people doing the selling. And the ones buying.”

  He is talking about Sky like she is a bottle of clean water or a book—an object to be bought and sold at one of the stalls in the underground market. He doesn’t know how kind she is—the way she shares her food packets with the poorer children in the domicile, though she never has enough to eat herself. The way she pretends the life we have now is equal to the one we had when my father was alive to protect us. The way she never doubts me, even when I doubt myself.

  I look at the man I’m following blindly. “What’s your name?”

  Suddenly, I want to know. I am trusting him with my sister’s life, which is worth much more to me than my own.

  He strikes the flint on the lighter again, and the flame casts a strange glow over his face. “A name is a way to make a claim. No one can claim me.”

  I watch the familiar paranoia creep into his features. He reminds me of my father again. “A name is also the way you claim your friends.”

  He turns his back on me and disappears into the darkness. “I don’t need any friends.”

  I follow the echo of his footsteps in silence, hoping with each step that we are getting closer to Sky. I try to ignore the grim reality—that if I find her and this man is telling the truth, she won’t be alone.

  I need to know more about the Skinners—these monsters kidnapping children to sell their skin. For what? I didn’t even know.

  “What—” I almost can’t ask. “What are they doing with their skin?”

  He grabs my arm and pulls me against the wall. There are voices in the distance, but they’re too far away to make out anything intelligible. “Shh. The tunnels echo.”

  My heart bangs against my ribs, and I try not to make a sound while he stares down the black hole.

  He pushes his long, greasy hair out of his face. “They sell the good skin for grafts.”

  “Grafts?” I’ve never heard the word before.

  He rubs his good eye, and I notice how thin his arm is under the long coat. I wonder when he ate last. My father forgot to eat sometimes. He said he lost his sense of taste and smell after the Evacuation, and everything tasted like cardboard—whatever that was.

  “You can replace burned skin with new skin. At least a doctor can. They call it a skin graft. Works better than those expensive salves,” he says. “And people say it looks almost as good as the skin you were born with.”

  It sounds barbaric and painful. “Who would do something like that?”

  He laughs, the sound laced with bitterness. “Wealthy people who don’t want to look like they’ve been burned like the rest of us.”

  “They’re willing to kill kids to get rid of their burns?” The Skinners aren’t the only monsters.

  “Maybe they don’t ask questions about where it comes from. Or maybe they do. People are capable of all kinds of evil.” He peers down the tunnel again.

  “Why doesn’t someone stop them?” I realize how accusatory it sounds, but I don’t care.

  “The Skinners run things down in the Abyss. People that question them end up dead—along with their friends, their families, in some cases whole tunnels full of their neighbors. There’s no Protectorate down here. The Skinners are the law. No one can touch them.”

  I can see the shame hiding in his eyes.

  He swallows hard. “Time to go.”

  We follow the muffled sounds until we reach the mouth of the tunnel. The passage in front of us looks more like a cavern than a sewage tunnel. A gray metal building stands a few yards away, artificial light illuminating the barred windows. This place looks more like a prison than a laboratory.

  The man who refuses to tell me his name pulls a gun from the back of his waistband. It’s old, and it doesn’t resemble the weapons protectorate officers carry.

  He notices me staring. “It’s a semiautomatic, from the days before the Burn.” He slides a cartridge out of the bottom. “This thing doesn’t shoot fire. These are hollow-tip rounds. They can kill you in the blink of an eye.”

  “Do I need one of those?”

  “Only have one,” he whispers. “Guess that means I’m going first.”

  He edges his way closer as shadows move in front of the windows. I realize he’s risking his life to help me, and I wonder why.

  But there’s no time. He’s already at the door using something to pick the lock. I rush to catch up, my mind racing.

  How many Skinners are inside? Do we stand a chance against the kind of people who cut the skin off children?

  He grabs my outercoat, his voice low. “When we get in there, we’ll only have a few minutes.” He nods at the door. “That’s the surgical room. Run past and stay to the right. They keep the kids in a box in the back. If they’re still here.”

  A box?

  Bile rises in my throat, but I force it back down.

  “What if it’s locked?” I try not to picture my sister trapped in a box like an animal.

  He hands me a thin piece of metal. “Slip this in the lock and jiggle it around until you hear a click. Then get the kids out of here.”

  “What if they aren’t there?”

  “If they’re still alive, they will be.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been here before.” It’s the last thing he says before he pops the lock.

  We step inside and I freeze. Metal tables and trays of crude instruments covered in dry blood dominate the room. A dirty pole with a plastic bag suspended from it looms in the corner. I don’t want to think about what they do in here.

  Was Sky in here?

  My stomach convulses.

  “Go,” he hisses at me, pointing to the door at the end of the room.

  I obey and rush to the dark corridor on the other side. I stay to the right like he told me, working my way to the far side of the building. I hear muffled voices in other rooms, but I can’t stop or think about what the Skinners will do to me if they catch me.

  Instead I think about Sky. I pretend she’s only a few feet away and all I have to do is get there.

  The corridor is dimly lit, but I s
ee the rectangular metal container at the end. It looks like a rusted shipping container from a factory. The box.

  When I get closer, I see the slats along the sides of the metal. The stench of sweat is everywhere, and it fills me with hope. If the kids were dead, the odor would be different. But it could also be the lingering scent of children who are no longer inside. . . .

  I slip the thin piece of metal in the lock and move it around.

  Nothings happens.

  I try again. This time I hear the pop, and I pull the door open, anticipating the worst.

  Nothing could’ve prepared me for what I find inside.

  Eight or ten children huddle together in the corner. Most of them look about Sky’s age, but some are older. They’re filthy, dressed in torn hospital gowns. But I know if I make it out of this place alive, it’s the look in their eyes that will haunt me forever—complete and utter terror.

  There’s nothing else left.

  I run toward them, trying to find my sister in the huddle. “Sky?”

  A soft sound pushes its way forward from the back of the group. “Phoenix?”

  I try to move the other children out of the way so I can find her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I promise them.

  I see a stripe of blond hair.

  Sky looks up at me, her face as tormented as the others. Her eyes look less blue somehow. I gather her into my arms. “I’m going to get you out of here. All of you.”

  Flashes of hope pass across their faces, though some of them seem too weak to react.

  “That’s a big promise for a girl who’s in way over her head.”

  My neck snaps back to the door.

  A huge man stands in the doorway. His face is noticeably lighter than his hands. He’s probably used the skin of some helpless child to repair his own. But there are other thin scars—most likely made by knives—running down his neck. His brown outercoat is crusted in dry blood, and he’s holding a Protectorate-issue firearm.

  I pull Sky to her feet and shove her behind me. “I—I came for my sister.”

  The man stares over my shoulder at Sky. “She’s not going anywhere. We’ll get a lot for her skin. Those blue eyes too.” I shudder, and he looks me over. “Yours not so much. But if your legs are clean, you’ll be worth skinning.”

  He steps into the small container, so close I can almost reach out and touch him. Another man steps inside behind him, holding an identical weapon. He moves to the corner, covering me from a different angle.

  “I’ll stay. Just let my sister go.”

  Both men laugh, and I want to kill them.

  “I say you let them all go,” a familiar voice calls from the corridor. His expression is fierce, the patch covering his missing eye. He’s pointing his gun at the man doing the talking.

  “Ransom. I was wondering when you’d come back,” the man in the bloodstained outercoat says. “Looking for work?”

  “I had no idea what you were doing down here, Erik,” Ransom, the man who refused to tell me his name, responds.

  Erik laughs. “The lies we tell ourselves.”

  “You said we were doing experiments to help burn victims.”

  The corner of Erik’s mouth lifts. “Technically, it was true.”

  Ransom’s expression hardens even more. “Today it’s going to get you killed if you don’t let these kids go.”

  Erik raises an eyebrow and points his weapon at Ransom. “You shouldn’t have come back. I warned you, didn’t I? And look what it cost you last time.”

  Last time.

  “I should’ve killed you then.” Ransom winces and his jaw tightens.

  “Except you couldn’t.” Erik glances at the guy in the other corner of the container. “The odds have never been in your favor.”

  Ransom’s grip on the gun tightens. “I’ll say it one more time. Let them go.”

  “No one’s going anywhere. Think you can point that relic at me and I’ll hand over the kids?” Erik’s eyes narrow. “I’m gonna burn the skin off your bones. Then I’ll take your other eye and sell it to the lowest bidder.”

  The man in the corner laughs. “Maybe we should give it away.”

  Ransom examines the outdated gun in his hand. “This thing is my good luck charm. But I did bring some other relics with me.”

  Ransom opens his outercoat, revealing a black vest covered in bricks of plastic that look like putty. He raises his free hand, holding some kind of switch attached to the vest. “Remember C-4, Erik? It’s old, but you used it to blow up plenty of tunnels down here.”

  I remember when Ransom disappeared behind the screen in his shack. He must have put the vest on then.

  The kids start crying.

  “Why now, Ransom?” Erik taunts. “You could’ve come back here a million times. Is your mind finally that far gone?”

  Ransom glances in my direction, but he’s not looking at me.

  He’s staring at the wisp of tangled blond hair peeking out from behind me. Just like the blond boy’s hair in the photo on his wall.

  “I’m doing this for my son. For Alex. You’re not taking him again.”

  I realize he’s referring to Sky, and I’m not sure if it’s the delusions talking or if he means it symbolically.

  Erik’s expression changes. He realizes he’s not going to be able to scare Ransom. Right now, Ransom is the most terrifying person in the room. And—judging by whatever he has strapped to his chest—the most dangerous.

  “You have ten seconds to let them go before I start counting. If you do, I might let you live. But I’m blowing this place either way.”

  Ransom’s lying. He’s going to kill them. I can tell by the way he looks almost happy.

  Erik nods at the other man. “Turn them loose.”

  I grab Sky’s hand and help up some of the children. They look dazed, as if they aren’t really sure what’s happening. The ones with bandages on their arms lean against the stronger children as we inch our way between the men locked in a standoff.

  I stop in the doorway and look at Ransom—the man who saved my sister and all the other children stumbling down the corridor now.

  The man who’s half crazy and all hero.

  “Thank you.”

  He nods. “Thanks for reminding me there’s always a way to right a wrong. Now get out of here.”

  We run through the passage and the sadistic surgical room, into the mouth of the tunnel that led me here. We’re only a few yards away when the deafening sound of the explosion hits.

  The concrete around us rumbles, and I can see the fire consuming the building in the distance.

  For a moment, I can’t move. I stare at the flames that keep us locked in the shadow of a life only some people remember. Fire has always represented pain and sorrow for me. A sad sort of imprisonment none of us can escape.

  Today, it represents something else.

  Freedom.

  A tiny girl with knotted curls is sobbing. “I don’t know how to find my way home.”

  A boy with dark-brown eyes glances around. “Me either.”

  Sky squeezes my hand and looks up at me, her eyes the shade of blue I remember. “My sister knows the way.”

  I study their tear-streaked faces and I think about my father. The way he led so many down here to safety; the way I’m about to lead only a few back up now. I think about the price he paid for it, and what he said to me the last time I saw him.

  Be brave, Phoenix.

  Today I was braver than I ever believed I could be.

  Today I changed things.

  Sky is still staring up at me. “You know the way, don’t you, Phoenix?”

  For the first time, I know I do.

  Love Is a Choice

  by Beth Revis

  I DON’T WANT to kill him, but I will if I have to.

  A smooth plastic bottle rests in my right pocket. Inside are three pills. Only three. I have to get more. It’s as simple as that. I have to get more. Without the pills, my mind will be contaminate
d by the drug in the water used to control the populace. Phydus will make me acquiesce to Eldest’s rule. It will make me give up.

  I grip the knife in my left pocket. It’s crudely made from a scrap of metal I found near my hiding place, but it will do what I need it to do. It will get me the pills I need.

  I run both hands through my tangled, dirty hair, yanking against the matted knots. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. But what choice has Eldest left me? I used to get one pill a day, like clockwork. That pill protected me from the drugged waters that are piped throughout the ship, the chemicals that make nearly everyone else aboard Godspeed a mindless minion of Eldest. When I started to question Eldest, though, when I started using this brain of mine that had been sheltered so long by the daily blue-and-white pills . . . that’s when Eldest tried to have me killed.

  The only reason I escaped is because Doc didn’t want to be responsible for killing a kid. I’m not that much of a kid. Practically a man. Nineteen. Doc might have let me go then, to fake my death and try hiding out in a ship that’s too small to hide anything forever, but if I don’t get more pills, I might as well give myself up to Eldest now.

  I take a deep breath. I’ve been hiding in the walls of the ship for so long that I have almost forgotten the scent of dirt and grass. I had not known before how the stench of metal and dust had woven into my very bones until the clean air purged me. This is the largest level of the ship, the easiest level to hide in. Ten square miles of farmland with a city in the distance, all surrounded by metal walls painted blue to simulate a sky none of us have ever seen. One day Godspeed will land on the new planet, and we’ll get a real sky.

  But until then . . .

  I reach into my pocket and clench the knife in my fist.

  I keep close to the wall. I can’t afford to be seen here. I can’t afford to be seen anywhere.

  I creep up to the Recorder Hall, a giant brick building that houses all the records of Sol-Earth: literature, history, science, all written before the ship launched, most of it before the authors even thought launching a ship across the universe was possible. The Hall is empty now—no more students, only an ancient old man to wander among the ancient old texts.