Chapter 30: Sound and Fury
GREY'S EYES MOVE to me, scanning over me, blue, hollow, and hungry. His voice is as rough and sharp as broken shells. "Yours, Jonas?" he asks. "This pretty little traitor?"
Jonas swallows. His fingers start to tremble, but he curls them into fists. "Yes," he says. His voice is almost level. "Let her live, and I will do anything you ever ask of me. I swear it."
Grey's thin lips press into a line as he regards Jonas sideways. "You are helpful," he says. "You gave me the Outpost. And now a welcome gift, too." His eyes narrow on me. "Bring her."
Two of the armed men move forward.
Jonas goes completely white, his eyes darting between Grey and me, and then scanning here and there through the small crowd of Grey's men. They fall on a pistol tucked into one of the men's waistbands. He doesn't have his a weapon. They've taken his gun.
I lean into the wall, trying to press myself further into it. There is nowhere to go.
Matt's arm slides around me and snatches me in front of him. He's not going to just let them have me. As thankful as I am for that, the gesture is useless. They have guns and we don't, and in only a moment they will pull me from his arms. This is my thinking, until his hands slip upward from my waist. Until his fingers slide through my hair and lace over my skull.
The men with the guns stiffen, realizing his intent. "Stop," and "freeze," they bark at him, jabbing their guns toward us. But I am in front of him now. To shoot him, they'll have to shoot me. And that will be OK for both of us.
Jonas has gone as still as a statue, his face a study in horror. He looks like I must have looked, when I saw the Sentry moving toward Oscar. His lips form the word "no".
"It's too bad," Matt whispers into my neck. "It was a good plan."
I close my eyes, let my body relax into him. I will not fight this. Ninety-nine.
Crack. The noise is small at first, contained in the near distance. It grows into a splintering tumble of debris as a building caves in on itself. Grey's men turn and look. Matt and I stare. The only one who is not looking is Jonas. He's running for me. By the time Grey's men realize what he's doing, the Sentry has already erupted through the near side of the building and is heading straight for them.
They scatter, fleeing into the smoke, but not all of them make it. The Sentry is a rampage of metal fury, snatching people off the ground, flinging them into the concrete. Jonas is only a few strides away from me when it turns toward him.
"No," I scream, launching myself at him. We collide in an embrace, but I'm spinning him around, placing myself in front of him. "No," I command the Sentry, whose mirrored gaze freezes on us. We gape up at it.
It lurches back into motion, reaching past me for Jonas.
"No." Matt's voice stops it only inches from us.
We stumble, regaining our balance. Jonas is clinging to me from behind, but his eyes have gone wide on Matt. I can feel his heart racing against my shoulder blades.
Matt points along the wall in the direction that Grey's men have retreated. "Go after them."
The Sentry turns and leaps away from us as though we never existed.
Matt and I exchange glances. He grins. "Not bad, Eden," he says. "Not bad."
Jonas has me by the shoulders and whirls me to face him, his fingers digging in to my arms. His eyes are full of questions, but he asks none of them, shaking me, instead.
I open my mouth to explain. To tell him what I had to do. To promise him it will be OK. But he lets go of me and starts running after the Sentry, toward the sound of renewed gunfire, crashes, and explosions.
"Jonas," I call after him. He doesn't stop. He doesn't even glance back.
I turn to look at Matt, but he's not there. No one is.
I rub my hands over my face, taking a deep breath. I want to be with Jonas, but the idea of going back into the fray fills me with unexplainable trepidation. I start walking, trying to convince myself to go a little faster. Weariness or reluctance— one of the two keeps my feet from moving at more than a steady walk. Every step feels like entering the gates of hell. The sky before me is blackened with the ash of our self-immolation.
I move away from the wall, into the streets, where I find Miranda. She's standing in the middle of an intersection looking toward the worst of the noise. Immobile.
I say her name and she glances over her shoulder. "Eden," she says. "Thank god."
I stop beside her and follow her gaze, though smoke blocks out everything else. The noises tell the story of battle. "Why won't the Sentries listen to me?" I demand.
Her worried glance gives all the answer I need.
After a moment, she says, uncertainly, "What should we do?"
"C'mon," I say, my feet moving forward, "I have to find Jonas."
She trails after me. "Jonas is probably smart enough to be hiding."
I shake my head. "He ran this way."
Her eyes widen in alarm. "You don't think he's... still fighting?"
I want to shake my head again, but why else would he have run toward the battle? Beside me, Miranda curses. Suddenly we're both jogging toward the chaos.
We make it as far as the next street before a Sentry appears, driving a crowd. People are screaming and running, falling down, trampling each other. The Sentry does not attack anyone outright, but stays on their heels, moving them onward. They swarm over us in an instant, and suddenly we've become part of the group. We struggle to stay upright in the mass of terrified bodies, and are knocked, slammed into, and swept down the street with the rest of them. Miranda grabs my hand and we cling to each other. Together, we are flung onward against our will.
I grasp her fingers tighter, preparing to pull her into a side alley as we pass. We make it into the opening, and freeze. Coming toward us is another herd of screaming people, and behind them, another Sentry. We back into the flow , and are quickly pummeled onward. They're rounding us all up.
We flee until we're swept into an even larger flow on an adjoining street. I'm so busy running, trying to stay on my feet, trying to hang on to Miranda, that I don't even notice where we are until we finally pool to a stop on the main street in front of the Rustler. The evening sun sinks into a gap between the looming smoke and the Outpost wall, bathing us in carmine tones and raising a jagged forest of shadows between us.
"Is this everyone?" Miranda cries above the roar. Her eyes search through the mass of faces. We stand back to back, circling, looking for our friends, but don't find them. All the rushing is coming to stillness. People are standing about, lost and frightened. Around us, in a ring, are the Sentries. The crowd splits into a small chasm as people push by. Elaina Sumter stumbles through, first, and then one of the brown-haired guys, though I still can't tell them apart. Behind them are two of Matt's men, with guns pointed into their backs. Matt's thugs shove their prisoners roughly toward the center of the group and force them to sit. They stand over them with guns ready. Within the next few moments, more are brought to join them. All faces I recognize from Jonas' rebellion. The other brown-haired guy. The red-headed man with the beard. All Jonas’ higher-ups. The people he surrounded himself with. The people he counted on to make things happen. Matt's men form a second circle around them, keeping everyone else at bay. At the edge of the ring, friends and family members push forward, but none of them dare to break the circle, or even to speak up.
The chasm the prisoner's were led through parts suddenly wider, to the sound of a struggle. Miranda and I work our way closer, though we're trapped on the other side of the circle. The crowd is too thick to get through. Across from us, people shift, sidestepping, trying to move away. In doing so, they reveal Jonas, being held by three of Matt's men. He's kicking, contorting, growling, trying to escape. His face is twisted into a grimace of rage, teeth bared. Matt's men are having trouble keeping hold of him, though between the three of them, he has little chance of get
ting free. One of them lets go, raises his rifle, and slams the butt end into Jonas' head. He staggers and falls to the ground. They stand over him.
"Stop, stop," Miranda is saying. She's clinging to me, trying to hold me back. I'm screaming Jonas' name.
"He's OK," she says. "Look."
He pushes himself to sitting, his head hanging. Blood runs down the side of his face, dripping onto his lap. He winces, and moves to get up, but one of the men nudges him with his boot. He looks up into the firing end of the gun. He stays down.
"He's bleeding," I whisper, my voice sticking in my throat. I'm trembling violently. "He's not OK."
"He is," Miranda says. She directs me toward the circle, having already realized what I have not. "He's not there."
I stare into the circle, where Matt's men have sat their prisoners in a neat line.
"Neither is Apollon," Miranda says quietly. I glance at her and she's scanning the crowd.
I search through the faces yet again. For Apollon. For Neveah. The heaviness of everything pulls down inside me, gravity tugging my vital organs toward the earth's center. My fingers grip Miranda's arm, fighting the unsteadiness. "I don't..." I say, and have to clear my throat, "... I don't see them...."
She swallows, her face grave, and keeps looking. Everyone is here. If they are not here, are they dead?
Any remaining murmurs die down suddenly as Matt walks past Jonas toward the circle. His stride is effortless, confident, his pistol hanging easily in his left hand as he walks. His men step aside and let him into the circle. He raises his pistol to his cheek, and stands for a moment regarding the line of seven prisoners. His face— sometimes so animate— has gone to stone, his eyes moving over them with the slow grace of a predator.
My fingers press deeper into Miranda's arm, then let go. I have to push myself off to get moving. I shove Matt's men aside and stumble into the circle. The same calmness that took me in battle descends again now as he moves only his eyes to look at me.
"We had a deal," I say, and my voice is surprisingly level. "No retaliation."
"Against your friends," Matt says quietly. "These are not your friends." He turns to the crowd, and all at once, he's animate again, but not telling jokes, not courting his subjects. He's the angry god, come back for vengeance. His wrath pours from the bowls of his eyes. From his mouth. "These are my enemies," he shouts, his voice carrying through the assemblage. He turns to them— to his people— pacing, gesturing with the long barrel of his revolver. "They have conspired against me. Some of you have conspired against me. Put everyone— all of us— at risk. Well, you... have... failed. Grey, and his retreating army have failed." He gestures off at the horizon, a simple dismissal of his almost-conqueror. Then his gaze sweeps over them, looking them in the eye, one by one. "If you set yourself against me, you will always fail. Because this is what happens to my enemies." He turns, and places the barrel of the gun against the head of his nearest prisoner. The redheaded man closes his eyes, his face draining to white.
"Matt," I manage. "You don't have to do this. Please. Give me the gun." I reach out as I move toward him.
He pulls the trigger.
Red and grey spatters the ground. The body falls. I stand rigid and shaking, staring at the aftermath, as he moves to his next victim. He does it quickly, stepping around me to move down the line. One by one. He has fired six shots, and paused to reload, before I can manage to make myself turn. My shoulders, my ribs, my stomach muscles, are all pulled inward on myself, making it hard to move or breathe. I feel the need to scream, to cry, but not a single tear nor squeak of voice comes forward to protest the desolation before me.
Matt slides the single bullet into the chamber. His hands are steady. He flips it closed, and places the barrel end against Elaina Sumter’s skull. She looks up at him through teary, blue eyes, her pretty face scrunched into an ugly mask of agony, her chin wrinkled and quivering. A whimper begins to work its way up her throat. The bullet silences it. She falls to the ground. Her blood, the debris of her skull, mingles with that of the others. We stand for a moment in utter silence.
I look down at the blood that is pooling around my feet. Fingers reach toward me to engulf the place where I am standing. My body is not just shaking, but vibrating. All the sensations of dizziness, and sickness, and terror focus inward, sharpening to a point, until all I am aware of is my soul draining out through my feet. I close my eyes and lock my knees, afraid of falling. I am skewered on a pillar of ice. To move is to awaken the intensity of the coldness and pain.
Matt presses the gun into my hand with both of his own, startling me. I gaze at him wide-eyed.
"You wanted this," he says. "It's all yours."
I let out a breath, shivering from my core outward.
He turns to the silent crowd and raises both arms in victory. "Time to celebrate! Drinks for everyone. And food."
This is something that generates a return cheer even in the midst of the agony we've just witnessed. Some of his men move off, presumably to break into Matt's private stash. The rest of them move around him— move around us— as he hooks his arm around my neck and pulls me toward the Rustler.
I walk with him, because I don't have it in me to resist. The sun, behind us, dips below the horizon, the last of its orange light masked in smoke. Matt and I track black, bloody footprints across the pavement. At the door, I glance back at them, and I can't tell which are his, and which are mine.
His arm squeezes me closer, and he smiles down on me, a strange mix of relief, and joy, and sympathy. "Let's celebrate," he whispers, just for me this time.
I move toward the bar. There is only one thing I have to celebrate. What Matt has not yet figured out.
End of Book One
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