It makes her want to stop, to freeze, to pretend to be a statue with no brain, no heart, and no knowledge of the chaotic world swirling around her.
For once, she manages to slam her teeth shut against one of her impulses. Instead she focuses on Zoran’s grim expression, which glows from the face of the watch around her wrist. She starts down the stairs, watching as Zoran’s image is replaced by the face that her sons share. They call to her and somehow she knows she has to keep moving if she wants to answer them.
Everything goes eerily quiet, just the shuffle of feet—even the alarm stops sounding—until there’s a strange sound. A crack. The sound is distant, like someone breaking a pencil with their bare hands. More pencils are snapped in half—crackcrackcrackcrack!
“Gunshots!” someone yells, and Janice knows they’re right. She’s heard them before, when the devil, Corrigan Mars, fired at her husband. She didn’t recognize the sound right away, because this time they sound much further away, with walls and stairs and space between her and them.
The people start moving faster, pushing harder, banging into each other like particles in an atom blender. Someone elbows her from behind, and if not for the impenetrable wall of human flesh in front of her, she would’ve flown down the stairs.
Crushed and mangled, she thinks. Crushed and beaten and torn and smashed and mangled. She starts laughing at her own thoughts, and she knows it sounds crazy but can’t seem to stop. All those words describe the situation they’re in; but more than that, they describe the whole of her life. Her family is a mangled mess of history, emotion, lies and sadness. With her husband gone, she’s the one who’s supposed to hold them all together.
And that thought makes her laugh hysterically, all the way to the bottom, down hundreds of steps, around dozens of bends, past a number of doors where more and more people flow into the stairwell. People stare at her, gape at her, gawk at her, and a razor-thin barrier of empty space forms around her. No one pushes her. No one touches her. No one bothers her.
And she just laughs.
She doesn’t stop until they reach the bottom and Luce grabs her hand. Her throat is sore from laughing for so long, so she closes her lips and tucks her tongue firmly against the inside of her left cheek. It makes her skin bulge out, which she can see from the corner of her eye. If she can’t laugh to make people stay away from her, maybe she can look weird. At least that’s her thought process, and it seems to work for a while, until they’re forced to stop behind an immovable mass of shouting people. Angry people. Scared people.
Open up! some of them are screaming.
Let us in!
Damn you!
There’s hollow pounding and cursing in front of them, and the crack of gunshots drifting down the steps behind them. From time to time the ground rumbles, shaking dust from the ceiling and walls, which crack and splinter. Her eyes burn because she stops blinking, even when the dust goes straight into them. She thinks maybe her eyelids have fallen off. A giggle slips out at the thought, but she stifles it because her throat still hurts. Jams her tongue back in her cheek—the opposite side this time.
She forgets about her tongue and her maybe-fallen-off eyelids when there’s a yawning groan. “It’s opening!” someone shouts.
Hinges squeal and groan and then the mob pushes forward again. Janice cranes her neck when they pass through a huge doorway. The way the door had groaned, she expected it to have teeth around the edges. She’s somewhat disappointed when it’s nothing more than a smooth metal hole leading to yet another staircase.
Down the staircase to another door, which is already standing open.
Pushing to her tiptoes to see past the bobbing heads.
Seeing murky faces and beds and surprised eyes and…there!
She sees them. She sees her boys. Benson and Harrison, off to the side, standing with Jarrod and that other Slip, Destiny.
They spot her and Luce and they shout something, pointing at them. Janice tries to push through the crowd, but then there’s a massive BOOM! behind them and Janice is thrown to the floor, Luce tumbling overtop of her.
Janice feels a burst of heat swarm overhead, a tumultuous flash of red and orange, pouring through the corridor and into the room with her boys, where it disappears in a cloud of smoke.
There’s wetness on her arms, but she can’t see through the haze. She hears moans and groans and sobbing, but she can’t see through the haze. Luce feels like dead weight on top of her, but she can’t see through the haze. Until…
The smoke starts to clear, as if driven away by the ratatatatats of the gunshots nipping at their heels.
She sees a hand on the floor, its fingers outstretched, reaching for her. Reaching for it, she relishes the zing of skin-on-skin contact when her fingertips brush against the hand. She squeezes it, but the hand doesn’t squeeze back. She pulls, and the hand comes toward her, leading an arm, and then…nothing.
That’s when she sees the wetness on her skin, splatters of crimson. They’re on the floor, too. They’re on the hand she’s holding, the hand and arm that aren’t connected to anything, severed from its body in a ragged stump that’s leaking blood.
Choking, she throws down the hand only to find other body parts strewn around her. Squirming, she tries to swim away, hearing a moan from close by, and then someone hiss, “What happened?”
It’s Luce, so near that it’s almost like they’re the same person.
“Boom and fire and blood,” Janice says, surprised to hear her own voice. She didn’t mean to speak.
“Yes,” Luce says. “An explosion.”
Janice remembers her boys. “Benson, Harrison,” she says.
“I saw them, too,” Luce says. “We have to get through. Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
Gripping each other, they stagger to their feet. Other survivors are doing the same, struggling to hurry toward the door to the big room with all the people and her boys and—
Jarrod.
His voice rises above the others, practically screaming, a command that’s as powerful as it is frightening. “Close the doors!” he shouts into a device held tightly to his lips. A radio. “Close them now!”
“Oh God,” Luce says, even as Janice sees Harrison try to grab the radio from Jarrod’s hand.
Benson’s eyes meet hers across the hazy space. His mouth forms a single word: “Go!”
Behind her, Janice hears shouts and running feet; she hears the chatter of gunfire. In front of her she sees bullets sparking on metal; she sees Benson and Harrison, the entirety of her life in a single image, burning and smoldering into her memory.
From the upper edge of her vision, she sees the bottom of the door start to quiver, as if preparing to close.
Luce shouts something unintelligible and pushes her forward just as the door drops from above, like an executioner’s scythe. And then she’s inside, the door slamming behind her, muffling the tinny sound of bullets ringing off metal.
There’s pressure on top of her, smashing her tight against the floor, which is cold to the touch. Twisting her head, she lets out a breath when she sees it’s just Luce, her eyes closed, her mouth open.
It’s not until she hears Benson’s scream that she realizes something’s not right.
Luce would almost look like she was sleeping, if not for the curling trickle of red from the corner of her lips.
~~~
Each unauthorized birth costs our country thousands of dollars
of resources desperately needed for our legal citizens to survive.
So we ask you: Is it worth it?
Stopping unauthorized births before they happen saves lives.
If you’re considering an unauthorized birth, talk to someone.
All calls made to the UnBee hotline are anonymous.
This advertisement paid for by the Department of Population Control.
Calls may be traced and population control measures taken, including fines and punishment equal to future crimes.
PART 2: GR
IPPED
Chapter Sixteen
The door is shuddering with each hammer blow, but Benson is numb to the sound. He sees people shouting, their mouths forming giant, black Os, but they might as well be yelling in a soundproof box.
Because he saw Check and Rod and Gonzo come through the door; saw his mom get pushed through by Luce, saved by Luce; saw Luce tumble after her; saw the bullets ripping through her body, red spots of paint against her white shirt, smudged with dirt and ash.
Jarrod tries to grab his arm but Harrison punches the Lifer leader in the face, rocking him back, and the twins charge toward the entrance, which is still shaking as someone tries to smash their way through the iron door.
Harrison dives to the floor to attend to their mother, checking her for injuries, speaking to her quickly in words Benson can’t hear.
Benson falls to his knees and cradles Luce’s head in his arms, trembling fingers feeling her carotid artery for a pulse.
There’s so much blood, a pool of it beneath her body.
And yet, there it is. A pulse, extremely faint and weakening by the second. “Luce,” Benson says, his voice a rough sandpaper whisper. His hearing is back, his own voice seeming to cut through the haze in his brain. Gently, he slaps her face. “Luce,” he says again, tears springing from his eyes.
Her dazzling blue eyes flutter open and seem to look past him; but then, as if focusing, slowly meet his. “Hi,” she says, her voice weakly sliding over her dry lips, red with blood.
“Oh, Luce,” Benson says, hot tears painting his cheeks.
“Your mom,” she says.
“You saved her,” Benson says.
“I think I got hit,” Luce says. “But it doesn’t hurt.”
That scares Benson more than anything. She should be in excruciating pain. Her numbness can’t be a good sign. Her body’s in shock.
“I’m going to find the wounds and put pressure on them,” Benson says.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Harrison says, helping their mother to her feet.
“Luce is coming, right?” Janice says. “She’s my guardian angel. She’s been watching over me.”
“Take Mom,” Benson says to Harrison. “I’ll follow after.”
Harrison glances at the door, which has just received another blow, this one stronger than the previous ones. A small portion of the metal bulges inward, in the shape of…a fist?
“Hurry,” Harrison says, swinging their mother into his arms and striding away.
“Go,” Luce says.
“No,” Benson says, moisture dripping from his chin and onto Luce’s face.
“Don’t cry,” she says. She lifts a hand to wipe away his tears. “Just hold me.”
“Luce, I—”
“Please,” she says.
God, no, Benson thinks. Please, God, please. Not her. Pick someone else. Pick. Me.
Her arms reach for him and he leans closer, letting them wrap around his neck. She tries to pull him in, but she doesn’t have the strength. The strongest person he knows doesn’t have the strength.
Slowly, he presses himself against her. She doesn’t even flinch. It’s the most he’s ever been able to touch her without conjuring up nightmares from her past.
“Go,” she says again. “Live every day for the both of us. Find where you belong. Be happy.”
Benson chokes out a sob. “No, not now. You’re a survivor, Luce. You’ve been through so much and always made it. Don’t leave me. Please.”
Something powerful slams into the door from the other side, but Benson doesn’t even glance at it, his eyes locked on Luce’s startlingly beautiful face.
“Benson,” Luce says. “Find Geoffrey and take care of him. I love you.” She closes her eyes and her arms drop away to her sides and her body goes still.
And Benson clutches her to him and cries and cries and cries, saying “I love you,” over and over and over again, until Harrison and Check come to pull him away from her. He fights them, tooth and nail, but they manage to subdue his kicking legs and thrashing arms, dragging him away from the area near the door, which is empty save for Luce’s lone, unmoving body.
The rest of the dead are on the other side of the door, along with whatever is pounding its fists against the metal barrier.
~~~
Harrison’s afraid for his twin. It’s like something has snapped in him, sucking the light out of his eyes and the energy out of his body. Luce’s death seemed to kill something inside him.
But he can’t think about that. Not now. Not when his family still needs him to be the strong one.
Jarrod, the area around his left eye blossoming with various shades of purple and blue (guilty as charged, Harrison thinks), is ushering the surviving Lifers and Slips toward a door in the back, which opens to reveal a rocky tunnel. Of course there would be a secondary escape route, Harrison thinks.
He’s about to shepherd Benson and his mother in that direction, when gunfire chirps from the tunnel. The first escapers are cut down by the bullets, likely dead before even hitting the floor.
“Shut the rear door!” Jarrod shouts, and a moment later the door slams closed with an echoing finality.
They’re trapped, Harrison realizes. Protected by the doors, for now anyway, but trapped.
Panic sets in quickly, as the masses shrink toward one of the walls, as far away from the two doors as possible, shouting and screaming and aiming their guns back and forth.
Harrison’s about to tell them to put their guns down before someone gets shot, but Jarrod is on top of it, a natural leader even in the direst of circumstances. “Silence!” he shouts, his voice reverberating around the cavernous space. The people listen, their voices fading away like moonlight under the rising sun. Without him commanding it, the tips of their guns drop to the floor. “If you want to survive, you must remain calm,” he says, lowering his voice.
“This is my fault,” a voice says from behind Harrison. He turns to find Destiny, her skates hovering just above the floor. Her dark face is as blank as an empty void. Her hands are clasped together, her fingers running over each other. Her bottom lip is quivering.
Harrison says, “No. It’s not. You didn’t do the killing.”
Jarrod’s voice cuts through the brief silence. “Those in the Lifer guard, split into two equal squads and protect the doors. Prop up anything you can get your hands on in front of them. Slips and Lifer families, to the center of the room.”
“But I brought the killers here,” Destiny says. Seeming to notice her fidgeting hands, she drops them to her sides, where they hang like lifeless vines, all strength sapped from them.
“You couldn’t know that,” Harrison says.
“I should have.”
“But you couldn’t.” He takes a step toward her as the first tear rolls down her cheek.
“Luce,” Destiny says.
“They killed her. Pop Con,” Harrison says. “Not. You.” Another step.
“I need to be on the front lines,” Destiny says. “I need to be the one to die first, to give everyone else a chance.” She starts to head toward where the guards are carrying beds and chairs to the doors, piling them up.
Harrison reaches out and grabs her arm. “I need you to help me with my mom,” he says truthfully. “I need to help my brother, and she can’t be alone during something like this.”
“I—okay,” she says. “But if the door is breached, I have to fight.”
“The door won’t be breached,” Harrison says, and this time it’s a lie. He searches the floor. Rod and Gonzo are helping push stuff against the doors. Check is sitting next to Benson, his arm around his shoulders. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, his mother has removed her shoes and is looking inside them. “Can you just sit with her, talk to her?” Harrison asks Destiny.
“Yes,” she says. She skates over and plops down beside Janice, offering her own skates for Janice to look inside.
Harrison starts toward his brother, but stops when he sees Benson res
pond to Check. They’re…talking. He’s an idiot. Why would his brother need him? They’ve only known each other for about two minutes, whereas Benson and Check go back many years. Benson needs a friend, not a stranger who happens to be his brother.
Instead, Harrison approaches Jarrod, who is shouting orders to his men and women. He can’t help but to be impressed. He’s taken a chaotic situation and organized it. The Lifer leader has given them a fighting chance. “Nice right hook,” Jarrod says without looking at him.
“Seems to have knocked some sense into you,” Harrison says, unwilling to apologize. He’d hit him again in the same situation. “So what’s the plan?”
“We wait until they break through and then we fight,” Jarrod says.
“That’s the plan?” Harrison says incredulously.
“You got a better one?”
“We don’t even know how many of them there are. They’ve got explosives and automatic weapons. All we’ve got is a huge cavern that’s about to become our collective coffin.”
Jarrod finally looks at him, glaring. “You think I don’t know all that? This is my life’s work. Everything that has ever mattered to me, about to go up in smoke, the ash sprinkled into a river of blood. So yes, Harrison Kelly, I will fight to the bitter end, until I’ve taken my very last breath. What about you? Will you stand and fight or cower in the corner?”
Harrison’s eyebrows are raised. He didn’t expect the sort of passionate response he got. “You obviously don’t know me very well. I don’t cower. But your plan still licks bots. How does the air get down here?”
Jarrod blinks. He looks up. “Through the vents.”
Harrison chews his lip, gazing at the metal vent halfway up the wall. Too small and too high. They’d be lucky if they could evacuate a handful of people that way. There’s got to be another way.
“There is another way out,” Jarrod says. “But it’s a last resort.”
“I think we’re at that point,” Harrison says. He can see the regret in Jarrod’s eyes. This man is loath to abandon everything he’s built up over the years. But he also sees the moment Jarrod realizes they have no other choice.