The Ward

PART TWO





12


9:45 P.M., SATURDAY


The cracked, Mad Ave solar-powered streetlights shed an eerie, fragmented bluish glow over the boardwalk. I’m trying to pass a family of four on either side, but they’re buying seeds from a vendor, probably for a private roof plot up north, and they’re lollygagging. It’s damn near impossible. Though the Tank isn’t far from here—a straight shot down—tonight is so crazy, it’ll take me twice as long.

As I finally weave through them, my spare cuffcomm buzzes on my wrist. I look down, see a message from Benny:

Towed your Rimbo back to the garage. Looking into the problem, may take a while.

Sure, sure . . . Benny says it’ll take a while, but if I know him, he just doesn’t want me to hound him every ten minutes. He’ll have an answer soon, no doubt.

I keep on through the market, slowing when I spot Zora’s cart. She’s my favorite, a gap-toothed little punk kid with a red afro and so many freckles on her face, you’d never know what color her skin really was. She’s the smartest sneak on the walk. Always offers to check for airdrops from her wealthy West Isle grandma. Then, when her dad goes on break, she’ll call me over—ladle me a bit of bona fide black market Upstate fresh, for Aven. Her grandma gets it by way of the Mainland, and I doubt there are even a hundred people in the Ward who can afford the stuff.

But living off rainwater ain’t so bad. So long as it rains.

“Hey, Z!” I shout across the avenue.

She sees me and waves.

I start to walk closer, but a push to my shoulder sends me rolling forward. I spin around, angry, and spit, “Watch it!” before realizing that the push was by no means an accident.

It’s Kent. . . . He laughs at me, lazy, thin lipped. Threads of his ink-black hair fall in his face. With his hands in the pockets of an oversize trench, he drawls, “If it isn’t the ‘Red Rider,’” and strides up with rubber-band legs—all loose and relaxed, ready to mess with me. “I was so hopeful, and look here, now you’ve ruined my whole night.” He throws up his arms. “Of course, your being alive is an easy enough problem to fix.”

Jones passes me by and nods, smirking, his ponytailed sandy hair pulled tidily out the back of his round cap.

“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, and turn around, hoping for a smooth getaway. I’m not in the mood for this.

But Jones is there, cutting me off.

I face Kent again. He’s been joined by the Dreaded Duo. Tanzii’s and Neela’s arms are looped around each other like shadows. The girls watch me, adjusting their tops to reveal a bit more flesh, and they snigger. It kills me. More than the Derby guys, even.

All I’d need is one of them . . . just one other girl at the races would even the balance enough.

“You’ve got some fuel on your face, honey,” Neela says when she sees me looking at her. Coyly she points at me, bowing her knees together. Then she goes wide-eyed, fake as those dolls with the movable eyelids.

I know better than to touch my face though. We’ve been through this one before.

“Don’t you have tulips to plant, Neela, or whatever it is that you do all day?” I pretend to flick her away like she’s a bug on my thumb.

If only it were that easy.

She rolls her eyes, and when she looks at Kent, I see her barely nod in my direction.

Uh-oh—she’s calling in the big guns, and Kent’s been dying for an excuse to pummel me as it is.

I look up; they’re still there, and Kent’s just getting closer.

“Hope you enjoyed your lucky streak while it lasted,” Kent says, laughing as he nears and cracking his knuckles. “After tonight, I’m not sure you’ll be fit to hold a steering wheel.”

His eyes always target me like he’s looking down a gun barrel, so why do I always wonder if he’s actually going to do it? Kent hasn’t clobbered me bloody yet, but each time we get into a row like this, it feels more and more likely.

I ain’t gonna find out if tonight’s the night, though.

I smile, and I wave, and then—though I sorta hate myself for taking the coward’s way out—I turn on my heel, and I run like an animal.


Booking it through the labyrinth of steel-wheeled wagons, with the old fabric warehouse in view, my breathing goes too ragged and I have to stop. I pull over, nearly tripping on a girl I swear I know—shortish, dread-headed, wearing fairy wings and probably on her way to the Tank. I don’t say hi; I just duck under one of the striped umbrellas that dot the boardwalk.

From here I can spot the HBNC Patrol hornets. They’re buzzing around the building’s exterior. Crouched farther beneath one of the vendor’s carts, I watch them through the wheel’s spokes, waiting to see if Kent or Jones catches up.

No one comes.

I grow impatient—the Tank is less than five minutes away, so I slide out from under the cart and start walking. A hundred paces out, from behind me, I hear a swishing noise.

Someone’s following? The thought makes me stop short. Staggers my step.

Another pair of boots staggers after me, too.

I whip around, squatted low to the walkway. Instinctively, my hand goes to my ankle where I’ve stashed my small blade. From this vantage point I can’t see much through the stalls, but I’m not dumb.

Kent, maybe? My blood runs just a little bit quicker, hotter, than before.

It wouldn’t be the chief. . . . He’s long gone, I’m sure. Anxious to leave the Ward quick as possible.

I don’t know who’s back there, so I slide beneath a few stalls to throw whoever it is off track. The sooner I make it to the Tank, the better. Once I’m inside, whoever is following me will have a hard time keeping up.

I break into an easy jog, feeling the beats tremble up the boardwalk and into my knees. They’re so heavy, they’re the partygoer’s audio bass version of a breadcrumb trail. But it’s not even necessary.

Just follow the Patrol hornets.

It’s still early, but those guys go where the crowds will go. And just like at the races, the Bouncers aren’t just here to act as musclemen. These guys don’t check IDs, neither.

They’re checking blood.

“Ro!” I call out when I’m close enough, slowing as I near. I push through a few guys my age, all wearing patchy, pleather pants and sleeveless tees, with dog collars around their necks. It’s like the uniform for badassery around here.

One of them curses at me, but then he sees who I am and shuts his mouth. Even the tough guys step aside when the dragsters come through.

The biggest of the big Bouncers turns my way, arms folded over his chest, looking rough.

“Glad to see you’re in the land of the living,” Ro comments through blackened teeth. Even under the weak solar lamplights, his jacket reflects a bright and shiny neon yellow, so everyone can see he’s a Bouncer. He blathers on for a bit about how the Derbies were sure I’d kicked it, sure I’d finally bit the dust.

I zone out, scan the crowd, first to see if Kent is around. Then I find myself looking for the one person I’m always looking for. Hoping he’s here. Without the girlfriend, of course. She’s a wet blanket if ever there was one.

“It wasn’t that bad.” I brush him off. “You’ve been listening to too much Derby gossip.” Just as I’m about to stick out my arm so Ro can see the date of my last test, I see a young girl wandering round the outside of the entrance to the Tank.

“Who’s that?” I ask, but Ro just shrugs, says he’s never seen her. She looks familiar, but under the damned lights it’s so buzzy and dim, I can’t tell.

“Be right back.” I wave Ro away, and he calls after me. He could tackle and Taser me for being in the yellow zone. Only those confirmed with zero, or undetectable, viral levels can hang here. But the girl. I know her.

She’s in the yellow zone too, about to get tested.

Waif of a build, skin too sallow. Blond, near-white hair.

Aven . . . ?

My heart lurches in my chest, pushes itself against my very rib cage. She’s supposed to be in bed. My instincts revved, I have to protect her, I have to get to her. I have to bring her home. . . . She’s sick.

That can’t be Aven, though. It’s just not possible.

I don’t care. My muscles are kicked into gear—I dodge the Bouncers already positioned, a wall in front of me. Good thing big guys don’t look down much.

“Aven!” I holler, still not entirely sure of myself. There’s no way she could’ve left the ’Racks.

I’ve got to be wrong.

The girl turns around to face me. She’s still sticking out her arm from the test, as a Bouncer pulls away the needle.

“Stop!” I call, sprinting up, ready to yank her away.

“Renny!” The girl smiles.

The Bouncer drops her hand, focuses his attention on the scanner.

It’s her . . . but it’s not her. This girl is shining, wearing a grin brighter than an electric moon. Not to mention, she’s upright. On her own. Wobbly on her feet, yes. And her skin still has that algae-green tinge to it that makes her look not quite right. But she’s here.

All my tongue can do is loll around in my mouth, sluggish and thick—I’ve got no words.

I watch her get her X—the Bouncer takes her arm and turns over the scanner. He waits for it to get white-hot, then down it goes. Aven bites her lip and I see her eyes are watering, but she doesn’t cry out. Not even a peep. I don’t know what to be confused about first when nothing makes sense.

Somewhere in the tunnels of my brain I hear the Bouncer declaring that she’s “good to go” and she should “have fun,” but no, that can’t be. My sister is sick, deadly and irreversibly sick, because there’s a tumor—a giant, bracking lump of a tumor—lodged against her skull, so really, what the hell kind of alien is this new girl, anyway?

Aven snaps me out of my stupor with a hug. Her mittens find their way underneath the tight corkscrews of my hair to the back of my neck. There they rest, warming me up as I hold her tight.

We’re still in the yellow zone, my VEL unconfirmed, so when I feel a hand on my shoulder I’m just thankful that I’ve got enough pull here that they haven’t Tasered me already.

“What are you doi—” is all I can manage. I show Ro the latest X on my arm, never—not even once—taking my eyes off Aven.

“I’m better, Ren.” She says this like she had the flu, not a death sentence.

“How did you even get here?”

Before she answers, my mind wheels back to the walk over. “It was you. . . . You were following me?”

She nods fiercely, like she’s gotten away with stealing cookies from one of the toughest Mad Ave vendors.

I take her wrist, a thing so thin my fingers wrap around with room to spare. “We need to get you home.”

She pulls away, twisting herself from my grip. I wasn’t holding hard, but I don’t know if I’m more shocked by the fact that she could do it, or the fact that she did.

We don’t disagree. Ever.

“But my VEL? I’m not contagious,” she whines, like that explains everything. “I can be here, I’m allowed. He said so.” She points to the Bouncer, whose hawk eyes watch us, suspicion creeping in.

“Aven,” I whisper through gritted teeth. Looping an arm through hers, I lead her out of the yellow zone. “I don’t care what that test says. You. Are. Sick.”

“Blood doesn’t lie.” Her hazel eyes are steely, her expression harder than I’ve ever seen it. “And I feel fine.”

And I’m about to say something I’ve only heard adults say. “This isn’t a discussion. We’re leaving. Now.”

Yeah . . . that tasted as bad in my mouth as it sounded. I think I even pointed at the ground when I said “now.”

Aven unloops our arms without saying a word. She walks back into the yellow zone, sticks out her arm for one of the Bouncers again.

I run up to her, grabbing her by the shawl. The last thing I want to do is make a scene here of all places, but I can’t let her stay.

She spins around, twisting herself away. “No, Ren. I won’t go back!” Her eyes look wild. But then she stands still, only her white-blond hair moving with the wind. “I feel all right. The scanner thingy says I’m good to go. Please, Ren. I’ve never had a night like this.”

Everything about her changes right then. She wilts, no anger left in her.

“Look at it.” She pulls her hair to the side, revealing the spot where the tumor should be.

But it’s not there. Not much of it, anyway. I bring one finger to her hairline behind her ear and feel around. One small lump, no larger than the size of a coin, peeks out, barely noticeable.

How is it possible . . . ?

Tumors don’t just spontaneously shrink.

I rub my forehead, confusion settling in my brain, boulder heavy. My fingers peel something crinkly off the skin near my temple. I realize I’m rubbing at the gash where the brick hit. The scab . . . it’s already flaking off.

“You see?” she whispers.

“Aven . . .” I want to stop her, explain what’s going on.

But I don’t know.

The last few hours rewind through my head: I met with the chief. There was the raid. Aven’s fever. I told her about the fresh.

I let her drink from the canteen.

We both drank from the canteen.

It’s not possible. But I didn’t think she could be here, and here she is. And I didn’t think that her tumor was gone, and it is.

Mostly . . .

“I want to live before I die,” she continues. Her eyes find mine, serious. “One night of fun, Ren. That’s all I need. The tumor’s not gone. I know it. But if it comes back, I’ll want to make it. I’ll want to hold on.”

She’ll want to hold on. The words pierce my other thoughts. Put the questions on pause. Whatever’s made her better, I don’t want to think about it too hard. You don’t question miracles.

I can’t say no to her; we don’t have forever. We only have now.

Reluctant, I nod. Arm in arm we walk into the warehouse.

The elevator arrives. It takes us down, well below water level—we drop so far our ears crackle.

Aven tugs at her lobes. “Weird!” She giggles.

I want to laugh with her, but the whole ride, I’m in a daze. Too confused, too frantic to even think. Breathe, I remind myself, and together we feel the bass beats rising up through the soles of our feet. The elevator walls vibrate in time with the ding-ding-ding-ing from floor to floor. Aven smiles at me and clasps my hand in her mittened ones, rocking on her heels.

Should I not have agreed? She looks so . . . happy.

I push aside the gnawing fear that comes along with anything good—that it will leave just as quickly. She’s here now. That’s what matters, I tell myself, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to freeze-frame this moment.

Aven and me, walking into our first party together. Ever.

Like we really do have our whole lives ahead of us.