The Ward

41


7:30 P.M., SUNDAY


The Bone Vault is a dismal place. No one ever comes here, and I don’t blame them.

Light would help, though—I glance around the space, then up at the chandelier. It’s pieced together outta decades-old clavicles and smooth, gray skulls that look like they died laughing.

I decide against touching the thing and curse the insane architect whose idea it was to decorate a house of the dead with the actual dead. Even after the Wash Out floated new and old bodies to the surface, but left us with no more land to put them . . .

Really? This was someone’s brilliant solution?

Joke’s on me, though, I suppose. When the Blight hit, the Ward had a place—ready and waiting—to stash our bones.

Reluctant, I reach for the skull to my right and pluck a candle from one of its eye sockets. When I strike a match from the pack in the jaw, an orange glow turns the Vault into a bona fide nightmare.

Now I can see too much. I wish I’d left the candle alone.

All across the ceiling hang bony odds and ends. Worn molars, sharp, white knuckles, strung up side by side.

Without warning, the same way you imagine your own death—a mobile crashing, a racer knifing you in the gut—I imagine every one of these bones belonging to Aven. Each knuckle grows muscles and skin and fingernails. Becomes a hand, her hand, and it reaches out from the ceiling. For me.

I’m socked into nausea, ready to vomit. I double over the stone bench, head between my legs, and heave. Sliding off the bench, I huddle close to my knees on the dusty floor. I use my palms as blinders to block out the bones—I can’t look at them. Clutching my gut, I wait for the sick feeling to pass.

A slight wind sets the candle flickering. Shadows grow and shift. Some rustling sound kills the dead quiet, but I see nothing. In here, I’m swallowed whole. It’s not just Aven anymore. This place is a monster. I’ve landed myself in its belly. Keeping me company is every body it’s ever eaten, every body it will ever eat.

Imagining the overflow of bones come tomorrow morning—that plants my feet. I’m standing on the barbed wire of guilt. I want to run, find Aven, but it’ll just follow me. It fences in every choice.

“You in there, Ren?” I think I hear Ter call.

I peek my head out the window to check, and I see him standing there, face pressed against the glass. I inhale and slide down to the floor again with relief, watching my imaginary beasts scatter. Now all I’m left with are the real ones.

“I am,” I call back, hearing his footsteps as he enters the Vault.

He finds me hunched on the floor, like I’m hiding from something. Quickly, I stand up. Brush off the floor’s grime.

He folds me into a great, big bear hug.

“Ter?” I say, my voice muffled, nose pressed into his armpit. “Umm . . .”

“You’re alive,” he sings, holding on a few seconds longer before backing away.

When I’m able to breathe again, “I commed you, didn’t I?”

He starts laughing—it bubbles and bubbles and doesn’t stop until he has to slow down for air. “The rumors were insane, Ren—you scared the hell out of everyone. I found out from Derek.” Ter breathes out, solemn all of a sudden. “He was pretty messed up about it, actually. Which kinda surprised me, you know?” Seeing my face, raised eyebrows and pursed lips, he waves his hand. Adds, “Not that he shouldn’t have been upset. But, I mean, he was just your bookie.” Then Ter pauses. Looks down at me. In the dark of the Vault, with just candlelight to see by, the whites of his eyes are glowing.

I can only guess at what’s coming next.

“You guys didn’t have a thing . . . did you?”

Like hell we didn’t. Thank goodness. I shake my head, about to open my mouth when Ter and I hear the sounds of feet shuffling, and the tail end of a conversation.

“. . . divers found her boots and everything. Even left a calling card—”

Can’t tell who’s talking—they’re too far away—but they’re definitely talking about me. I wrinkle my nose. Mouth the words “Calling card?” at Ter, who points to my bare feet.

“A photo, inside your boots?” he mouths back.

Then I remember. The picture I took from Callum’s place. I’d stuck it in my poor Hessian and forgotten about it. Bet I was walking on that photo all day and didn’t notice.

“Someone saved my boots though, right?” I ask, raising my voice.

Ter rolls his eyes, pulls me into his arms again, and actually gives me a noogie. In a whisper, “They’re boots, dummy. I’ll buy you a new pair.”

“. . . whatcha think this is about, anyway?” the voice asks, now just outside the window.

It’s Jones, definitely. Antsy. Worried. Nerves of glass.

Throwing me a sideways glance, Ter mouths the same question, but I don’t answer. No time.

“Daresay we’ll find out soon enough.”

That’d be Kent. I’d know the breezy sleaze of his voice any day. Just hearing it, and the hairs on my neck bristle.

Craning my neck around the alcove, I watch as they enter the Vault and exchange easy armshakes with Terrence.

He’s not a girl. They don’t hate him. A few more steps bring Kent into the main sanctuary. He sees me, and his face twists in disgust.

Still? Has he forgotten already? I could’ve let that Omni plow into the canal, left him stuck there in the pit.

“What is she doing here?” he snarls as he presses the black derby farther down his forehead. Nudging a stray dark hair behind his ear, he looks to Ter, vexed.

A dozen slurs are batting against the roof of my mouth, wanting out. I swallow every last one of them. I breathe deep. “Boys,” I say, walking into the sanctuary with my gaze to the floor, my hands at my sides. Any other day, I’d come out fighting. Today, the first round is theirs.

I won’t fight them with my eyes.

I won’t store a fist in my pocket for later.

I open my mouth, about to begin, then realize someone’s missing. I look at Terrence. “Where’s Benny?” I ask. He’s going to be the hardest to see. . . . I don’t like anyone worrying about me, him most of all.

“Said he’d show later. I’m sure if he knew you weren’t dead, he’d be here right now.”

“But you are dead,” Kent interrupts. “There was a party and everything.” A dark smile worms across his lips.

My fingers twitch, fighting to take position, but I keep ’em pressed down.

Ignoring him, I go on. “Thank you all for coming. I’ve asked you to meet me here tonight because what will happen over the next three hours affects each of us,” I begin.

The three pass unsure looks like hot potatoes.

“Tonight, at half past midnight, Governor Voss plans to eradicate the problem of the Blight. Only it won’t be happening how we think.” I pause to make sure I have everyone’s attention.

I do.

“The announcement you heard was a lie.”

Ter is the first to speak. “You’re saying they don’t have a way to cure the Blight?”

From his tone, he doesn’t disbelieve. He doesn’t believe though, either.

“Oh, they’ll get rid of the Blight all right. But it’s not how you think. The cure won’t just destroy the virus—it destroys carriers, too.” I watch their faces, wait for my meaning to sink in.

“His plan is extermination.”

The Vault absorbs each and every word into its bones. Maybe they remember life. There are no echoes of what I’ve spoken, only speechless digestion. I’m met with faces serious and grim, eyes downcast as they consider.

Of course, since Ter was the first to give me the benefit of the doubt, it should come as no surprise that Kent is the first to laugh.

“Insane,” he scoffs. It breaks their thoughts. Turning to me: “How do you even know this?” He looks at Jones, then Ter. They hear his doubt and now they’re raising their brows, suddenly on the fence. “You guys believe her?”

But no one knows how to answer, because no one else has heard the West Isle news. No one ever hears West Isle news. And I bet it goes both ways. Sure they can pick up the signal, but what news of ours would they care enough to listen to?

“Look,” I tell everyone, taking off my cuffcomm. I flip it open and, sliding my finger across the screen, bring up the West Isle newspaper article Callum showed me. Then I project the headline onto the wall: “THE WARD: A CASE FOR DEMOCIDE.”

I let them read the first few sentences of the column, and inhale, preparing to tell them the rest of the truth: how I know.

I’d rather not, of course, but if they were to find out after the plan was already in motion, it could upset everything.

“And I know about this because . . .” Brack, here goes. I can’t believe I’m telling them. I hold my breath as I look at Ter. The others already hate me, but Ter? This is going to cut him up the worst. “Because I used to work for the DI. Freshwater scouting, that’s all—”

Someone cuts me off, but it’s not Kent.

“You’ve been working for the Blues?” Ter asks, and I read hurt on his face in a hundred ways. He feels betrayed.

“I’m sorry—” I start to say, but Terrence raises his hand to stop me.

“I don’t want to hear it. Not now.” He refuses to look at me. “Later.”

I can’t lose Ter. . . . My chest starts to shake like I’ve got wings in there, beating away at the air, pushing me to run to him. They want me to make it better, and that’s all I want to do.

But he’s right. Not now.

Kent scoffs. “You expect that we’ll believe you after you tell us that?”

“Yeah, I do. ’Cause I just love pissing off the people I work for, for no reason at all. Brilliant plan of mine,” I spit back at him, probably harsher than I should, but I’m shaken by the thought of losing Ter too. After realizing who Derek really is, and now if I fail Aven . . . ?

I can actually feel the threads of myself spinning out into nothing.

The Vault is silent.

When Jones opens his mouth, we look at him, stunned. Kent most of all.

His sandy hair flops in his face, and he pushes it out of the way. Softly, he says, “Why’d you bring us here?”

He’s not asking meanly, but with curiosity.

Keep it together. I inhale, and grip on to the new air with my lungs. Focus.

Somehow, this next piece is harder to say, even though I’ve seen the serum in action. I lift my eyes, finally, to meet theirs head-on. I want them to know the truth of what I’m saying.

“A cure does exist.”

I leave out the fountain-of-youth bit. Something tells me it makes the story a little less believable. And now that I’ve dropped the conversational (opposite) equivalent of the atom bomb, I wait.

Jones makes no movement—he’s thoughtful. Kent laughs through a breathy snort, and Terrence waves his hands.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He steps a few feet outside of our semicircle. Paces, crosses his arms, but finds my eyes again once he comes to a standstill. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Can you prove it?” Jones asks.

If it were ready, sure.

“Yes,” I answer, firm.

“Really.” Kent watches me carefully, like everything depends on my next words. “You can prove it?”

“Yes,” I tell him again. “But first we come up with a strategy.”

He nods once. “Then my father will get some, right?” he asks, about to reach out for an armshake. He holds back, though, and I can see that his answer is dependent on this.

I grip his forearm, just below the elbow, wrapping my hand tightly around it.

“Your dad will get it,” I say, trying to keep the giddy out of my voice. I’m bubbling over twofold—this right here is our first armshake. Ever.

Plus, he’s the first domino. Kent’s the one that sends the rest of them over.

And right before my own two eyes, I watch the balance tip in my favor.