I EASE HER DOWN onto the forest floor. Drained of all color, her face is only slighter darker than the snow. Her mouth hangs open, her eyelids flutter. She’s slipped into unconsciousness. I don’t think she’ll wake again.
My hands are shaking. I’m struggling to keep it together. I’m pissed as hell at her, at myself, at the seven billion impossible dilemmas their arrival brought, at the lies and the maddening inconsistencies and all the ridiculous, hopeless, stupid unspoken promises that have been broken since they came.
Don’t go soft. Think about what matters, right here, right now; you’re good at that.
I decide to wait. It can’t be much longer. Maybe after she’s dead, the softness inside me will pass and I’ll be able to think clearly. Every uneventful minute means I still have time.
But the world is a clock winding down, and there are no such things as uneventful minutes anymore.
A heartbeat after I decide to stay with her, the percussive thrum of rotors shatters the silence. The sound of the choppers snaps the spell. Knowing what matters: besides shooting, the thing I’m best at.
I can’t let them take Teacup alive.
If they take her, they may be able to save her. And if they save her, they’ll run her through Wonderland. There’s the tiniest chance that Zombie’s still safe at the hotel. A chance that Teacup wasn’t running from anything, just snuck off to find me. One trip by either of us down the rabbit hole and everybody’s doomed.
I pull my sidearm from the holster.
The minute we decide . . . I wish I had a minute. I wish I had thirty seconds. Thirty seconds would be a lifetime. A minute would be an eternity.
I level the gun at her head and lift up my face to the gray. Snow settles on my skin, where it quivers for a moment before melting.
Sullivan had her Crucifix Soldier and now I have mine.
No. I am the soldier. Teacup is the cross.
7
I FEEL HIM THEN, the one standing deep in the trees, motionless, watching me. I look, and then I see him, a lighter human-shaped shadow between the dark trunks. For a moment, neither of us moves. I know, without understanding how, that he is the one who shot the kid and the other members of his squad. And I know the shooter can’t be a recruit. His head does not glow in my eyepiece.
The snow spins, the cold squeezes. I blink, and the shadow is gone. If the shadow was ever there.
I’m losing my grip. Too many variables. Too much risk. Shaking uncontrollably, I wonder if they’ve finally broken me; after surviving the tsunami that took my home, the plague that took my family, the death camp that took my hope, the innocent little girl who took my bullet, I am terminal, done, finished, and was it ever in question, never if but always when?
The choppers bear down. I have to finish what I started with Teacup or I’ll join her where she lies.
I sight along the barrel of my pistol into the pale, angelic face at my feet, my victim, my cross.
And the roar of the Black Hawks’ approach makes my thoughts seem like the tiny squeaking whimpers of a dying rodent.
It’s like the rats, isn’t it, Cup? Just like the rats.
8
THE OLD HOTEL swarmed with vermin. The cold had killed off the cockroaches, but other pests survived, especially bedbugs and carpet beetles. And they were hungry. Within a day, all of us were covered with bites. The basement belonged to the flies, where corpses had been brought during the plague. By the time we checked in, most of the flies had died off. So many dead flies that their black husks crunched beneath our feet when we went down there the first day. That was also the last day we went into the basement.
The entire building reeked of rot, and I told Zombie that opening the windows would help dissipate the smell and kill off some of the bugs. He said he’d rather get bit and gag than freeze to death. As he smiled to drench you in his irresistible charm. Relax, Ringer. It’s just another day in the alien wild.
The bugs and the smell didn’t bother Teacup. It was the rats that drove her crazy. They had chewed their way into the walls, and at night their gnawing and scratching kept her (and therefore me) awake. She tossed and turned, whined and bitched and generally obsessed, because practically any other thoughts about our situation ended up in a bad place. In a vain attempt to distract her, I began teaching her chess, using a towel for a board and coins for the pieces.
“Chess is a stupid game for stupid people,” she informed me.
“No, it’s very democratic,” I said. “Smart people play, too.”
Teacup rolled her eyes. “You want to play just so you can beat me.”
“No, I want to because I miss playing it.”