“Stand back.” He concentrated, and the two heavy hinges glowed red, white, then dripped and melted. Fleeter pulled the door again, and sweat flushed down Jack's face as he concentrated some more. Then the door squealed open, molten metal pattering across the floor. Smoke hung lazily in the air.
And Jack saw the girl, who was no girl at all. She must have been eighteen. Pretty once, perhaps, now she was restrained by ropes tied around her arms and legs, her emaciated body wrapped in shapeless clothing, dark hair knotted and dirty. A waste bucket sat beneath her seat, and it was the indignity of this more than anything that stirred Jack's rage. He'd seen body parts and blood, jars filled with dissected brains and other organs, and the evidence of the slaughter carried out here in the name of science—or perhaps simply in the name of fear and hate—was incontrovertible. But seeing this poor girl and the bucket she had to piss in brought it all home.
“Bastards!” he shouted. Fleeter glanced at him, her usual manic grin absent. She pulled a flick-knife from her pocket and sliced through the ropes. Then she lifted a thinner strand and held it up for him to see.
“What?” Jack asked.
“Drugging her.”
“Cut it.”
Fleeter did so, and as the girl slumped slowly onto her seat, the pipe started to swing away, dripping a hazy fluid across the floor. She moved to her own time, and Jack had plenty of time to catch her before she fell.
“Won't it kill her moving her at our speed?” he asked. “She doesn't have what we have.”
“It'll hurt her,” Fleeter said. “But we need to get her back through there. Just be careful not to bump her against anything.”
Jack glanced behind at the three guards. Fleeter had shoved them all aside, and now they sprawled on the floor, still gradually shifting from the staggering impacts her contact had subjected them to. Maybe they were dead; right then, Jack did not care. He hated them enough to kill them himself, but every second they had was precious.
“Give me a moment, then bring her,” Fleeter said. Her voice had grown serious, and in her eyes Jack saw his own rage reflected. At the sight of the girl she'd lost some of her aimless anger, and now her fury was defined.
“Fleeter…” But she was gone, across the room and out into the corridor. He could have called her back. Could have prevented her from doing what he knew she was about to do. But his own fury held his voice, and as he lifted the poor girl into his arms he heard a sound like paper tearing.
Fleeter was waiting for him back at the door into the container. Jack only glanced into the torture room, and barely winced slightly at the sight of the man and his slashed throat. She'd used the same knife that had freed the girl, and there was some justice in that. But Jack was also unsettled that the sight of murder troubled him so little.
The girl was light, emaciated, hungry, and might well have been dead. But he could sense her life, and something about it was unbelievably strong. Without even trying—without clasping a talent—he could tell that she was alive, and furious, and that he would get to know her well. That was not some prescient thought, but a silent vow.
“They must be keeping my mother and sister in the other containers,” Jack said as he followed Fleeter down the boxy steps.
“If they're not dead already.”
“We have to look.”
The scene was much as they had left it…but not quite. The Choppers across Camp H were all backing away, confused at whatever had compelled them to drop their weapons. Beyond, Sparky and Jenna had taken half a step forward, and Breezer, the Irregulars, and Puppeteer were all advancing as well.
Fleeter glanced across at the other conjoined containers, then up behind Jack. “Out of time,” she said, pointing.
From atop a stack, something was growing. Jack frowned, squinting against the light. Even the sunlight felt slow.
“What's that?” he asked.
“They've started shooting,” Fleeter said.
“Shit.”