This is what happens when you let your emotions control you? Well, never again.
At the shuttle door, O’Malley is waiting for me. He’s wearing black coveralls. A scabbard hangs from his waist, the jeweled handle of his knife sticking out. And…he has boots. My leg hurts so much I’d almost forgotten about my poor feet, beat up from the long hike, punctured by dozens of thorns. A Mictlan patch—just like the symbol on our ties—is stitched in metallic thread on O’Malley’s left breast. He’s holding a black blanket. When I stumble in, he wraps it around me.
“Welcome home, Em.”
He’s clean. His hair is combed, glossy black and perfect. It surprises me how good it feels to see his face.
I glance back down the ramp at Bishop, notice the contrast between the two boys: one scrubbed and neatly dressed, as if our living nightmare never happened, the other shirtless, bloody and bandaged, a walking testament to what we just endured.
O’Malley’s smile fades. “Bad news. Aramovsky got into Deck Four.”
His arm around my shoulders, he guides me into the coffin room. I see the familiar faces of Gaston, Beckett, Smith, Visca and the others. I see Zubiri, Walezak and the kids we found wandering the halls of the Xolotl.
I also see faces I don’t recognize. Hundreds of them. No, not hundreds, I already know the exact number—168.
Aramovsky, godsdamn him…he opened the coffins.
Little faces on little bodies. Kids dressed in clean, perfectly fitting white shirts, red ties, and black pants or red and black plaid skirts.
More mouths to feed.
Everything catches up with me in a crashing wave of despair that washes away the last of my strength. The room spins. I’m tired, so tired.
“O’Malley, get me out of here. Take me to Smith.”
I don’t care what she does to me, as long as she gives me more of that gas and puts me under.
My eyes flutter open. I’m lying on firm padding. I see something white, close above my face…too close—I’m in a coffin again.
I am trapped. Someone put me in here Matilda put me in here she won’t take me she won’t I’ll fight and have to get out have to get…
No. It’s not like that. I think I remember people putting me in here. O’Malley. Yes, that was it. And Smith. I’m not trapped, but this tiny space is squeezing in on me.
“Um…can I get out?”
“Yes, hold on.”
Someone is nearby. Such a relief. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, try to control myself. So confined in here, so tight.
The white above my face splits down the middle, slides away to the sides. Spingate grins down at me. She’s dressed in black, just like O’Malley.
“Hello there, Sleeping Beauty!”
Someone else leans in next to her, smiling at me. It’s Smith, the skinny circle-cross girl with the short brown hair who was in Bishop’s group back on the Xolotl. She’s also wearing the black coveralls. Her gray eyes are so pretty.
“Your leg was badly wounded,” she says. “Spingate did a good job binding it, but there was only so much she could do in the field. You lost enough blood to make you dizzy. Or maybe you were just exhausted and stressed.”
“Leaders don’t get stressed,” I say.
Smith sighs. “As you like. How do you feel now? Better?”
I do. I take a deep breath. I don’t just feel better…I feel great. They help me sit up.
Cloth against my skin—I’m wearing black coveralls. I stretch my arms out, look myself up and down. The coveralls have long sleeves and many pockets. New black socks on my feet. Except for my face and hands, I’m completely covered. For the first time in my few days of life, I’m wearing clothes that fit. My hands are clean. I touch my face: also clean. And the big bump on my head…it’s almost gone. I tenderly try out my split lip—healed.
Smith and Spingate steady me as I step onto the floor. The room marked MEDICAL is small and white. There is a second coffin, open and empty. Both coffins are dark brown, glossy and clean. They are free of intricate carvings, but other than that, they look just like the one I fought my way out of on the Xolotl.
Off to the right, a single white pedestal with a red circle-cross engraved on the stem.
Smith taps the coffin’s edge. “Put your foot up here.”
She sounds as confident as Gaston does in the pilothouse. I do as I’m told.
She slides my pant leg up to my knee, touches my calf. She leans in, checks the area that was wounded. She squeezes the muscle and I wince.
Smith’s smile is full of pride.
“All better, Em. See for yourself.”
My calf is slightly bruised. There’s a thin pink line that shows me where the tear was, but it looks like the wound happened years ago.