Okay. I deserved that.
“His name was Razor.” She frowns. “No. His name was Alex.”
“The recruit who shot Teacup.”
“For me. So I could escape.”
“The one who helped Vosch set you up.”
“Yes.”
“And then Vosch kind of set the two of you up.”
She gives me the patented impassive Ringer stare. “What does that mean?”
“Vosch left him with you that night. He must have known Razor had . . . that leaving the two of you alone might lead to . . .”
“That’s crazy, Zombie. If Vosch thought that for a second, he never would have left Alex to guard me.”
“How come?”
“Because love is the most dangerous weapon in the world. It’s more unstable than uranium.”
I swallow. My throat is dry. “Love.”
“Yes, love. Can I have that back now?”
“No.”
“I could take it from you.” She’s staring at me across a space no thicker than a fist with eyes only slightly lighter than the dark around them.
“I know you could.”
I tense. I have a feeling she could knock me out with a flick of her little finger.
“You want to know if I loved him. You want to ask me that,” she says.
“It’s none of my business.”
“I don’t love anyone, Zombie.”
“Well, that’s okay. You’re still young.”
“Stop that. Stop trying to make me smile. It’s cruel.”
There’s a knife twisting in my gut. The pain makes the bullet wound feel like a mosquito bite. For whatever reason, whenever I’m around this girl, pain follows, and not just the physical variety. Being intimately acquainted with both kinds, I’d rather be shot a dozen times than have my heart torn in half.
“You’re a prick,” she informs me. She pulls the jug from my hands. “I always thought so.” She unscrews the cap and fills it halfway to the lip. The liquid shimmers a neon green. Their color.
“This is what they’ve done, Zombie. This is the world they’ve made, where giving life is crueler than taking it. I am being kind. I am being wise.”
She raises the cup toward her lips. Her hand shakes; the bright green fluid sloshes over the edge and runs over her fingers. And in her eyes the same darkness that floods my core.
She doesn’t pull away when I wrap my fingers around her wrist. She doesn’t unleash her enhancement upon me and tear my head off my shoulders. She offers hardly any resistance when I force her hand down.
“I’m lost, Zombie.”
“I’ll find you.”
“I can’t move.”
“I’ll carry you.”
She topples sideways into me. I wrap my arms around her. I cup her face; I run my fingers through her hair.
The darkness slips; it cannot hold.
53
WE’RE HEADING BACK to the hole when Cassie and the kids emerge from the basement of the demolished safe house, loaded down with blankets.
“Zombie,” Nugget calls out. He races over, the stack of blankets in his arms bopping up and down as he runs. He pulls up when he gets a close look at Ringer’s face. Right away he knows something’s wrong; only dogs read faces better than little kids.
“What is it, Private?” I ask.
“Cassie won’t let me have a gun.”
“I’m working on that.”
His face screws up. He’s dubious.
I poke him in the arm with a loose fist and add, “Lemme bury Ringer first. Then we’ll talk about weapons.”
Cassie comes up, half leading, half dragging Megan by the wrist. I hope she hangs on tight. I have a feeling if she lets go, that girl’s taking off. Ringer jerks her head toward the garage, in there, and says, “Ten minutes till the chopper.”
“How do you know?” Sullivan asks.
“I can hear it.”
Cassie shoots me a look accompanied by a raised eyebrow. Get that? She says she can hear it. While all anyone else can hear is the wind driving over the barren fields.
“What’s the hose for?” she asks me.
“So I don’t black out or suffocate,” Ringer answers.
“I thought you were—what did you call it?—enhanced.”
“I am. But I still need oxygen.”
“Like a shark,” Cassie says.
Ringer nods. “Like that.”
Sullivan leads the kids into the garage. Ringer drops into the hole and lies flat on her back in the dirt. I pick up the rifle where she dropped it and lower it toward her. She shakes her head. “Leave it up there.”
“You sure?”
She nods. Her face is bathed in starlight. I catch my breath.
“What?” she asks.
I look away. “Nothing.”
“Zombie.”
I clear my throat. “It’s not important. I just thought—for a minute there—flashed across my mind . . .”
“Zombie.”
“Okay. You’re beautiful. That’s all. I mean—you wanted to know . . .”
“You get sentimental at the weirdest times. Hose.”