“Antibiotics. Medicine.” I blearily recite the words Mandy made us all memorize. “Erythromycin, penicillin, amoxicillin . . . cipro . . . floox . . . flox . . . flux . . . little pills in a little jar.”
He leaps up and disappears into the bathroom, returning seconds later with handfuls of pill bottles, which he pours onto the bed. He holds each one under the flashlight and shows me. I try to remember the names I learned from Mandy and the ones I’ve heard at home. Mom’s pills. Jack’s pills. The mountain of daily pills Jack’s dad would bring with him when he visited. Then I have to blink away that memory, because it’s too distracting from my own life-or-death situation. I focus on the tiny typing on the labels instead.
“Antidepressants, I think,” I say, studying one. “Antianxiety, anti–blood pressure, anti-cholesterol. Wow. This guy had it all.” I push the pills aside. “None of these are any good. Sorry.” The Nahx shoves them onto the floor and they rattle away. He taps his eye mask.
Look. Me. Look.
Then he points to the pills.
“You can look after the screaming, yes.” I take another gulp of bourbon, trying not to cough. Mostly failing though. I clutch my ruined ribs and moan.
On top of the fever, the bourbon is working its magic. I expect I’ll still feel every bit of the pain, but maybe I won’t care as much. I tuck the bottle into the crook of my good arm and recap it.
“I think I’m ready now.”
EIGHTH
I wish there were some way I could turn off my hearing. Her screams will be . . . Hearing her scream in the stadium nearly finished me. I could barely think. I can still barely think, though seeing her again has sharpened my mind a little bit. I remember, at least, that I’m a rebel and a deserter; that’s helpful. And I remember pretty much everything about her. I’m not very clear on what has been going on since the last time I saw her though, or how I found her again. Maybe that will come back when I calm down a bit.
Then there’s the human who chased us. Give her back, he shouted. Does she belong to him? For a moment when I picked her up, I thought she belonged to me, but that doesn’t seem right anymore, not like I belonged to Sixth, anyway. But that other human could be looking for her. And I don’t know whether she was running away from him. Maybe he treated her as Sixth treated me.
She said his name. Topher. Or Tucker. I’m not sure what I heard. I have no way to ask her.
I need to think, to focus. There is too much sludge churning through me. It’s making me confused.
“Are we doing this?” she asks. I kneel down by the bed again.
I’ve set a bone before, one of my own, I think. That seems like something from behind the door in my mind. I understand the principle of it though. I feel the break a bit first. It’s only displaced one of the bones. I check the other one; it seems to be sound. That’s good. But I’ll have to be careful. I doubt her bones are as strong as mine.
I found a wooden spoon in the kitchen. I give it to her and she clenches it in her mouth, but then pulls it out again. “Wait.”
She uncaps the bottle and takes several large gulps, gasping. Then she returns the spoon to her mouth and nods. I have to turn my eyes away from the fear in her face.
Little human, I don’t want to hurt you.
I should have taken her when . . . the first time, from the river or the second time I saw her, in that village. I could have taken her up into the mountains with me. None of this would have happened.
I grip her arm. She clenches her teeth and growls. And I do it. I fix it. I pull her arm apart and put it back together over the sound of her screaming.
When it’s done, she closes her eyes and shivers and lets me wipe the tears from her cheeks.
Slow sweet muddy death. I need to sit down.
RAVEN
Time seems to pass, or I dream of time passing, at least. The problem is the same time repeats. Over and over the Nahx in the stadium flies down toward me. Sometimes I wake screaming, pain shooting through my rib cage, only to sink back into feverish sleep. Sometimes the dream progresses beyond what actually happened. He kills me in some. In others I become a Nahx like him and turn on Topher as he tries to rescue me, crushing him with my armored fists. In one dream Topher kills the Nahx, then takes me in his arms, pulling me down onto the ground, kissing the blood from my mouth. In another Topher is the Nahx, and it is Tucker who rescues and embraces me. Eventually, my dreams degrade into the fat, ill-fitting, and misshapen dreams of fever, with no more fighting or kissing.
Sometimes my Nahx is there when I open my eyes and sometimes not. Once I wake to find him spooning something hot and salty into my mouth. I swallow, painfully, and feel the warmth sinking down into me. But the next time I wake, I’m vomiting it all up again. My Nahx appears with a cloth and wipes my face and neck.
“What are you?” I ask, more than once, it seems. He makes signs, but I don’t understand them. Sometimes he just shrugs. If he ever gives me a coherent answer, I’m not conscious enough to process it. In the delirium I give him my own designations: monster, demon, killer, alien, machine.
And I blearily remind myself of my own designation: Rage, the fighter, the soldier who won’t surrender. Not to this Nahx, not to anyone. And not to death.
I dream of fire. My skin is on fire. I feel the heat rising off me in waves. He lays wet cloths on my head and chest. The pain in my leg takes over my thoughts for a while, until I can’t fit a single idea in with it. I lie in ignorant silence, not hearing, not seeing, floating on a bed of knives and hot coals and fire.
How many days this goes on, I don’t know. I see sunlight and darkness in approximately equal measures. And I see the Nahx, at my side sometimes and sometimes in the shadows in the corner of the room. If I cry out in pain, it’s not long before he appears, and once as he looks at me and checks my wound, I see him shake his head. Does he think I’m going to die? I wonder. Is he preparing himself? And why does he care?