Page 5

Rosabelle

Chapter 5

In the split second the weapon sails between myself and Soledad, the inmate launches himself forward, snatches it out of the air, and lands in a smooth tumble.

He immediately opens fire on everyone.

Shots explode, screams pierce the din. Soledad barks orders, but sounds warp and distort; sirens blare as lights flash. I back up against the cold wall, my heels knocking against the footboards, my hands searching for purchase. The scene developing before me is so impossible it seems to bleed at the edges. I feel as if the floors are melting under my feet, my breaths loud in my ears, the pain in my ribs beginning to crescendo once more. They shoot at the inmate over and over, but his reflexes are extraordinary; he manages to dodge most of their fire, sustaining minor injuries that I now realize he can easily overcome. Watching him move is like witnessing wind: it’s only clear he’s been there when someone else falls.

There is no precedent for this situation.

I’ve been summoned here countless times, and my work has always been faultless. Never have I failed to kill a mark. Never has an inmate been able to escape. This one cannot be allowed to run rampant through these halls; he cannot be allowed to report back anything he’s witnessed here. And I—

I will be executed for this failure.

The realization hits me like another shot of adrenaline. An image of Clara flares to life behind my eyes, her name repeating in my head. If I am dead, no one will wipe the blood from her lips. If I am dead, no one will catch her when she collapses. No one will bathe her, no one will read to her, no one will comb the knots from her hair. Clara is only allowed to live as she does because I take full responsibility for her needs. Without me, they will toss my sister in the asylum, where she will die a slow, torturous death.

If I am dead, no one will ever smile at her again.

I drag myself upright, biting back a sound as pain lances through my body. I have no idea how many ribs I’ve broken. Systematic starvation has weakened my bones, atrophied my muscles. I feel the telltale tremble in my right hand and clench a fist against it.

The Reestablishment has no sympathy for the weak.

I realize as I step forward that I’ve gone slightly deaf from the barrage of chaos and sound. There’s a ringing in my ears so loud I hear only a muted dissonance as I force myself into the fray, limping slightly over fallen bodies. My vision has tunneled to a single figure: the inmate is now engaged in a round of hand-to-hand combat with the only two remaining officers, and I watch him land a bone-crushing blow to the jaw of one, then the other, before he racks his stolen weapon and opens fire directly at their throats. I flinch twice, in concert with each recoil. Blood spatters everywhere, but only one officer’s head detaches fully from his body.

My ears are still ringing.

Dimly I register that Soledad is lying nearby in a pool of his own blood, the glint of his prosthetic flashing in my periphery. In a movement so excruciating it nearly takes my breath away, I bend to swipe Soledad’s gun from his limp fingers, then hoist the hefty weapon into my arms, absently checking the laser fill of the magazine. Floaters crowd my vision; sweat beads at my brow. It occurs to me that I’m running a slight fever—that perhaps my physical state is worse than I feared.

Strangely, this realization offers me comfort.

If I’m to die either way, there is little to fear from injury. I will not be afraid of this stranger who seems chronically unafraid. I will not be afraid of an arrogant insurrectionist; a worthless rebel. Soledad’s last words to him echo in my head—

You look so much like your father .

I don’t know what that means. I don’t know who his father is or whether the information is relevant. Perhaps I will never know, as Soledad is dead. I know the inmate has blue eyes and brown hair, a reductive description that fails to illustrate a problem. His face is like none I’ve known. His beauty is absurd and shocking, the effect aggravated by contradictions that draw the eye over and over: he’s a study in contrasts, at once playful and unyielding. His brow and jaw are severe, but there’s a boyish dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His body is solid, taut with muscle, but he seems at ease in his own skin. His eyes seem to shimmer, as if laughter comes to him freely—and yet he single-handedly slaughtered a dozen soldiers.

He was unarmed.

I still feel the crinkle of plastic in my pocket; still recall the synthetic apple scent on his breath. I thought Clara might like to cut out the colorful bears illustrated on the wrapper. I thought she’d like to know what sugar smells like. I thought I’d be returning home to her with food and medicine and firewood, and I realize now that I might not return to her at all.

I close my eyes. Open them.

I didn’t cry when my mother shot herself in front of me. I didn’t cry the first morning I found Clara choking on her own blood.

I will not cry now, or ever again.

In the emerging silence, my hearing seems to improve, the metallic ring fading. Now I hear my heartbeat, the sound of my own dragging feet. The weapon is slick in my hand, heavier than I remember it. My arms are shaking. I can’t seem to breathe.

The inmate turns around.

I fire.

He’s faster than I am; stronger; smiling as he dodges my imperfect shot. Blood is now smeared across his face, streaked through his hair. His clothes drip as he walks, his boots leaving red footprints along the white floors. He’s wounded in several places but this fact doesn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he seems delighted.

There’s no one left to kill but me.

News of this massacre has certainly reached officials by now, but all our surveillance technology can’t make up for a lack of manpower. I don’t know how long it’ll be before another troop is notified, armed, and unleashed. We are unaccustomed to such attacks. We have more scientists than soldiers. Never, since its inception, has the island sustained such losses.

The inmate winks at me. “Looks like we’re finally alone, beautiful.”

I fire again.

He dives out of the way, laughing, but the kickback damages my injured body anew. I stumble as fresh agony turns the edges of my vision white. One of my broken ribs, I realize, must’ve finally pierced an organ.

I rack my weapon, heart thundering in my chest. I wonder how they’ll tell Clara I’m dead. I wonder whether they’ll be gentle with her, but I already know that they won’t. The electric battery thrums under my hands as the gun recharges. We learned early on that manufacturing bullets was expensive and time-consuming. Most of our weapons are now powered by directed energy. Lasers so powerful some can reduce bone to ash in a single shot. The inmate is pointing two such weapons in my direction. Over his shoulder he’s slung four more, collecting loot as he stalks toward me. He must be carrying over a hundred pounds of weaponry, but he doesn’t seem fatigued by the effort.

Another flash of white teeth as he grins, and suddenly the distance between us has vanished. I don’t realize I’m on my knees until it occurs to me that I’m staring up at him, my head burning bright with fever. He pries the gun from my hands and it seems to be happening to someone else. I stagger slightly and he says Now we’re even but the words stutter in my head and I wonder whether I’ve imagined them. Pain is crowding my thoughts, heat devouring my mind. I am delirious.

Already dying.

He aims the glowing barrel at my face and I’m less ashamed of defeat than I am of what I intend to say next. My greatest moment of weakness: observed by a stranger. Recorded by machines. Remembered forever.

“Please,” I gasp. “Tell them to be gentle with her.”

The inmate lowers his weapon an inch. “What?”

My head rocks backward, meets a hard surface. “She’s just a child.”

“Who?” he demands, his voice booming between my ears. “Hey—”

“My sister,” I choke out, though I can’t seem to move. I feel as if I’m going blind. “When I die, they’ll throw her in the asylum.”

The inmate seems to still.

I feel this somehow, though perhaps I’m hallucinating. I can’t tell whether my mind has already detached from my body. Perhaps it’s the fever. Chills wrack my bones; pain spasms across my torso.

For once, the silence scares me.

“She’s just a child,” I whisper again.

When he says nothing I brace myself for the final blow, for the pain that precedes nothingness, for the failure that was my life, for the futility of all that I am—

But when I force myself to look up, the inmate is gone.