I lower my head. There is a lump the size of Texas caught in my throat. And then I turn and he’s staring at me with something like fear, like this might be the last straw, seeing a dead ringer for his sister tiptoeing around dressed up like a soldier. Like he’s reached the outer limits of the Others’ cruelty.
I kneel in front of my brother. He doesn’t rush into my arms. He stares at my tear-streaked face and brings his fingers to my wet cheek. Across my nose, forehead, chin, over my fluttering eyelids.
“Cassie?”
Is it okay now? Can he believe? If the world breaks a million and one promises, can you trust the million and second?
“Hey, Sams.”
He cocks his head slightly. I must sound funny to him with the bloated tongue. I fumble with the clasp of the leather satchel.
“I, um, I thought you might want this back.”
I pull out the battered old teddy bear and hold it toward him. He frowns and shakes his head and doesn’t reach for it, and I feel like he’s punched me in the gut.
Then my baby brother slaps that damned bear out of my hand and crushes his face against my chest, and beneath the odors of sweat and strong soap I can smell it, his smell, Sammy’s, my brother’s.
XII: BECAUSE OF KISTNER
81
THE GREEN EYE looked at me and I looked back at it, and I don’t remember what snatched me back from the edge between the blinking eye and what came next.
My first clear memory? Running.
Lobby. Stairwell. Basement level. First landing. Second landing.
When I hit the third landing, the concussion of the blast slams into my back like a wrecking ball, hurling me down the stairs and into the door that opens to the bomb shelter.
Above me, the hospital screams as it’s torn apart. That’s what it sounds like: a living thing screaming as it’s being ripped to pieces. The thunderous crack of mortar and stone shattering. The screech of nails snapping and the shriek of two hundred windows exploding. The floor buckles, splits open. I dive headfirst into the hallway of reinforced concrete as the building above me disintegrates.
The lights flicker once, and then the corridor plunges into darkness. I’ve never been to this part of the complex, but I don’t need the luminescent arrows on the walls to show me the way to the safe room. All I have to do is follow the terrified screams of the children.
But first it would be helpful to stand.
The fall has completely torn open the sutures; I’m bleeding heavily now, from both wounds: where Ringer’s bullet went in and where it came out. I try to stand up. I give it my best shot, but my legs won’t hold me up. I get halfway up and then down again I go, head spinning, gasping for air.
A second explosion knocks me flat out on the floor. I manage to crawl a few inches before a third blast knocks me down again. Damn it, what are you doing up there, Vosch?
Well, guess that particular mystery is solved. Vosch is blowing up his own base. Destroying the village in order to save it. But save it from what? Unless it isn’t Vosch. Maybe Ringer and I are totally wrong. Maybe I’m risking my life and Nugget’s for nothing. Camp Haven is what Vosch says it is and that means Ringer walked into a camp of infesteds with her guard down. Ringer is dead. Ringer and Dumbo and Poundcake and little Teacup. Christ, have I done it again? Run when I should have stayed? Turned my back when I should have fought?
The next explosion is the worst. It hits directly overhead. I cover my head with both arms as chunks of concrete as big as my fist rain down. The concussions from the bombs, the drug lingering in my system, the loss of blood, the darkness…all of it conspires to pin me down. From a distance, I can hear someone screaming—and then I realize that it’s me.
No. Not Sissy. Sissy’s dead. You left her behind, you stinking bag of regurgitated puke.
Damn, it hurts. The pain of the wounds that bleed and the pain of the old wound that will not heal.
Sissy, with me in the dark.
I can see her hand reaching for me in the dark.
Reaching for her in the dark.
82
SISSY PULLS AWAY, and I’m alone again.
When the moment comes to stop running from your past, to turn around and face the thing you thought you could not face—the moment when your life teeters between giving up and getting up—when that moment comes, and it always comes, if you can’t get up and you can’t give up, either, here’s what you do:
Crawl.
Sliding forward on my stomach, I reach the intersection of the main corridor that runs the length of the complex. Have to rest. Two minutes, no more. The emergency lights flicker on. I know where I am now. Left to the air shaft, right to the central command hub and the safe room.
Tick-tock. My two-minute break is over. I push myself to my feet using the wall for support, and I nearly black out from the pain. Even if I grab Nugget without getting grabbed myself, how will I get him out of here in this condition?
Plus I sincerely doubt there are any buses left. Or any Camp Haven, for that matter. Once I grab him—
I shuffle down the corridor, keeping one hand on the wall to steady myself. Ahead, I can hear someone shouting at the kids in the safe room, telling them to stay calm and stay seated, everything was going to be okay and they were perfectly safe.
Tick-tock. Right before the final turn, I glance to my left and see something crumpled against the wall: a human body.
A dead human body.
Still warm. Wearing a lieutenant’s uniform. Half its face blasted away by a high-caliber bullet fired at close range.
Not a recruit. One of them. Has someone else figured out the truth here? Maybe.
Or maybe the dead guy was shot by a trigger-happy, jacked-up recruit, mistaking him for a Ted.
I pull the sidearm from the dead man’s holster and slip it into the pocket of the lab coat. Then I pull the surgical mask over my face.
And there it is, straight ahead. A few more yards and I’m there.
And it’s like he heard me, because there he is walking toward me, carrying—believe it or not—a teddy
