Bea rolls up her sleeves and turns to my brothers. “You shouldn’t be here. Go and take care of Jazz, the girl who was with me on the stairs.” Keane looks like he might cry. “Be brave,” she adds, and they both run off.
“We need hot water,” I tell the pale woman. I don’t know exactly what for, but I’ve heard it said and hopefully we’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.
“Yes, yes. And other things,” she says, and rushes away.
Bea pushes my mother’s skirt up past her knees and pulls down her underwear. I hold my mother’s hand and she looks up at me. “You’ve changed,” she says. I nod; I have, but I’m not sure whether or not my mother means this as a compliment.
“You don’t need to stay, either, Quinn,” Bea says. A month ago I might have been squeamish and wanted to get as far away from here as possible, but as the alarms ring and more screams and shouts filter up from the streets, it isn’t seeing my mother give birth that’s worrying me; all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to make it out alive, and what’s going to happen if we do.
The woman returns with her arms loaded. She joins Bea at the foot of the bed. “I need something for the pain,” my mother pleads.
“Too late for that,” the woman says. She nudges Bea. “Ready?”
Bea pulls her lips into her mouth. “Yes.”
“Where did you get that stuff?” I ask the woman, looking at the gauze and scissors.
The woman waves distractedly toward the hallway. “Closet was smashed open.” My mother’s face is maroon.
“Go and get what we need,” Bea says. She doesn’t know that we’ve gathered up dozens of kids from Sequoia, but she realizes we’ll need supplies. “You have time. I don’t think babies come shooting out.”
I zigzag my way along the hallway until I find the closet. Bottles, linens, and pacifiers have been tossed everywhere. I find a sheet and spread it out on the floor, then scan the shelves. I throw all the formula I can find onto it then Band-Aids, acetaminophen, codeine, blades in sterile packets, cotton wool, alcohol wipes, and one of everything else, just in case. I fold the ends of the sheet into the center, tie them together, and as I step into the hallway, I hear my mother. She is so loud, everyone goes silent and turns toward the ward. I shudder and rush back.
Bea is staring down at a messy purple bundle in her hands. “Well, I guess he was in a hurry to see everyone,” she says.
The woman uses a towel to reveal a puckered face.
My brother—with sticky black hair and a flat nose.
He squirms and cries. Bea hands him to my mother. A part of me wants her to be indifferent, to prove what kind of person she is, but she’s crying, too, and kissing the top of my brother’s head and filled with all the love I imagine she had for me—once. Sixteen years ago I was perfect and pure and anything was possible. I just didn’t grow into the person she wanted.
“We can’t stay,” Bea tells me. “Did you get everything we’ll need?”
“And more.” I stare at my brother’s tiny toes. He has toenails. “We have to take them with us.”
My mother looks up. “I’m staying here,” she says. Despite all the noise and blood and people, she is smiling. I’ve never seen her like this—I’ve never seen her happy.
“Why?” I ask.
“The pod’s my home. I won’t leave it.”
“You want the baby to grow up here?”
A siren sounds somewhere beyond the infirmary and does battle with the alarm on the lower floors. “I doubt Premiums will be very welcome wherever you’re going,” my mother says.
Bea puts her arm around my waist. “Quinn,” she says.
“But . . .” I begin.
“It has to be her choice.”
“His name is Troy,” my mother says. She breathes him in. He scrunches his toes, and I stretch out my arms to take him from her.
“No,” Bea says, and blocks my brother from view. “It’s not okay for him to lose his mother.” And she should know. I should know, too.
I kiss Troy and my mother turns her cheek toward me, so I can kiss her, too. But I can’t. I step away.
An explosion booms through the pod and the ward of the hospital. Bea takes my hand. “We’ve done all we can,” she says.
“I just . . .” Words stopper up my throat.
“She knows you love her,” Bea says.
My mother is sniffling. Maybe she loves me, too. I take one last look at Troy, and turn around.
We have to go. There’s a war on, and we’re needed.
56
RONAN
The bottom of the tower is being pummeled from outside and the door has a sizeable dent in it. The gunfire makes my teeth vibrate. Shots are fired and the thumbprint panel on the wall sizzles and sparks. “They’re almost through,” Silas says.
“We only kill if we have to,” Alina says. Silas looks at her warily.
“We
We reload our rifles and crouch beside the door. It’s a pack of them and three of us. In place of fear, impatience streams through me—I want us to have won already.
The locks are bombarded with bullets, the door crashes inward and with it, a band of Sequoians. They charge the spiral staircase, not bothering to check behind them and giving Silas, Alina, and me a chance to unleash a round of ammo. Shots ricochet through the tower and blood flecks my face. I keep firing. Better to shoot than to think.
Many of the rebels fall backward down the stairs, their limp bodies cracking against the floor. It’s hard to tell in the dimly lit tower which of them are dead and which injured, but they’re all young. They’re as young as I am.
Silas and Alina go to the pile of groaning bodies to collect the guns. One boy lying on a low step clings to his rifle, and as I make a grab for it, he tries to kick me with both feet. I dodge him and use my own rifle to jab one of his legs. He howls and releases his gun. I seize it and jump over him to get to two others, but they’re quite still, their eyes glinting. I look away; the last thing I want is to see their eyes.
“Ronan!” Alina calls. I join her and Silas at the door. The enemy has overpowered our inexperienced army and charge toward the door to Recycling Station East. Our soldiers are either lying dead or with their hands behind their heads, their faces in the dirt. Now I know Jude was right; you can’t train an army in weeks.
What now?
Before I can decide, Silas and Alina are gone, sprinting toward the station. I try to catch them, but they’re too quick. They leap over the station’s sandbags, use them for cover, and begin firing. I drop next to them and do the same.
Half the rebels trying to get through the door collapse under our gunfire. The rest turn their car door shields around trying to protect themselves. But the doors aren’t bulletproof and within a minute we’ve taken down all but a few. It’s easier than it should be.
Those still alive abandon the tower and make a run for it. I watch them through my scope, but I can’t get a good shot, and they escape.
“They’re heading for the south station,” Silas says. “Caffrey said it was the control tower.”
“Damn!” I say. “If that goes down . . .” I don’t need to finish. Alina and Silas zoom away again. Anyone would think
