“If Walrond knew there was a good chance Willux would spare the dome in Newgrange, he’d have hidden it there and maybe this is how he pinpointed it,” Bradwell says. “This could be his X marking the spot.”
“We have to go now,” Pressia says. “We have to collect our things and go. December twenty-first is only three days away. We need the light on the floor. We need those seventeen minutes.”
“The box is a key,” Bradwell says. “A key,” Helmud says. “A key.”
The terrain is flat, windswept, dusty, ashen. The sun edges up on the horizon. Fignan has Hastings’ coordinates and has set a course. Dusts rise up here and there. They take turns shooting them—in most cases a single bullet from a rifle suffices. Aside from that, they’re all quiet.
Bradwell glances at Pressia. She wants to believe they share a secret, but El Capitan is suspicious. Did he see them kissing?
El Capitan eventually breaks the silence. “It’s like the pulsing tattoos on your mother’s chest, Pressia. Those survivors at Crazy John-Johns must be proof that there are little clans of survivors like this, maybe all over the world. Anybody wondering who else is out there?”
Pressia thinks of her father. “Yes,” she says.
“It’s possible,” Bradwell says, glancing at Pressia again. “But we can’t get our hopes up.”
“If it’s possible that people have survived,” she says, “it’s also possible that, somewhere, some of them have thrived.”
El Capitan says, “It’s theoretically possible.”
Helmud nods, thoughtfully.
“We can’t be thinking theoretically right now. Okay?” Bradwell stops dead in his tracks. “Listen. We’re all hounded by the same thought, aren’t we?”
El Capitan and Pressia stop too.
“What’s that?” El Capitan says.
“We can be as optimistic as we want, but we’re all afraid we won’t make it. Chances are we’ll die out on this trip.”
“We can’t afford to think like that,” Pressia says.
“We can’t afford not to,” Bradwell says.
She looks down at her doll-head fist, its eyelids, clotted with ash, fluttering in the wind. It’s as dangerous to fall for someone as it is to be optimistic. Is that what he means? She told him she was falling, but he said they were making each other. Is he backpedaling now?
“Let’s just all shut up and keep moving,” El Capitan says. “Let’s not think at all, just take the next step and the next.”
“Not think at all,” Helmud says.
“Fine,” Bradwell says.
The terrain eventually opens to hills, scrub pine, stalks of barren trees. They follow a road that’s been blasted to gravel. Some of the bits of rock still hold on to the yellow paint of the old dividing line.
They come to a river. Upstream there’s a dilapidated dam. The top of the dam is still intact but it’s covered with cracks and fissures, one of which leads to a hole that seems punched out of the middle of the dam, forming a spout. The river has reasserted itself below, churning and rushing, and Pressia can’t help but think of almost drowning, the deep chill of being locked underwater.
When they reach the dam, El Capitan climbs to the top of it, bends to one knee, and inspects the ground. “It’s passable,” he shouts. “There are animal tracks running across it, both ways.”
Bradwell says to Pressia, “We get to stay dry this time.” There’s something about the shine of his dark eyes that makes her want to dive into the water and almost drown just to lie down with him again—that feeling of being close to him.
“I guess we do.”
She climbs to the top of the dam. From there, she sees small clumps of rubble, collapsed buildings, ripped roads, a few charred husks of cars, a bus fallen to one side, disintegrating into the ground.
Bradwell follows her, and Fignan claws up next. “Quaint Americana,” he says.
“How much farther, Fignan?” El Capitan asks.
“Farther?” Helmud says.
Fignan calculates and says, “Eighteen point two miles.”
Bradwell stops. “Eighteen point two miles? That might put us close to DC. Can you put those coordinates up on a map from the Before, Fignan?”
El Capitan walks over.
Fignan shows a map, a wide angle of where they are and where they’re going.
“Close up on the destination,” Bradwell says.
Fignan tightens the screen.
“Is that DC?” Pressia asks.
Fignan’s screen freezes.
“That can’t be right,” Bradwell says.
“What is it?” Pressia asks.
“A dome,” Bradwell says. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
“What dome?” El Capitan says.
“It’s DC, all right,” Bradwell says. “Didn’t anyone ever take you on a field trip, Cap?”
“I went to a colonial village once,” he says. “We watched people make wax candles.”
“Is it a famous dome in DC?” Pressia asks.
Bradwell shakes his head. “It can’t still be standing.”
“What can’t be standing?” Pressia shouts. “Tell us!”
“The Capitol.”
“The capital of what?” Pressia asks.
Bradwell shoves his hands in his pockets and stares out into the distance. “The Capitol of the United States of America,” Bradwell says. “In other words, the Capitol Building. It was a dome. It was a beautiful dome.”
“Jesus,” El Capitan says. “The US Capitol Building? That dome? Is that where the airship is?”
Bradwell nods. “What’s left of it, I guess. Can’t be much.”
“Willux parked an airship at the US Capitol Building?” El Capitan says. “Now, that is sentimental!”
“Willux,” Helmud says, amazed.
The wind whips around them. Bradwell says, “You’re going to get your field trip after all, Cap.”
Pressia starts walking across the top of the dam. The wind is strong and when it gusts, she’s afraid it will kick her off. She hunkers lower. The wind lifts her hair, billows her pants and coat. She tries to imagine an airship inside a massive dome. What would that look like?
She makes the mistake of glancing over the steep edge, the water shooting from the hole, pounding and foaming below, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. When she looks up, she sees something dart out—a small, bristly-haired Beast. Its back is up, arched almost catlike. But it’s more like a large rat with sharp teeth, bared. It emits a sharp, high squeal. Its feet are thickly clawed, perhaps retractable. “We’ve got a friend here,” she says.
“I’ll take it out,” El Capitan says.
The Beast’s eyes are slightly rubied. “It’s going to pounce,” Pressia says. “You better have good aim.”
El Capitan raises his rifle very slowly. Helmud covers his ears. When the Beast hears El Capitan cock the gun, however, it leaps at Pressia. She crouches and rolls. El Capitan fires, but the Beast is in motion and he misses. Its narrow, fanged muzzle is now in Pressia’s face. She punches and rolls too close to the edge. Her legs slip off, just over the gaping hole spouting water. She’s holding on to the edge with her one hand and the elbow of her arm with the doll-head fist, her cheek skinned by the cement. The Beast is snarling in her face.
El Capitan lunges at the Beast this time, gripping the skin at the back of its neck as it bites and claws. Bradwell grabs Pressia’s arms. She holds tight to Bradwell’s coat sleeve, her knuckles against his muscled shoulder. He pulls her in close. She keeps a hold of his coat, steadying herself, catching her breath—soaking up the feeling of being close to him.
Helmud hits the Beast, trying to get it away from his brother. El Capitan finally wrestles loose. The Beast has drawn blood, but it caterwauls and limps away.
Hands on his knees, El Capitan is breathless. He looks up at Pressia and seems to notice the way she’s still holding on to the sleeve of Bradwell’s coat. If he thought there was a deeper allegiance between Bradwell and
Pressia, it might not sit right with him. El Capitan is unpredictable. She lets go of Bradwell, brushes dirt from her pants.
Bradwell says, “What the hell was that?”
“Some kind of weasel,” El Capitan says.
“I was almost killed by a weasel?” Pressia says.
“But you weren’t,” Bradwell says. “We saved you. Some would even call that romantic.”
“Not my definition of romantic,” El Capitan says.
“You’ve got a definition of romantic?” Bradwell says, surprised.
“What? I can’t be romantic?” El Capitan says. “So happens I believe in that kind of thing. But not just saving a girl. That’s only chivalry.”
Pressia remembers El Capitan’s voice, mournful and rough. Maybe the idea of Pressia and Bradwell together reminds El Capitan of the love he lost, the one he was singing about. It’s hard to imagine El Capitan in love, but of course he’s capable of love. He’s human, no matter how tough he pretends to be.
“Everyone gets to be romantic,” she says. “If that’s what they’re after.”
LYDA
VOW
LYDA IS SITTING ON A STOOL in the factory in a row of mothers, peeling the dry, rough skin of tubers. They’re pocked with nubs, some of which have grown little strings, almost like tentacles. Others have been kept in storage so long that they’ve grown what look to be purplish claws, as if they intend to turn into Beasts and crawl off. Lyda doesn’t mind the work, though. Once the skin is gone, they are bright white and slick. They slip like fish from her grip into the bucket to be filled; then they’ll be hauled off and steamed. The soft ticks and scrapes of paring knives are the only noises.
When she sees Mother Hestra walk through the factory’s empty door frame, her stomach knots. Mother Hestra has spent the morning waiting to make a request of Our Good Mother—to allow Mother Hestra and Lyda to speak to her alone about a private but urgent matter. Our Good Mother doesn’t usually accept requests for individual appointments. She believes in solidarity and that any piece of news is better absorbed by the group all at once. A wave could crash down on an individual and sweep them out to sea. But if we stand together, we buoy up and then down. It’s but a ripple.
Our Good Mother terrifies Lyda. She’d rather not talk to her at all.
And yet, Mother Hestra’s expression is one of muted triumph; even Syden looks like he’s happy. She says to Mother Egan, “Lyda has to come with me. This is a request of the highest order.”
Mother Egan says, “Highest order, huh?”
Mother Hestra nods.
“Fine, then. Lyda? You heard. Go on now.” Mother Egan is in charge of the tuber peeling and looks like a tuber herself—dry, dark skin, a few pocks. She doesn’t have a child attached to her. She lost her children during the Detonations. Lyda stands up, holding the hem of her apron, catching the peelings. She stands over the garbage and brushes the skins into the can and puts her stool back against the wall.
All the mothers are looking at Lyda now—their children too. They watch Lyda in a way she’s gotten used to. They’re proud to claim a Pure as one of their own, but they despise her too. They assume Lyda knows no suffering. Some whisper to her, “Aren’t you pretty?” and “You have very fair skin”—compliments, except their tone is hostile. Once she found a note on her pillow that read, Go back. We don’t need your kind here. And when Mother Egan first gave her a paring knife, she said, “Be careful with that. Wouldn’t want to scar that creamy Pure skin.”
It’s these times when Lyda misses Pressia. She didn’t know her well, but they went through a lot together, quickly, and Pressia never seemed to hold Lyda’s background against her. She’s sure that if she could tell Pressia about the pregnancy, she would have a real friend, a confidante. Where is Pressia now?
She misses Illia too; her stories, though strange and dark, were transporting, and they seemed to have lessons in them, the kind mothers hand down to daughters.
As she walks out of the cavernous room, she feels their eyes on her back. She wonders what they will think of her when word gets out that she’s pregnant. They’ll hate her even more, won’t they? For being careless and stupid. For giving herself over to a boy so thoughtlessly. They’ll think she’s a slut. She’s heard the word before. Three girls were whispered about like that at the girls’ academy. They wound up in the rehabilitation center. They stayed a long time and came back somber, wearing shiny wigs until their hair grew back. What punishment will be doled out here?
The day is overcast, the sky a darker gray. The clouds look more ashen at their edges.
“Did you tell her?” Lyda asks Mother Hestra.
“That’s for you to do. She knows there’s something to tell.”
“Will she kick me out? She wouldn’t do that to a young mother, would she?”
Mother Hestra doesn’t say anything for a moment. Finally she sighs. “She’s unknowable. But it’s good that we’re telling her alone first.”
They pass the graveyard. Part of her suddenly wants the music box back. But she knows she shouldn’t want this. Partridge is gone.
They walk to another building—the vat room, where Our Good Mother has been living. Two women stand guard at the door, heavily armed. They don’t have just spears and darts and knives—these are old weapons of choice; they now have guns stolen from the Basement Boys.
Mother Hestra says, “I’ve brought her back with me. Highest orders.”
They allow Lyda and Mother Hestra to step inside.
The vat itself sits in the center of the high-ceilinged room like a huge metal caldron. Our Good Mother’s throne is behind it. But today she’s not there. She’s lying on her back on a cot while one of the mothers pulls on her neck. The mother says, “Deep breath in and hold it. Ready?”
Our Good Mother closes her eyes lightly and nods.
The mother twists her head with a quick jerk. Our Good Mother’s neck pops. She sighs. “Thank you.”
The mother stands. She has a child sitting on one of her hips, resting her head on her mother’s chest. The mother sees Lyda and Mother Hestra. “Someone’s here for you.”
Our Good Mother looks over. “Yes, they have an appointment.” Lyda expects her to sit up but she doesn’t. Though it’s cold, Our Good Mother’s arms are bare, and Lyda can see the baby mouth in her biceps clearly. It’s wet with spittle and makes a little pursing motion with its lips. “Speak to me,” Our Good Mother says.
Mother Hestra says, “Lyda’s news is very—”
“Not you,” Our Good Mother says. Her eyes are closed again and she’s lying perfectly still. Lyda can see the hard metal of the window frame embedded in her chest, its light rise and fall in sync with her breathing. “Lyda, tell me this urgent news.”
Lyda takes a small step forward. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Is it news from the Dome? Has he contacted you?”
“Partridge?”
“Who else?”
“No,” Lyda says. “I don’t think he can.”
“So he’s abandoned you altogether?”
Lyda pauses. “I guess you could say that.”
“Well, that’s not news. A Death is a Death. This is what Deaths do. They leave.”
She looks back at Mother Hestra. Tell her, Mother Hestra urges. Do it.
“But before . . .” Lyda says, turning back to Our Good Mother. “Before he left . . .”
Our Good Mother opens her eyes.
Lyda takes a deep breath. “Before he left when we were running, Special Forces were everywhere and—”
Our Good Mother pushes herself up to a sitting position. She looks at Lyda, her eyes tightening, her face covered with the small fissures of wrinkles.
“We were alone when we were running. And there was the warden’s house. It had no roof and—”
“Tell me what happened in the warden’s house.”
“The top floor,” Lyda says. “There was nothing over our heads. And there was an old bed frame. Four posters. Bras
s—”
“What did he do to you in the warden’s house, Lyda?”
Lyda shakes her head. She can tell she’s about to cry. She knits her fingers together. “He didn’t do anything to me. It wasn’t like that.”
“Are you trying to tell me that he raped you?”
“No!”
Our Good Mother stands up. “You’re saying that he abducted you from Mother Hestra, dragged you to the warden’s house, where no one would hear you scream.” She moves in close to Lyda’s face. “And he raped you?”
“That’s not how it happened! He didn’t rape me. It wasn’t like that.”
Our Good Mother slaps Lyda so hard and fast that it doesn’t even hurt at first. It only burns and then the stinging rises, hotly, to her cheek. She reaches out, and Mother Hestra’s hand is there to steady her.
“Don’t ever defend a Death,” Our Good Mother says. “Not here. Not to me.” She whips away from Lyda, walks to the wall, raises her fists, and pounds them on the wall until she whimpers from the pain. She stops and seems to be frozen there, her head swung low.
“She’s pregnant,” Mother Hestra says softly.
“I know,” Our Good Mother says.
The room is completely quiet for a long time. Finally, Lyda can’t take it anymore. “What are you going to do to me?” she asks.
“I’m not going to do anything to you,” Our Good Mother says. “It’s what I’m going to do for you.” Our Good Mother’s voice is a rough whisper. It scares Lyda more than her fists on the wall.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to kill him,” she says matter-of-factly.
“What?” Still shaken and unsteady from the slap, Lyda’s knees almost give out beneath her. “No, please.”
“It’s the truth,” Our Good Mother says. “I will kill him, and to get to him, I will have to kill others along the way. It’s inevitable, but it’s time we planned an attack on the Dome. Time to fight.” She walks to Lyda.
Lyda can’t fathom that something so fleeting and quick and innocent could start a war. Others are going to die because of those few moments in the warden’s roofless house. “Don’t,” Lyda whispers, crying. “Not for me.”