Willux claps his hands and calls out to some unseen assistant. “Roll section one twenty-seven—Partridge.” Then he says to Lyda, “So you can see for yourself.”
The computer screen stutters to life and Partridge appears. He’s dirty, exhausted, bruised, but still Partridge. His light gray eyes, his strong white teeth—one slightly overlaps the other. He’s being looked at through someone’s eyes. A girl’s eyes. Lyda can see the girl’s body as she glances down and then back at Partridge.
Partridge whispers to her, “I didn’t know. Not until you did. I’d never hold back something like that.” Something like what? Lyda wonders. It’s obvious that he knows this girl well. Lyda wishes that she could see the girl’s face. The girl is no longer looking at Partridge. Her eyes scan the back wall cluttered with broken, gutted machinery. They’re outside the Dome.
“I just wanted you to know that,” Partridge says. And there’s his face again, and his hand is wrapped in a bloody bandage and held up to his chest. He smiles at the girl.
The girl nods; evident from the bob of the camera angle.
“How do you feel about her now?” Pressia asks. Are they talking about Lyda? She can’t help but wonder. Why else show her this clip?
“I don’t know,” Partridge says.
The screen fades to black.
“He’s hurt,” Lyda says. “What happened to his hand?”
“A small injury. Nothing to worry about. We can correct almost anything here.”
“Why did you show me that?”
“Just so that you can see he’s alive and well!” Willux says.
She doesn’t trust him. He showed it to her to make her jealous. The fact is that she’s been lying to them and to herself. She kissed Partridge, not the other way around. He never told her that he loved her. It’s all a lie. He can try to make her jealous if he wants to. She doesn’t care. She never really had Partridge, so she can’t really lose him.
But there’s something else too. Partridge kissed her back, and when she pulled away, his face—it’s inexplicable. He was astonished and happy. She thinks of his face now and smiles. Let Willux do whatever he wants to with all of his information. She remembers again Partridge whispering to her, “Let’s do what normal people do so no one suspects.” He was the one to say it. They were just pretending to be normal. They were set apart, different from the others. It was a kind of confession, a shared secret.
“Why are you smiling?” Willux asks.
“It’s good news. Your son is alive.”
Willux looks at her appraisingly, and then he lifts the pale blue box and hands it to her. “You will deliver this box to a soldier,” he says. Again his hand shakes. “We hoped she would work with us, but she’s already participated in the death and destruction of one of our own operatives.” He takes a deep breath and sighs. “I’ve kept an eye on her for many years. A shiny lure for someone I hoped would retrieve her one day. She’s proven pretty worthless.”
A shiny lure so he could trap someone on the outside? Who? Lyda asks a simpler, more permissible question. “May I ask what’s inside the box?”
“Of course,” he says, and now she notes a tremor, ever so slight, a bobble of his head. “Take a look. I don’t think it will mean much to you, but the soldier, Pressia Belze, will understand the message we’re sending. It might help to convince her to refocus her loyalties. You can tell her that’s all we have left.”
Left of what? she wonders, but she doesn’t ask. She doesn’t want to open the box, but she has to know. She fits her hand over the lid and lifts it, rustling the pale blue tissue paper inside. She pulls it aside and, there, nestled in the tissue is a small fan with a dead motor, its plastic blades motionless.
PARTRIDGE
STRINGS
THEY HEADED OUT BEFORE DAWN. It’s still early morning and they’ve come a long way. Six large women flank either side. A lot of the children are asleep, and heavier as a result, Partridge figures. One woman, whose fused child rides on her hip, supports the child’s head by keeping it pressed to her chest with one hand, a butcher’s knife in the other.
They walk in silence, passing blasted homes, rows of them completely gone, scorched foundations laid bare. Then they pass a few that are simply charred frames. Sometimes the bricks survived in part. Occasionally, the house is gone, but in its place, as if the setting of some disturbing play, there’s a living room of brittle blackened foam, the spokes of a chair or the skull of a sink, too wrecked to be of value. Partridge can’t concentrate. He’s searching his memory for a fight between his parents, a moment of heated tempers, hostility, seething anger. His father knew his mother had another child, not his. He had to. He knew Pressia’s location. He wanted her to find Partridge. Why? Does he have a flare for the ironic? Did he want to taunt his mother with both of her surviving children? Is it possible—even remotely—that his father wants to see his mother because he loves her, he wants her back, he needs to tell her that he forgives her? He knows it’s a childish desire—two parents who are in love, a happy home. But he can’t help it. His father did love her once, he had to. Her memory pains him. Partridge has seen it on his face.
They walk by more strip malls, ravaged, picked clean, and institutions—they’re the worst. The stench lingers even though bodies have long since rotted away. The institutions offer no fairy tale. Partridge can’t supply them with a swan wife or lost wings. They’re proof of the oppression that preceded the end of it all, the Return of Civility.
It smells like death and rot. He remembers the strangely sweet, fecund smell of the dead body he found wrapped in reeds, the shepherd’s wife, bound up. He tries to shake the image from his head.
There are other survivors out here. Partridge hears them—a hooting call, the sound of rummaging, an animal’s low moan, and sometimes the women pause and listen, their heads all swiveling in the same direction. But no one attacks them.
The farther they travel, the less there is to see. The landscape is flat except for the distant hills in the east. The dirt has turned black. With nothing to bar it, the wind kicks up and rips along in dark sheets.
The women produce scarves from some unseen pockets and wrap their children’s faces and their own. Partridge already wears a scarf. Bradwell covers his face with his arm. One of the women gives Pressia a scarf.
Partridge is keeping a close eye on Pressia. He’s worried about her. She’s been through so much, all at once. But Pressia is tough. Partridge knows it.
Eventually, the woman with the child’s head pressed to her chest says, “This is as far as we go.”
Partridge would tell her thank you, but he paid for this with his pinky. He can’t muster the appreciation.
“Thank you,” Pressia says.
Bradwell tells them to thank Mother for them. “We are indebted,” he says and he looks at Partridge, who can only mutter, “Yeah.”
The woman says, “Keep searching the ground. Look out for their eyes.”
They begin to bow their good-byes, but then one of the women walks up to Partridge. She has long gray hair. She grips his arm and says, “If your mother is alive, tell her I said thank you.”
“Did you know her?” Partridge says.
The woman nods. “You don’t recognize him?” she asks. And there, hiding behind her, is a boy about eight years old. His hair is long and shaggy, his face shiny with burns. He looks at Partridge intently. “It’s Tyndal,” she says. “He doesn’t speak.”
Partridge stares at the boy and then back at the woman. “Mrs. Fareling?”
“I thought you’d recognize him because, well, he hasn’t grown up.”
Partridge feels unsteady. Tyndal is still a boy, a mute boy, fused forever to his mother. Partridge says, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Mrs. Fareling says. “Your mother got me out of the rehab center. I don’t know how. She pulled some strings, I guess. And I got a release. Something handed down. And by the time the Detonations hit, I was back at home with Tyndal.”
/> “Tyndal,” Partridge whispers, gazing into the boy’s face as if still searching for him.
The boy gives a series of short and long nods, perhaps a kind of code.
“He wants to wish you good luck,” Mrs. Fareling says, reading the nods.
“Thanks,” Partridge says.
And then Mrs. Fareling reaches out and grabs Partridge and pulls him to her chest. She holds him, her fists gripping his jacket. He hugs her. “She saved us,” Mrs. Fareling says, crying now. “I hope she’s alive.”
“She is,” Partridge whispers. “I’ll tell her that you survived. I’ll tell her that you’re thankful.”
Mrs. Fareling lets Partridge go. She gazes at him. “It’s strange to hug you like that,” she says. “I suppose, if things were different, Tyndal would be your size.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, because there’s nothing else to say. Nothing could make it right. He wishes his father could see Tyndal Fareling.
“It’s time,” she says. “Be well.”
Partridge nods.
She pats his arm and so does Tyndal with his tiny hand.
“Thank you for everything,” Partridge says. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Fareling and Tyndal bow and walk on with the other mothers and children, back home again.
“Are you okay?” Bradwell asks.
“Fine,” Partridge says. “I’m ready.”
They each take out a knife and move on. But Partridge looks back. The women raise their hands to wave. He lifts his knife to wave back. And then a swift cloud of ash rises up, and he can no longer see the mothers. They are out here on their own now.
LYDA
OPEN
THE GUARDS FROM THE REHABILITATION CENTER are gone when Lyda emerges from Willux’s office. Instead there are two male guards. They escort her to a solitary train car where she is passed off to a third male guard, heavily armed, bulky, with a small scar on his chin.
This guard travels with her through darkened tunnels. She sits in one of the seats, the pale blue box in her lap, watching the dark tunnel walls glide past the windows. The guard stands, his feet spread apart, firmly planted. He shifts his weight as the train switches tracks.
The guard must know she’s going to be taken to the outside, but she isn’t sure if he knows why.
“Will I be given a contamination suit?” she asks.
“No,” he says.
“What about a mask?”
“And block that pretty face from view?”
“Have you ever escorted someone out of the Dome before?” she asks.
“A girl? First time.”
He’s escorted boys out? She’s not sure she believes him. No one was ever said to have left the Dome before Partridge. Why would boys be sent out? She’s never heard of such a thing. “Which boys?” she asks. “Who?”
“The ones you never hear from again,” the guard says.
“What about Willux’s son?” she asks.
“Which one?”
“Partridge, of course,” she says a little impatiently. “He didn’t get out this way. Did he?”
He laughs. “He wasn’t ready for the outside. I doubt he’s still alive.” He says it as if he hopes he isn’t alive, as if this would prove something.
The train slows to a stop. The doors open directly into a long white tiled hall. An intercom is attached to the wall of each chamber. He walks with her through the first three chambers. He says the word, “Open,” and the door opens, they walk through, and the door closes behind them.
“There are three more chambers to go. You’ll step through each door when it slides open. The final door will open to the outside. The loading dock is closed.”
“The loading dock?”
“We’re not as cut off as you’d think,” he says.
“What do we load?”
“We unload,” he says. “One day it’ll be ours again.” He means the earth itself, and she worries for a moment that he’s going to launch into a speech about how they are the rightful heirs to paradise—temporarily displaced. He simply says, “We’re blessed.”
“Yes, blessed,” she says, more out of habit than anything.
“Someone will be waiting for you,” he says. “Special Forces.”
“They send Special Forces out of the Dome?”
“They aren’t human; they’re creatures. Don’t be surprised by their appearance.” She’s seen Special Forces before in stunning white uniforms, that small elite corps; they weren’t creatures. They were half a dozen strong young men.
“What will this person look like?”
He doesn’t answer. How can she prepare herself if he won’t tell her what to expect? He glances at the intercom box and the eye fixed in the upper reaches of the ceiling. She takes this to mean he can’t tell her, not allowed. He says, “I’ve got to pat you down. Standard procedure. Make sure you’re only taking with you what’s meant to go.”
“Fine,” she says though she hates it. “I’m supposed to bring the box with me and deliver it.”
“I know.” The guard pats down her legs, her hips, her lower ribs. “Arms up,” he says. He’s brusque, professional, and she’s thankful for that. She’s surprised when he holds her jaw steady with two hands and tells her to open her mouth. He peers inside, using a small handheld flashlight. He says, “Ears,” and he turns her head. Again, the flashlight. He studies one ear and then, when he studies the other, he whispers, very softly, “Tell the swan we’re waiting.”
She isn’t sure that she understands what he’s just said. The swan?
“All done!” he says. “You’re cleared.”
She wants to say, Waiting for what? And who is doing the waiting? Who is we?
But she can tell by his abrupt tone that she can’t ask questions.
“There will be three doors. The last one leads to the outside.” He looks her in the eye and says, “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” she says.
He faces the door they’ve just come through. “Open,” he says. The door glides open. He steps through it, leaving her. The door glides shut.
She’s alone. She faces the door before her. “Open,” she says. It does. She walks through it, and it closes quickly behind her. She does this once more and then she’s standing before the final door. She’s not sure what to expect. She sets the pale blue box down on the floor, pulls the white kerchief from her head, places it over her nose and mouth, and ties it at the back of her head.
She picks up the box, grips it in her hands. “Open,” she says.
And there, before her, is a gust of wind, dirt, sky—and something cutting across that sky. A real bird.
PARTRIDGE
SMALL RIB CAGES
PARTRIDGE DOESN’T LIKE THAT IT’S QUIET. He doesn’t like the way the wind has died or the way Pressia keeps saying, “Something’s not right,” and how this makes Bradwell nervous.
“Do you think we’ve timed this trip with some kind of feeding frenzy somewhere else?” Partridge says.
“Yeah, Partridge, maybe the Dusts are busy devouring a bus full of schoolchildren,” Bradwell says. “Wouldn’t that be lucky!”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Partridge says.
The ground gets soft underfoot.
That’s when Partridge sees a small creature, ash-colored, almost mouse-size, but not a mouse. It isn’t furred. It’s covered in sandy char, and its ribs look exposed, as if skinless. For a moment it darts across the ground then disappears into it, absorbed by earth. “What was that?”
“What?” Pressia says.
“It was something like a mouse or a mole.” Partridge looks out to the blurred line where the dirt becomes underbrush that leads to the hills. He sees motion—not a mouse or a mole but instead a tumble of action, a roiling wave. “I think there’s more than one.”
And then, in an instant, there’s a small rising cloud, just a foot high, rolling toward them.
“How many do you think there are?” Pressia ask
s.
“Too many to count,” Bradwell says. The storm of small Dusts coming at them is accompanied by a high-pitched tone—not one squeal but many, all ringing out together.
The wind starts up again. Soon they’re all leaning into the gusts. Pressia pulls two knives from her jacket. Partridge has a knife and a meat hook. His stumped finger throbs, but he’s still got his grip. Bradwell has a stun gun and a small sharp knife. The ground is vibrating. The air smells thick and putrid.
“What are we going to do? Plan?” Partridge shouts.
“Stay here with Pressia!” Bradwell says, and with that he lifts his weapons and lets out a barbaric yawp. He charges the storm of small Dusts.
The Dusts, with their beady quick black eyes and partially exposed skeletons, move in a pack. Some are locked together, rib-cage-to-rib-cage, jawbone-to-jawbone. Some have fused skulls. Others are stacked on top of one another. And all of them are tied to the earth. It comes with them as they overtake Bradwell. They don’t exist alone. They are Groupies that are also Dusts bound to the earth. With scrambling claws, they run up Bradwell’s body, bringing with them what seems to be a hem of the earth, a dirt blanket that they could use to smother him.
It happens quickly. Bradwell is cutting the blanket of earth and small bodies with quick slices of his knife. The Dusts fall, but there are more, always more. He’s covered in them, like he’s trapped in a coat of small roving ashy beasts.
Pressia starts to run toward him, but Partridge shoves her so hard, she falls back. “I’ll go.”
Pressia shouts, “What the hell is wrong with you?” Her mouth covered with a scarf, her hair whipping around her head, she’s holding her knife, and her doll-head fist is ready to throw a punch. That’s his little sister. It hits him with such force that he’s momentarily stunned. His little sister. “Stay here!” he says.
“No!” she shouts. “I’m fighting.”