The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) Page 22

  Miya

  01:22. 30.10.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

  The machine disappears. One second I hear it slicing through the air, and the next it’s not there. It doesn’t fly away, doesn’t fall to the ground. It just … vanishes. It’s done its job I guess. Dust rains down on us. I cling to my family and they cling back. I don’t know if Thomas or Olive understand what’s happening but it’s obvious. The dust—we’re being poisoned.

  So this is how we die? Not shot by Officials, not on the run, not in the coming war, but choking on the bitter ash of poison snow. Now that all my choices have been stolen from me, I realise I want to be part of the revolution. I want to see the President’s power dismantled. I want to see the world remade. I want to watch my brother and sister grow up, want to find a proper house and live with Siah. I want to live.

  But I’m dying.

  I sit there, rigid-backed between a freezing bin and a brick wall, and I wait to die. But nothing happens. Yosiah doesn’t move from where he rests against me, his face pressed to my neck. Tom and Livy are unmoving.

  Slowly the thought seeps in, a more fatal poison.

  I’m alive but my family is dead.

  I daren’t move, daren’t check them. If I don’t move or breathe or speak, I’ll never have to find out that everyone I love is dead. I shut my eyes and fight tears.

  Yosiah’s grip on me tightens.

  I choke on a breath. “Siah?”

  He lifts his head. I lose the battle between me and my tears.

  “Miya.” His fingers are gentle on my cheeks, brushing tears away. “Miya.”

  I tangle my fingers in his hair and bring his forehead to mine. My heart pounds a frantic beat. “You alive?” I ask. I feel delirious.

  “As alive as you.”

  Siah’s alive. Siah’s alive. But Olive, Thomas?

  My shaking hands move over my brother and sister. I pray they’re alive but I’m terrified they’re not. Tom groans and Olive swears at me and my tears come faster, burning down my cheeks. They’re okay. We’re alive. I lean my head back against the wall. They’re fine. I can stop crying now.

  Except the tears refuse to stop coming.

  I hardly ever cry. I do everything not to—not because it’s a sign of weakness but because it’s impossible for me to stop once I’ve started. It’s always been that way for me. If I cry for a minute, I’ll cry for an hour.

  “You can’t break down,” Siah says, right by my ear. “Not now. Not here. We need to get away from here.” When I don’t respond, his voice hardens. “Miya. We’re not safe. We have to get out of this town. Do you need me to carry you?”

  Yes, is my first thought. I need you to carry me. But if he carries me, Livy and Tom will have to walk and they can’t run fast enough. I slide my eyes slowly to Yosiah. His face is a white smear in the darkness, every part of him coated in pale grey ash. He swallows once, twice. His eyes sweep every inch of my face. I can’t keep sitting here crying, half a person. My family needs me to be whole, to be Miya, not Leah Vanella.

  “I can walk just fine,” I say. My voice is hoarse but strong.

  I scrub my cheeks dry and help my brother and sister to stand, checking them over. They’re scared but unhurt. Gradually, we pull ourselves together, brush the dust from our hair, and tumble out of our sanctuary into the unknown danger of the town. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

  The need to cry has left me but a deep, raw ache makes its home in my chest. Siah must be able to see the pain beyond the thickest, fiercest mask over my features because he takes my hand. Not my wrist—my hand. My palm flat against the scorching comfort of his callused own. It soothes the ache.

  “Just hold on a bit longer,” he says.

  So I do.

  A bright light slices the sky. We don’t know what it is, but we have nothing else to aim for, no idea which roads lead to safety and which roads lead to Officials. We walk past rubble and glass, past gruesome bodies and torn limbs, blood and bone and ash. I try to shield my brother and sister from the worst parts of it but the carnage is everywhere. Olive’s eyes shine with fear. Tom cries silently.

  We walk until the beam of light hangs over us, a silver dagger in the gloom. I look to Yosiah—he’s the only one of us who’s ever calm when things go wrong—but he’s squinting at the sky and doesn’t see my unspoken questions. His expression is guarded, half his face completely shadowed.

  He looks at me suddenly, his gaze traveling the length of me. “Okay?”

  I don’t bother answering—he already knows I’m not. I don’t feel right. I haven’t for a while but tonight is worse. It’s the sharp ache my nightmares leave with me but instead of fading, this lingers. I want to stop in the middle of the street and smog and have Yosiah hold me together. His touch used to terrify me but lately I’ve begun to wish for it, his chest so close I can feel his beating heart against my rib cage.

  “A little further,” he says. His hands reach out to me and then reconsider, curling into fists.

  We come to a road populated with fallen people. Yosiah and I share an uneasy look. I scrutinise the bodies for what killed them but there’s no blood, no wounds, no obvious sign they’re dead at all. Siah kneels beside one of them, sharing my suspicions, but we’re both wrong. He shakes his head. They’re not just unconscious.

  “Smoke,” Yosiah says quietly.

  “Then why—”

  “Immunity.”

  “But—” I look down at my brother and sister. It doesn’t make sense.

  “Remember what Timofei said? Anyone who comes into contact with me for a long time gets it too.”

  “Oh.” I’m grateful for whatever made Siah immune to the Sixteen Strains, for it being contagious enough to protect my siblings, but why would the immunity protect us against the smoke? “Do you think—the smoke—?” Is it The Sixteen Strains?

  “Yes.”

  Livy elbows my leg. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “They don’t want us to know,” Tom mumbles. The first words he’s spoken since we almost died.

  “It’s not something you need to—Holy shit.” The darkness gives way to a dozen streams of torchlight, the isolation becoming people milling around a crossroads. After the loneliness of the past hour, this is too much. Too much life and sound and action.

  I lead my family through the streams of people, trying to ignore the pain shooting up my leg, building and building with every bit of pressure I put on my twisted ankle. Everyone is talking and shouting, sitting on the curb or standing around waiting, running back and forth or striding with purpose. It feels unreal, like we’ve stepped into some other world where nobody is dead and nothing went wrong.

  Honour and Branwell come hurtling towards us and I didn’t realise that I’d assumed they were dead until right now. I thought we were the last ones left but people are here. Our friends are here. A little of my pain turns to relief.

  A blur of grey and Timofei is embracing Yosiah, shaking badly. He thought Siah was dead. Yosiah’s tight grip on Timofei’s shoulders says he thought the same. Out there I didn’t think about Timofei for a single second, didn’t wonder if he was one of the dead bodies. Guilt adds itself to the brew of unwanted feelings in my gut. Timofei lets out a shuddering breath and steps back, like his moment of jagged relief never happened.

  “Are you alright?” Branwell asks, reminding me he’s there. Honour is still hovering at his side, too. I think I nod an answer but can’t be sure.

  I sit down in the middle of the street, so tired and worn down that I don’t care anymore. Tom curls against my chest, Livy sits cross-legged beside me, and Yosiah’s fingers find a home in the tangled strands of my hair.

  An hour or so goes by. Eventually I look up and see only Guardians, the Manchester civilians nowhere around. Branwell tells us they’re all dead, killed by the smoke on the horizon along with too many Guardians. There are only twenty two of us now. Timofei has a theory it
’s because we’ve all spent time close to Siah, that the immunity has passed on. Timofei has a lot of theories. I’m forced to listen to them as we climb the ten flights of stairs of a fire escape, following Guardian orders. Eventually we reach a high roof with an X painted on it. A plane shaped like an arrowhead is sat right in the middle of it, shiny and black.

  Branwell tumbles onto the rooftop, his face lighting up when he sees the plane. “Please tell me that is our way to safety.”

  “That’s our way to safety,” Timofei tells him.

  “This is worth every almost-death I’ve ever suffered.”

  “What a moron,” Livy sneers as Bran stares at the plane like it’s a million credits.

  I shake my head at the both of them and herd them toward the aircraft.

  “Is it safe, Leah?” Tom asks.

  “Yeah,” I lie, hoisting myself onto the steel ladder. “Come on.”

  ***

  Honour

  03:29. 30.10.2040. The Free Lands, Northlands, Leeds.

  All of the Manchester residents are dead. Except one. She sits at the back of the aircraft, tucked into a corner of black metal, watching each and every one of us. I bet we look pathetic: Tia speechless and exhausted; Dalmar and Hele clinging to each other; Branwell forcing himself to be optimistic; Miya and Yosiah ferocious despite looking like hell; and me—lacking in every kind of faith, barely holding myself together.

  I wonder if everything looks as hopeless to her as it does to me.

  How are we supposed to make a difference? We’re meant to rally everyone left on this island, go to Bharat and devise a plan, and then take apart the Ordering Body of States. We’re meant to do that. People are waiting on us to save them. We’re their only chance at freedom, at survival.

  I want to laugh and cry at the same time.

  When I raise my eyes again the Manchester survivor is sat in the aisle opposite me, her head tilted to the side as she watches me. Her eyes are creased with something that could be thinking or curiosity. There’s a bird tattooed in gold across the entire right side of her face, one of its wings curling under her chin.

  “Hi,” I say uncertainly. I pull on a loose strand of cotton at the hem of my shirt and it unravels.

  “Hello.” One side of her mouth turns down in an upside down smile. “I’m Kari. You know my brother.”

  “I do?”

  “Yosiah.”

  “Oh.” Now I notice the shared eye colour, the straight nose, the same shrewd way of watching people. “I didn’t know he had a sister.”

  “Well.” She tucks black hair behind her ear. “He didn’t know I was alive. You look defeated.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You look defeated. It’s not because of the attack on Manchester, is it? It’s something else.” She tilts her head further, looking too closely at me. I squirm, not liking it at all. “You’ve lost yourself,” she says. “You’ve forgotten who you are.”

  “And who am I?”

  “You don’t—” Her eyes widen. She flinches away. “You really have forgotten. You don’t remember at all.”

  “Don’t remember what?” I’m getting angry now. Why is Yosiah’s sister talking like she knows me?

  “Nothing.” She unhooks the hair from behind her ear and stands stiffly. With a tight smile and sad eyes, she returns to her seat at the back of the plane. I don’t understand the look on her face, or why I caused it, or what I’ve forgotten.

  I shake my head, her words repeating.

  You’ve forgotten who you are.

  ***

  Bennet

  11:00. 30.10.2040. Bharat, Delhi.

  With nothing much better to do, I join some of the Guardians in one of their lessons. It’s something about mathematics, though in the patches of spoken English they call it a different word. I am beginning to wish I’d gone to the library instead, despite its profound loneliness. I sigh, propping my chin on my hand as I watch the tutor pace the front of the classroom, her white Guardian sari trailing across the floor with each footfall.

  I squint to make out the words written on the chalkboard, the artificial lighting beginning to spread its vexation from my itching eyes to a burst of pain behind my eyebrow, when a resounding boom rocks the room. Students stand suddenly, transforming from children wanting to learn to Guardians ready to fight. The tutor rattles a drawer in her desk and produces a long cylinder—a gun powered by a mix of electricity and the sun’s power that I have seen tear a wall apart in weapons training.

  A second quake echoes through the whole underground structure, loosing dust from the arched ceiling above us. Footsteps, pounding against the corridor outside. Guardians screaming orders, yelling to remain calm, howling at a third explosion. Thundering, from somewhere to the right of the classroom, aggressive bangs coming rhythmically like a twisted drum beat.

  “Raid,” a man outside calls. “Get to your stations.” The instruction is repeated in Hindi and then again in English and again in Hindi. Over and over—get to your stations, remain calm, arm yourselves. A bolt of panic has struck me and travelled the length of my body, from the crown of my head to the very tips of my toes.

  The room empties, students running out to gather their guns. Words are spoken, shouted, but I hear nothing. I see only their mouths moving.

  I’m affected by a panic I haven’t felt since I found myself stranded in Mumbai without Branwell, when the shock fell away to nothing but tremors and quick breathing. By the time I came back to myself an hour and twenty-three minutes had passed, which wasn’t surprising. My fits of terror have always taken hours from me, sometimes even half days. I used to fall into this state at home but I always had my twin brother to calm me. Where is Bran now, when I need him?

  A wave of bodies pushes down the corridor. Through the open door, I see men and women all clothed in a light khaki sweeping aside Guardians and charging into rooms. Three men burst into the classroom I occupy. My body ignores my every desire to flee. I am trapped in the arms of a monster of my own creation. My heart persists, thumping away like the a great piston, but it might as well surrender. I am a useless machine, an unmoving machine, and I have no need of a heart.

  The strangers move around me, turning out drawers and tearing down cabinets but overlooking me. Perhaps they come across frozen girls every day of their lives. Perhaps a frozen girl is nothing compared to the unspeakable things they have seen and perpetrated. My imagination combines with my fear. Tears spring to my eyes.

  Vast was right. They had planned a raid. They want the Miracle. But he was wrong on one account—they haven’t waited until next month to come for it. It was a grave mistake to make and the dread of them finding it slithers down my throat, closing my airwaves.

  A girl says something to me but her voice is distant and strange. I couldn’t tell you if she was Guardian or enemy. It’s as if I have fallen face first into a pool. As if water has rushed into my ears to deafen me to everything outside the bubble of panic I’m in. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the darkness will bring me clarity and breath.

  Noises move around me, funnelled through a veil of distortion: men speaking in clipped Hindi, furniture clattering over, distant thuds from along the corridor, Vast shouting, someone crying. Everyone around me is distressed and it serves only to fuel my own fright. I press the palms of my hands over my ears, refusing to open my eyes even when a body breezes past me, the foreign scent of peppermint twining with the musk and dusty scent of this base.

  Someone screams. I open my eyes. Days could have passed. The classroom I’m in is now vacant but there are people streaming along the corridors, most of them dressed in white but others in the khaki-beige that must be the Bharatian Police’s uniform. It’s the colour of dust, of gravel driveways and murky paint water.

  My courage has shrunk down to a fleck but now that I can move, I refuse to stay still. I push my way into the corridor, my heartbeat in my ears, and follow the flow of people. I know instantly where they’re going—I recognise the rou
te. Everyone is headed for the stairwell to the laboratories. They’ve found it.

  Please, no.

  The rush of noise in my head is increasing, worries and questions and theories all knotted together. I use the pointy end of my elbow to create a clear path through Guardians and police alike, batting away shouts in Hindi. What will we do if they have found it? What will happen to our cause? To my purpose?

  I surge free of the crowd at the top of the stairs and my heart drops to the floor. I imagine it flopping helplessly, like a fish taken from its pond.

  A group of Bharatian police are removing every bit of equipment they can get their hands on. A high screeching noise—machinery—echoes up the staircase. A woman is putting several vials of blue-gold-green liquid into a padded box. The Miracle. They have it. We’ve lost it.

  I have no chance, now. No hope of ever going home. I will never find Branwell or embrace Carolina or kiss Joel. My life might as well stop right now.

  I stumble against a wall and press my hands to my eyes, flashes of light slipping through the shadow of my fingers. What will happen now? What will these policemen do with the Miracle, and the other liquid … the weapon? Nothing good. Nothing good can come from this.

  I remember reading about the waves of sickness that consumed the world when the Strains were first unleashed. First they swallowed Europe, and then Africa, Asia, and the rest of the world. I can imagine what it would be like to be there at the beginning. The first wave—that’s what I am part of now. Destruction will reign supreme in this City and it will do nothing but spread and spread and spread.

  That is, after all, what diseases do.

  The end of the world starts here.

  The Dark Soldiers may have attempted complete destruction with their flares and diseases, may have obliterated half the world, but the Dust Soldiers are here to finish the job.