Earthbound
Page 90
He nods but says nothing. He already knew. It’s why he came here tonight. To take her off my hands.
He can have her.
We stare at each other for a very long time—sometimes I think words are scarcely necessary between us anymore.
Then, without a word or even a goodbye, he turns and leaves—nimbly working the hidden catch on the secret door. I look at the door that only looks like a wall now and I distantly hear the minutes ticking away on my grandfather clock.
“Do better than I did,” I whisper.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Phoenix!”
The call wakes me and I rub my arm across my face. Last time I woke up, I was drooling.
I unfold myself from my seat, half afraid my skeleton is going to be permanently fused into the shape of a bus seat. Eight buses, over three thousand miles, and four nights sleeping on the ground. Technically I could have slept in the stations, protected from the elements. Or even in a hotel—I have money and, well, a small fortune in gold coins, not to mention the ability to make more if I really had to. But all those choices were bound to get me caught and, most likely, killed. So spiderwebbed bushes and wet, cold grass have been my hosts for the last few nights.
It’s been murder on my spine—not to mention my leg—and every muscle in my body is aching as I shamble toward the bus door. The last step proves to be a little too much and I stumble out into the sunshine and throw a hand over my eyes, like a bear cub emerging from hibernation.
And into a subtle feeling so unfamiliar it takes me a few seconds to recognize it.
Warmth. Beams of sunlight spreading soft heat through my body, warming my skin, heating the air that I breathe. I give myself a few moments to stand there, soaking in the revitalizing rays. I’m not sure I’ve been completely warm since the night I left Portsmouth. We’ve driven through snow, hail, even had to delay a drive due to a fluke tornado in Montana. People all around me were theorizing about global warming and solar flares, but I kept my mouth shut. I don’t yet understand the connection between the extreme weather and the virus—but Elizabeth said it was there, and I know now to believe her.
It takes a few minutes to orient myself, to get used to walking on a surface that doesn’t move and sway. Being still doesn’t feel normal anymore.
Jeez, I smell. The hasty washings I’ve managed to get in bathrooms on my way across the country haven’t been nearly enough. But better than being a Reduciata prisoner, I remind myself.
I hardly feel like myself anymore. No, that’s not quite right. I hardly feel like Tavia anymore. The last five days I’ve let the voices that came out when I was fighting Marie become part of me. I’ve filled half a notebook with what I can remember of them. Shihon the warrior queen from before time had meaning, Embeth the faceless scullery maid with dreams she couldn’t understand, Kahonda, an Indian huntress who died young on a search for something she couldn’t put into words.
And Sonya. And Rebecca.
They are me now, and I am them.
And we all need one thing. To find him.
Because now that I’ve had a chance to read the secret part of Rebecca’s journal—twice—we all know just what we’re running from. I don’t know what kind of future I do or don’t have with Logan, but I have to find him and protect him from these people. It’s more than a little terrifying to realize how many disasters I’ve read about in history that can be attributed to Earthbounds—usually affiliated with the Reduciata, but not always. The Mongol invasion of China, the great Indian famine, the Deluge of Poland and Lithuania, and even—if the Curatoria are to be believed: the Black Plague—a practice run of the virus now devastating the world. It ravaged Europe seven hundred years ago, but apparently that wasn’t enough for the Reduciata. This virus is supposed to be ten times worse. Ten times as deadly.
That this is success in the Reduciata’s eyes sickens me.
It makes me wonder what they’ve been involved in since Rebecca’s account. The Great Depression? World wars? Even natural disasters like the huge tsunamis of the last decade could potentially be laid at their feet.
I push those thoughts away again. I have to focus on step one—finding Logan. Step two is too big to think about now.
Too impossible.
I look at the scrap of paper I copied Logan’s address onto, even though I have it memorized.
A cab. I need a cab.
I need to get to him—to make sure he’s still alive.
And if he is, then it’ll all be worth it.
No. Not worth it. But somehow justified. I need this Logan to be the right one. To be Quinn. Because I can’t save anyone without my partner, of that much I’m certain. And I need their deaths to mean something. Sammi, Mark, Elizabeth.
Benson, my mind says, but I shove that thought back. He’s not dead.
But I kind of wish he was.
Still, too many people have died for me, for us. And not just in this life.
I look around. I don’t know how to find a cab. I stand in the parking lot looking lost for several minutes before I realize the three neon-green cars on the far end of the parking lot are taxis. Neon green?
Whatever.
I walk over to one and hold out the torn piece of paper. “Can you take me here?” I ask.
The guy reaches for the paper, but I draw it back possessively. It’s proof of where I’m going—my own little paper trail. I’ve learned the value of paranoia.
He nods his understanding—he probably drives a lot of crazy people—and leans forward to study the address. “Easy,” he says, a heavy accent in his voice. “’Bout ten miles.”
He can have her.
We stare at each other for a very long time—sometimes I think words are scarcely necessary between us anymore.
Then, without a word or even a goodbye, he turns and leaves—nimbly working the hidden catch on the secret door. I look at the door that only looks like a wall now and I distantly hear the minutes ticking away on my grandfather clock.
“Do better than I did,” I whisper.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Phoenix!”
The call wakes me and I rub my arm across my face. Last time I woke up, I was drooling.
I unfold myself from my seat, half afraid my skeleton is going to be permanently fused into the shape of a bus seat. Eight buses, over three thousand miles, and four nights sleeping on the ground. Technically I could have slept in the stations, protected from the elements. Or even in a hotel—I have money and, well, a small fortune in gold coins, not to mention the ability to make more if I really had to. But all those choices were bound to get me caught and, most likely, killed. So spiderwebbed bushes and wet, cold grass have been my hosts for the last few nights.
It’s been murder on my spine—not to mention my leg—and every muscle in my body is aching as I shamble toward the bus door. The last step proves to be a little too much and I stumble out into the sunshine and throw a hand over my eyes, like a bear cub emerging from hibernation.
And into a subtle feeling so unfamiliar it takes me a few seconds to recognize it.
Warmth. Beams of sunlight spreading soft heat through my body, warming my skin, heating the air that I breathe. I give myself a few moments to stand there, soaking in the revitalizing rays. I’m not sure I’ve been completely warm since the night I left Portsmouth. We’ve driven through snow, hail, even had to delay a drive due to a fluke tornado in Montana. People all around me were theorizing about global warming and solar flares, but I kept my mouth shut. I don’t yet understand the connection between the extreme weather and the virus—but Elizabeth said it was there, and I know now to believe her.
It takes a few minutes to orient myself, to get used to walking on a surface that doesn’t move and sway. Being still doesn’t feel normal anymore.
Jeez, I smell. The hasty washings I’ve managed to get in bathrooms on my way across the country haven’t been nearly enough. But better than being a Reduciata prisoner, I remind myself.
I hardly feel like myself anymore. No, that’s not quite right. I hardly feel like Tavia anymore. The last five days I’ve let the voices that came out when I was fighting Marie become part of me. I’ve filled half a notebook with what I can remember of them. Shihon the warrior queen from before time had meaning, Embeth the faceless scullery maid with dreams she couldn’t understand, Kahonda, an Indian huntress who died young on a search for something she couldn’t put into words.
And Sonya. And Rebecca.
They are me now, and I am them.
And we all need one thing. To find him.
Because now that I’ve had a chance to read the secret part of Rebecca’s journal—twice—we all know just what we’re running from. I don’t know what kind of future I do or don’t have with Logan, but I have to find him and protect him from these people. It’s more than a little terrifying to realize how many disasters I’ve read about in history that can be attributed to Earthbounds—usually affiliated with the Reduciata, but not always. The Mongol invasion of China, the great Indian famine, the Deluge of Poland and Lithuania, and even—if the Curatoria are to be believed: the Black Plague—a practice run of the virus now devastating the world. It ravaged Europe seven hundred years ago, but apparently that wasn’t enough for the Reduciata. This virus is supposed to be ten times worse. Ten times as deadly.
That this is success in the Reduciata’s eyes sickens me.
It makes me wonder what they’ve been involved in since Rebecca’s account. The Great Depression? World wars? Even natural disasters like the huge tsunamis of the last decade could potentially be laid at their feet.
I push those thoughts away again. I have to focus on step one—finding Logan. Step two is too big to think about now.
Too impossible.
I look at the scrap of paper I copied Logan’s address onto, even though I have it memorized.
A cab. I need a cab.
I need to get to him—to make sure he’s still alive.
And if he is, then it’ll all be worth it.
No. Not worth it. But somehow justified. I need this Logan to be the right one. To be Quinn. Because I can’t save anyone without my partner, of that much I’m certain. And I need their deaths to mean something. Sammi, Mark, Elizabeth.
Benson, my mind says, but I shove that thought back. He’s not dead.
But I kind of wish he was.
Still, too many people have died for me, for us. And not just in this life.
I look around. I don’t know how to find a cab. I stand in the parking lot looking lost for several minutes before I realize the three neon-green cars on the far end of the parking lot are taxis. Neon green?
Whatever.
I walk over to one and hold out the torn piece of paper. “Can you take me here?” I ask.
The guy reaches for the paper, but I draw it back possessively. It’s proof of where I’m going—my own little paper trail. I’ve learned the value of paranoia.
He nods his understanding—he probably drives a lot of crazy people—and leans forward to study the address. “Easy,” he says, a heavy accent in his voice. “’Bout ten miles.”
