Del had stopped at the point where the bridge began to arch down toward the island shore. When Lucy and Aidan were a couple of paces away she swiveled around to look at them, then turned back and narrowed her eyes. Her arms were wrapped around her body as though she was cold, or in pain. Her face was hidden.
“Why are you stopping?” Lucy whispered.
Del didn’t answer her.
Lucy was conscious of an industrial hum coming from ahead. It throbbed, and she could feel it through the soles of her boots.
“Generator,” said Del.
“Is the entrance to the left or right of the front door?” Aidan asked.
Del hunched her shoulders. She scrubbed one hand over her mouth. She was very pale. Before Lucy could say anything, she’d crossed to the rails opposite and leaned over the edge. They heard the sounds of her vomiting.
Aidan waited until the heaving had stopped and then walked over to her with the bottle of water in his hand. He held it out to her, standing silently while she drank and splashed her face with a little water. She took a deep breath.
“Are you all right?” Lucy started to say. Aidan shook his head.
“Right or left?” he asked Del again. She stared at him blankly, teeth gripping her bottom lip. Her hand was frozen against her face. Her fingers trembled.
“Right,” she said, taking off so fast, her hood blew back.
Aidan and Lucy exchanged worried glances and followed.
Their steps echoed on the concrete. Del walked ahead with her head up, no attempt at concealment. She took a straight line across the parking lot, her shadow stretching ahead of her on the ground. Lucy reached into her jacket pocket and loosened the knife in its sheath. Her eyes darted everywhere looking for a flicker of movement, expecting at any moment to see the Sweepers in their white suits, and the dogs racing like specters toward them. She felt a clamminess grip the back of her neck. Only Aidan’s presence by her side gave her the strength to continue.
Now they were crossing the lawn and all was silent again. Pools of darkness thrown by the sides of the building shrouded them. A caged light threw a feeble beam. Moths and mosquito hawks bumbled into it occasionally, combusting with tiny pops against the hot bulb. The door was directly beneath it, a plain steel door with a silver ball handle and a keyed lock above it. Del muttered something. Lucy watched as she reached out for the knob and twisted it. It clicked and the door swung open.
Inside there was a single light. A bare bulb, flickering and emitting an erratic hum like the rest of the lamps outside. A staircase wound upward like the inside of a conical seashell. Lucy smelled the tang of iodine and some kind of powerful cleaner.
“Three or four floors up,” Del whispered, leading the way. Their steps echoed. The light behind them faded to a pinprick and then disappeared. Their breathing sounded as loud as the ocean. The dark, complete now, felt like a pulse against Lucy’s skin, it was so thick and impenetrable. She walked with her hands in front of her face, as if she could push it away. They reached a landing, paused, unsure of which way to go. She felt Aidan on one side, Del on the other. She heard the click first, then the buzzing like a hundred angry bees. Powerful incandescent lights flashed on, blinding them.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE OCTAGON TOWER
“I’m sorry,” Del said, and stepped away.
“Why—” Lucy started to ask.
More lights blazed, so bright and white they hurt Lucy’s eyes. The generator grumbled and then hummed at full roar.
They stood on a large octagonal landing with doors leading off each of the sides. The stairway climbed on upward. At the very top was a skylight, and through it Lucy could see the last of the stars winking out in the dawn sky.
A woman in a white lab coat stepped through the door opposite them, followed by a troop of hazmat-suited Sweepers. Helmets shielded their faces, and they held Tasers pointed outward.
Aidan notched an arrow and trained it on the closest Sweeper. Lucy swung her spear into position. Del darted forward. Her bow came up and struck Lucy’s spear so hard, she felt the vibration in her knuckles. The spear clattered to the ground. Lucy grabbed for it, crouching low, and Del’s foot slammed down, crunching Lucy’s wrist against the linoleum. With a cry, she pulled loose, ignoring the sting of chafed skin. Still on her knees, she lunged at Del, and the girl stepped back and to the side, easily evading her. Lucy stared up at her face. It was like a mask.
Two of the Sweepers moved closer, pinning Lucy against the stair railing. Blue flames surged and spat from the black boxes they held. One of them kicked her spear across the floor.
Aidan grunted. His bow swept from side to side as he tried to sight on a target and steadied at a point between a helmet visor and the collar of a man’s suit. Lucy saw him blink as a drop of sweat trickled into his eye.
Del put her hand on his shoulder.
“It’s not you they want. It’s her.” She faced the woman in the white coat.
“This is her, Dr. Lessing. This is Lucy Holloway.”
Aidan moved in Lucy’s direction.
Del gripped the hood of Aidan’s sweatshirt and yanked him back toward her. He struggled to keep his bow steady. “What are you doing, Del?” he asked through clenched jaws.
“It’s complicated,” she told him. “But it’s for a good reason, I swear. Please, Aidan.” Her hands ran up and down his arms.
“No.”
“She’s just one girl. What does she matter?”
He shook her grip loose, shoved her backward with his shoulder. She hit the steel railing with a thud. Aidan’s eyes were furious.
“I don’t know you,” he said.
A moan of pain escaped Del. She stood apart, rubbing her arm. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. With one last glance, she turned away from him.
“I brought her,” she said to the woman. “Now, let the kids go. Like you promised!” She spat the last sentence out.
Dr. Lessing smiled and stepped forward. She swept her gaze over them. Her teeth were very even and small, her soft brown hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and her brown eyes seemed warm and friendly. She laughed. It was a merry sound, and it threw Lucy off balance. This woman reminded her of her favorite fourth-grade teacher.
“You’re being overly dramatic, Delfina,” she said. “As usual. The children are being well looked after. They’ve been awaiting your return, in fact.” Her glance traveled from Aidan to Lucy. Del made an explosive sound of frustration.
“How quickly you’ve reverted to savages,” the woman said in the same light tone. “There’s an article in here somewhere. ‘Primitive Response to Traumatic Stress Syndrome,’ perhaps?” She sounded amused. “Your weapons are hardly necessary.”
“What about the Tasers?” Aidan yelled. His arms were trembling with the effort of keeping his bowstring flexed. Beads of perspiration ran down his forehead.
Three of the Sweepers turned to face him. Dr. Lessing lifted her hand and looked toward the burly man standing to her left. His hands were bare. Lucy noticed the red hairs bristling from his knuckles and his chewed nails—small details that seemed magnified. She tried to see his face, but the visor was too dark. It was disorienting, like trying to see to the bottom of a murky pond. She could tell that the Sweeper standing on the other side was staring at her. A woman, she thought. Medium height, plump, the ends of her blond hair sticking out from under her helmet.
“Simmons,” the doctor said. It sounded like an order, though she said no more than the man’s name. The Sweeper with the red hair on his fingers jerked his head at the others. The other Sweepers stepped back, holding their semicircular formation.