Behind me, Zephyr says nothing.
We walk until the large road ends, and a smaller one begins. There are old homes, scattered about. Remnants of a neighborhood that might have been beautiful once. Some of the homes look almost intact, and for a moment as I stare at the boarded-up windows, I think about the families that have taken up residence inside.
I wonder if they are like mine.
An older brother who sees the beauty in art, even when the world around him is shattered like glass. A little sister who loves to laugh, whose voice is like music. A father who shows love through teaching the art of survival, and a mother who is dead. Then not dead. Then dead all over again.
I trip over my feet, as my body suddenly switches back.
Weakness grabs ahold of me.
I go down to the concrete, and I can’t catch myself.
“Meadow,” Sketch says. She never uses my name unless she’s worried. “You all right?” She kneels beside me, sweeps my hair back from my face. I’m dripping sweat, but I feel cold.
I shiver, and she puts an arm over my shoulders, helps me sit up.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I can keep going. We have to make it to the train on time.”
Suddenly I feel a lurching in my stomach. I lean over, spew vomit onto the concrete. My throat burns, as if someone has scalded it with fire. I close my eyes, beg my body to work with me.
I have to make it to the train.
“We have to stop,” Sketch hisses.
“It’s fine, Sketch, I can keep going,” I say. I open my eyes.
Zephyr and Sasha lean over us from above. “It’s not fine,” Zephyr says. “Look at it, Meadow.”
He points at the vomit.
It is full of blood.
CHAPTER 60
ZEPHYR
She’s dying.
Meadow is dying. That has to be the only explanation for what’s going on. Every step is like agony for her. She falls, and her nose keeps dripping, and she’s puking blood now on top of it all.
Her whole body shakes. She goes from hot to cold and back again.
Sketch and Sasha and I take turns helping her move along, one of us on each side of her, one behind in case she falls backward. At first she’s able to get enough strength to keep up with us. But an hour passes, and she’s soaked in sweat. Trembling like it’s the middle of winter.
She throws up again.
More blood.
Her nose trickles it and I don’t know what to do, how to help her.
“We just have to get to the tracks,” she says.
Her voice is so weak.
Sketch and I share a look, and there’s a silent message in it.
Fear.
When we stop to rest in the shadow of something called a gas station, I pull Sasha aside. “Have you seen anything like this before?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. We don’t die, Zephyr. You know that. We don’t even get sick.”
I look at Meadow and Sketch, huddled together against the back of an old gas pump. Sketch pulls Meadow’s curls back from her face. She rubs sweat from her brow and whispers something to her. Meadow nods weakly.
I have to look away. “She’s sick. It’s plain as day. The Surgeon back in your camp . . . He knew something, and he wasn’t saying it. What did he know?”
Sasha puts her hands on my shoulders. “I don’t know anything, I promise. If we can make this work, the Initiative has doctors that will save her. We’ll take some captive. Force them to fix her. But first we have to get to the Ridge.” She raises her voice so we can all hear. “All right, team. Time to move.”
We leave one neighborhood, enter another, and then leave that one behind. We go through a wooded area, packed with kids. It’s like the Reserve back in the Shallows. I want to stop here, stay in a place that feels familiar.
But Meadow is dying.
Stars, I can’t stop thinking the words. They aren’t true. There’s no way they could be, but when I look at her, doubt sinks its teeth into my soul.
“Just get to the train,” I say, and I don’t know if it’s to myself or Meadow or everyone else, but I don’t care.
An hour passes. An hour and a half. An hour and forty-five minutes.
We finally see the tracks up ahead.
“We’re almost there,” I say to Meadow, and by now, she crumples. I put her on my back, and Sketch stays behind me, to help hold her on.
“I’ll run ahead,” Sasha says. “I’ll flag them down.” She looks at Meadow, shakes her head. “She has to be ready when the soldiers stop. She has to become Lark.”
“I will,” Meadow gasps.
Sasha sprints away, red hair dancing like fire. Sketch and I move along, slow, so fluxing slow.
The train comes, rumbling like a great metal beast. It’s a small train, a few cars, but it’s got the Leech eye. Luck is on our side, because this train isn’t from the Shallows. It’s coming from the north, from the Ridge.
This has to work.
I see Sasha wave her arms, jump up and down. The train doesn’t slow. She swings her rifle around, fires off a few rounds into the air.
By now the driver’s face is clear. Other Leeches poke their heads out of a door.
They point at Sasha, and she fires off another round in the air.
Finally, the train squeals, as the driver slams the breaks.
“Yes,” Sketch says. “Come on.”
We run as best as we can.
We reach Sasha’s side just as the train comes to a stop.
The door swings open, and suddenly Leeches pour out, rifles aimed and ready.
“Finally!” Sasha yells, and it’s like she turns into another person. She puts one hand on her hip, lets her rifle drop. “What the hell took you so long? My wrist mic breaks, and it’s like a ghost town out here. Well? Where have you been?”
The Leech in charge steps forward. He’s tall, slim. He points his rifle at Sasha’s face. “Who are you?”
Sasha stares back at him. “I work in the SPC department, back in the Shallows.”
The Leech raises a brow. “Shallows? That’s eighty miles south of here, Soldier. Care to tell me what you’re doing so far from your post? You an Abandoner?” He takes another step forward. The Leeches behind him grunt and shuffle to come closer.
Sasha laughs. “I am the angel of opportunity,” she says. “Bring her forward!”
I realize she’s talking to Sketch and me. We bring Meadow forward, help her to her feet.
“Lark Woodson, boys,” Sasha says. “The Creator.”
It takes all Meadow’s strength to put her feet down, stand on her own, and look them in the eyes.
But what I see in her erases everything from our past, morphs her into someone she’s never wanted to be.
“Get me to the Ridge,” she says. Her voice is so perfect, so spot on with that twinge of a song, the same voice I hear in my head when the Murder Complex calls to me, that I forget she’s Meadow at all.
She is Lark Woodson, through and through.
“You’re dead,” the Leech gasps.
Meadow laughs, sways on her feet, and I know it’s because she’s fighting to stand, but it’s perfect. “I’m only dead if I say I’m dead, Soldier. Now get me on that train, turn it back around, and take me and my team to the Ridge.”
“Those aren’t my orders,” the Leech says.
Meadow throws her head back and laughs. Blood drips from her nose, and she doesn’t move to wipe it away.