I look up. Not at him. Straight up. The first stars peek at me through the gloaming.
“The same thing they did to Walker. The same thing they did to Constance and that priest and the cat lady.”
Above me, the stars shine down unblinking. I blink, and my tears fall silver in their light. Vosch’s gift allows me to see to the very edge of the universe, but I couldn’t see the prison walls on every side.
The truth. The 12th System enhances all others, including the one that’s been tearing my body apart since I returned from the wilderness. I refused to face the truth. I knew it, and I refused. A man blind from birth reaches out and touches an elephant’s ear. An elephant is flat like a sheet. Another blind man touches its trunk. An elephant is shaped like a snake. A third strokes its leg. An elephant is like a tree.
I lower my head to the grave and speak the truth aloud:
“I’
m pregnant.”
46
CASSIE
BEN’S DEAD.
He left us, saying he’d be right back. But he hasn’t come right back. He hasn’t come back at all.
I huddle in the far corner of the basement with Sam and Megan. I’ve got a rifle, Megan’s got Bear, and Sam’s got an attitude. Grace’s gun collection is six feet away. So many pretty shiny things, Sam can hardly contain himself. The most delightful thing he’s discovered about shooting someone is how ridiculously easy it is. Tying your shoes is harder.
I grab a heavy wool blanket from the stack beside the workbench and throw it over all three of them, Sams, Megs, and Bear.
“I’m not cold!” he cries—Sam, not Bear.
“It isn’t for warmth,” I mutter at him. I start to explain, but the words peter out into meaningless dribble. What happened to Evan? What happened to Ben? What happened to Ringer? Finding out the answer to any of those questions would require me to rise from this floor, cross the length of this basement, climb those stairs, and possibly shoot someone or be shot myself, all of which calls for something I haven’t got right now.
Last time, Mayfly. I promise.
Oh, that stupid, gag-worthy pet name. I should have called him something equally demeaning and cloying. Sharkboy is a good one. Jawsie.
The wooden stairs creak. I stay put. Cassiopeia’s last stand. I have a full magazine and a heart full of hate; you don’t need much of anything else.
Beside me, Sam hisses, “Cassie, it’s Zombie.”
Sure enough. Clumping awkwardly and badly off balance, too, like a real zombie. He’s out of breath by the time he reaches the bottom. He leans against the wall, lips parted, face drained of color.
“Well?” I call across the room at him. “Did you find him?”
He shakes his head. He glances up the stairs. He looks back at me.
“Chopper,” he says.
“What about the chopper? Evan blew it up?” Stupid question. I would have heard it.
“He got on it.”
Ben needs to sit. A wound like his hurts like a mother; I should know. Why won’t he sit? Why is he hanging there by the stairs?
“What do you mean, he got on it?”
“I mean he got on it. They took him, Cassie.” Another look up the stairs, so I ask him why he keeps looking up the stairs. He goes, “There was a strike team . . .”
“There’s a strike team?”
“There was a strike team.” He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Not anymore.” His voice shakes—and I don’t think it’s from the pain or the cold. Ben Parish appears to be scared shitless.