Feuds Page 4

  Leave, said the voice in his head. Just go home. You’re already in over your head.

  He spotted a redheaded girl slumped over her knees as if taking a nap. The way her thin body was folded over itself, she looked like some kind of party prop. He hesitated. She was obviously sick.

  Cole approached the girl slowly. If she was drunk—or if she had a boyfriend—she might lash out and make a scene, and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. But she didn’t stir as he drew closer, and when he put a hand on her shoulder—a chill working its way farther up his spine every second—he knew something was wrong. He gave her a nudge, and the girl’s head flopped back, her strawberry curls draping low against the chair as her neck succumbed to the weight of her skull. Her eyes were almost closed and her skin was the color of ash—almost as pale as her tight white dress. A tiny stream of blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

  A dart of concern shot through his chest. Lab rats didn’t get sick. Not like this.

  “Hey,” Cole said, kneeling down to speak to the girl. “Hey. Can you hear me?” He shook her gently, fighting a wave of panic. But instead of reviving her, his movements just caused the girl’s head to loll to the other side of the lounge chair where she sat, her arms draped by her sides.

  “Shit,” he mumbled. He leaned closer and her eyelids fluttered. The sounds of labored breathing somehow reached his ears over the din of the music. She needed a doctor; anyone could see that.

  Cole straightened up, glancing around the packed roof deck. The beautiful masses swayed to electronica now. A brunette near him flashed him a smile and flipped her glossy hair over one shoulder, moving her hips seductively. Soon her attention shifted past him—but not to the girl in the chair. To a mirror mounted on the wall behind him. Cole turned toward the mirror. Not for the first time that night, he realized there were a lot of mirrors at the party, and each one reflected dozens of sets of eyes trained on their own images.

  Cole’s stomach turned on itself. He felt a wave of revulsion, a thick blot of anger directed at every Prior, the “superior” kind of human.

  Animals.

  He’d have to help her on his own. Where were her friends?

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  Cole had just begun hoisting the girl’s body over his shoulders. The voice, sharp and afraid all at once, belonged to Davis. Cole shook his head, grunting as he changed position, holding the redhead like he might a baby. Her body was surprisingly heavy.

  “I thought…” Davis said, her voice dying to a whisper. “I thought she was just drunk. Is she—?” Her sentence cut off, her chin beginning to tremble. Cole looked at her in surprise.

  “Let’s get her downstairs.” His voice was harsher than he’d intended.

  Davis nodded. It didn’t escape Cole that she was the only one at the whole party who’d even noticed something was wrong, or cared enough to do something about it. Cole managed, with difficulty, to carry the redhead into the elevator. Davis punched furiously at the lobby button. Her eyes looked naked and frightened.

  “We should call an ambulance,” Cole said, breathing hard.

  “We can’t,” Davis told him. “The Imps are on strike, remember? There aren’t any drivers, there haven’t been for days.”

  Cole turned away, trying not to flinch when he heard the word Imps. Of course. He’d forgotten about the strikes. For the first time, he realized how dependent on the Imps the residents of Columbus really were.

  Once outside, Cole laid the girl’s body gently on the pavement within the building’s inner courtyard, leaning her against the cold slabs of limestone just in front of the grassy strip that decorated the base of Emilie’s building. Davis knelt next to her. Thankfully, they were out of sight of anyone who might pass by—still shielded by the building’s opaque entry gate, which divided the courtyard from the streets and served as the building’s sole security system. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning, dark, and mostly quiet.

  “What’s her name?” His words came out sharply.

  “Caitlyn. I think … Caitlyn. Should I get someone?”

  “We don’t have time. Caitlyn,” he said. “Can you hear us?” He cupped her face in a gentle motion, squeezing, shaking her face. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Davis said.

  “She needs to stay conscious. Caitlyn,” he said again. “Caitlyn, where do you live? Can you hear me?”

  The girl’s lips parted, and the tiniest bit of blood bubbled between them. God. What was wrong with this girl? What had she done to herself? Priors didn’t just get sick. Drugs, maybe? Some kind of OD? He had no idea what kind of shit Priors took.

  She mumbled something, and her body began to shake. Then her eyes shot open, and she trained them on Davis. They were wide and vacant, as if she was having trouble focusing.

  “Davis?” the girl slurred. “Can you … can you check…”

  “What, honey?” Davis asked. Cole could see she was struggling to stay calm—her hands trembled. “What do you need?”

  “Do I look okay?” the girl asked, her head lolling to the side. Her eyelids fluttered again, dangerously close to shutting altogether. “Is … is my mascara smudged?” The last part came out thick, like she had cotton stuffed in her mouth.

  “No,” Davis lied. “You look just beautiful.” Caitlyn rested her head against Davis’s shoulder, and blood and saliva trickled down Caitlyn’s neck, onto the straps of her white dress. Some of it was getting on Davis’s skin as well. Cole felt heavy, useless, the same way he did when he sustained a powerful hit in the ring. He recognized it as a sign of shock.

  “I don’t like it here,” Caitlyn said. Her voice was so soft that Cole had to strain to hear it. “Take me home. Please.”

  “Dammit,” Cole said. He stood and turned in a circle, raking his hand through his hair. He shouldn’t have gotten caught up in this. He couldn’t take her to a hospital; it was too risky for him. He had the fake ID from Abel: a real, scannable ID that Abel had doctored with Cole’s picture—but what were the odds he’d get away with it?

  “What should we do?” Davis said, her voice rising. “Help me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Just let me think,” Cole said.

  “Please,” Caitlyn murmured again. “Please take me home. I’m fine.”

  “Okay,” Cole said. He sucked in a deep breath. That’s what he would do. He’d take her home. He didn’t have a choice. He’d let her parents deal with her overdose or whatever she was going through. “Where do you live?” he asked her.

  “Sherman,” she barely managed to get out. “Two … Sherman.” Sherman. Cole didn’t know how the hell he’d find it, but he would.

  “I want to help,” Davis told him. “Please.”

  “You can help by telling me where Sherman is, then by letting me handle this alone,” Cole said. “It’s better for you,” he explained, his voice softer this time.

  “You don’t have navigation on your DirecTalk?” Davis looked confused.

  “It’s busted,” Cole told her. Of course they’d have some sort of navigation device. Why hadn’t Parson given Cole a cheat sheet when he’d delivered his P-card and DirecTalk?

  The creases on Davis’s forehead deepened, but she nodded.

  “Three blocks west,” she told him. “The row of vintage bungalows. You can’t miss it.” Cole didn’t know what a “vintage bungalow” was, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

  “Thanks.” He hefted Caitlyn up from the curb, holding her in his arms for the second time that night. “You should head back inside,” he said to Davis.

  She hesitated. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. You shouldn’t be out here alone. I’ve got it covered.”

  “Okay,” she said, looking uncertain. “Thank you. Really. I … I hope everything will be okay.”

  He nodded but didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure he knew how to. He bent to readjust Caitlyn’s arms around his neck, and by the time he stra
ightened, Davis had vanished. They walked less than half a block before Caitlyn began to gurgle deep in her throat. Then she vomited a thick and vile liquid all over Cole’s loaner button-down and onto the street beneath them. Cole turned her chin and swiped out her throat with his fingers. But it was too late.

  Caitlyn was out cold.

  Cole thanked God that the streets were empty, the lights in neighboring apartment buildings long extinguished. He had no idea what would happen if someone were to see and stop him. But he wouldn’t be left with this girl’s death on his conscience. He walked three blocks west, like Davis had told him to. He didn’t see any street sign for Sherman, let alone any sort of old-fashioned house—mansion, he was guessing—like she’d described.

  He heard footsteps behind him and his pulse began to quicken. He ducked his head and shuffled as quickly as he could into an empty doorway. A minute later, a guy walked by him without pausing. Cole couldn’t tell whether it was a member of security enforcement, but the fact that he could have been hit him like a black wave, rendering his legs near-paralyzed. He could be imprisoned, even executed, if he got caught masquerading as a Prior, holding an inebriated Prior girl in his arms.

  If he was caught, he didn’t stand a chance.

  And even worse: he was lost.

  New plan. Cole would take her back to the Slants, get her help there.

  He hurried toward the riverbank with renewed conviction, sticking to the shadows but not bothering much with caution. He was close, so close. Adrenaline coursed through him with every step, and then he was at the embankment, sliding down the slope covered with mud and old leaves, where everything was shadows but the glittering water.

  Cole whistled twice hard and once soft for the motie. A minute went by: silence, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of water against the edge of the bank. Crossing into Columbus from the Slants earlier this evening by motie had been scary, but only because he’d never done it before. This was different. Every second it didn’t show up put Cole a second closer to getting caught … which meant prison or worse. Cole whistled again, louder this time, terrified that the sound might draw attention from shore. His heart was practically exploding out of his throat.

  Finally, the motie pulled up. Cole was still too panicked even to be relieved. The old man running the motorboat was skinny and shirtless, the outline of the bones of his rib cage showing like faint stripes along his flesh. He grinned wide at Cole once he started the engine, and Cole saw pure black where teeth should have been.

  Cole stepped aboard, positioning Caitlyn next to him. His heart pounded; this wasn’t what he’d signed up for, not even close. And now he was calling it a night without getting a photo, holding the wrong girl in his arms. The plan had been completely derailed, and Parson was going to be pissed. But what could he do? He settled Caitlyn in place, keeping her frame steady in his arms. The old man leered at the girl but didn’t ask questions—he’d probably seen worse. Cole kept Caitlyn upright—and out of the motie’s reach—against the waves that rocked the vessel. He just wanted to get home.

  Worsley would help. Worsley knew everything. They’d grown up together, two doors apart; Worsley had been Cole’s brother’s best friend all their lives, even though he was a few years older. He was like a second older brother to Cole, maybe because he’d fought in the FEUDS himself once. Cole still had a hard time believing it, even though it was Worsley who’d gifted Cole with an ancient hard drive, salvaged from a junkyard, and equally ancient instructional videos that Cole had watched so many times he had them memorized, learning not just boxing techniques but old martial arts like jujitsu, judo, wrestling, and tae kwan do.

  Worsley just didn’t look the part of a fighter. He was strong but sinewy, much leaner than Cole. He was over six feet tall, with dark hair that was always flopping into his eyes. Worsley had long, bony fingers and he wore glasses, too: a prescription he’d written himself. He was the closest thing they had to a real doctor in the Slants. And he was the only one Cole knew in the Slants who had a college education. Worsley had attended university in New Pacific—the northwestern region of the New Americas—at a prestigious institution in Helena. It had been funded by his FEUDS winnings, plus a rare and coveted Columbus Academic Exchange Scholarship less than a decade ago.

  Worsley could fix this.

  They were less than a few feet from shore when water began to accumulate at the bottom of the wooden vessel. It lapped against Cole’s shoes, the only pair of decent ones he owned. The motie saw Cole looking down at them and laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Cole asked, annoyed. Tension crept through him, making him feel like he was being strangled. But the motie just kept on laughing to himself and ignoring Cole, and water kept on building up at the base of the boat.

  Cole looked around him; they were maybe halfway across now, but he couldn’t make out the beginnings of either side of the shore, and the water around them was pitch black and menacing.

  “Turn around,” Cole said to the motie. But the old man ignored him and they kept moving forward, the waves lapping at the side of the boat. Cole had no choice but to shut up and pray.

  When they finally got to the Columbus border, Cole scrambled out of the boat, his already drenched shoes slapping against the muddy surface of the shore. He hefted Caitlyn onto his shoulder, reaching back only to place a single dollar in the man’s hand. It was all he had.

  There were roughly fifteen separate small communities in the Slants. They were really just groups of leased trailers and other “temporary” housing structures clustered around public bathrooms, schools, bars, and rec centers that were owned and operated by North Quadrant. A child peered out from behind the flimsy screen door of a trailer, and Cole held a finger of his free hand to his lips. The child nodded. Kids here grew up fast.

  By the time Cole reached his own narrow three-room mobile home, he could barely feel his arms, and the girl hadn’t made a sound in half an hour. He kicked open the screen door to confront five startled faces: his brother Hamilton’s friends. The room smelled like stale beer and sweat. Tom Worsley was there, thank God. He jolted up so fast at the sight of Caitlyn that his glasses jumped on his nose, and he knocked over his stool. Hamilton was on his feet, too, rushing toward Cole.

  “She needs water,” Cole told him. “Maybe medicine, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

  “Worsley,” Hamilton said over his shoulder. “Do you have your bag with you? Looks like the girl’s strung out on something, maybe OD’d.” Worsley nodded, pushing his hair out of his eyes with one palm as he darted past Cole, presumably to grab his medical kit from his house two doors down.

  Cole struggled to kneel, placing Caitlyn’s body on the pallet they used as a sofa. He looked up to find Hamilton’s eyes narrowing, his face set in an expression of disbelief. Cole braced himself. Even with blood trickling from her mouth, it was easy to see what Caitlyn was.

  “You brought home a Prior,” Hamilton growled, his voice low. The other three guys shifted, and someone let out a cry of disbelief.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” Cole told him. “She needed help. I couldn’t go to the hospital—”

  Hamilton lunged at him before Cole could finish his sentence. He grabbed Cole by the shirt collar, and Cole allowed his brother to yank him into the bedroom. He could have resisted—Hamilton was taller, but he was skinny, and Cole could have creamed him in a fight any day. But Cole’s entire body felt numb. He couldn’t find it in himself to fight.

  Hamilton slammed the door behind them, kicking it shut with his heel.

  “How could you be so stupid?” Hamilton hissed, keeping his voice low. The veins on his forehead were pulsing, and he looked more furious at his little brother than he’d ever been. All at once, he seemed to take in what Cole was wearing: his nice shirt, his clean, pressed jeans. “What the hell is going on, Cole? What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking I’d help her!” Cole snapped. “You saw her—I cou
ldn’t just leave her!”

  “Where did you even find her?” Hamilton released him. “Never mind. I don’t need to know. We’ll talk about this later. Dammit, Cole…” He trailed off, still pacing the room, both hands massaging his temples.

  “Hamilton,” came a voice from the main room. “Hamilton, you better get in here quick, man.” Cole and Hamilton pushed back into the room just as Worsley came through the front door with a large canvas bag in tow.

  One of the guys from the table, a kid Cole had never seen before, was staring at Caitlyn, his face ashen. One of the other guys had left—Not to get the police, Cole prayed. Even though the police force in the Slants had been put in place by the Priors specifically for the Gens’ protection, they were notoriously vicious. The third guy had been pressing a damp cloth to Caitlyn’s forehead. But now he’d backed off. Because Caitlyn was bleeding from her ears and nose, too, now—not just her mouth. Her ears and nose were gushing blood, and her face was frozen into an expression of misery.

  Worsley inserted his body between the brothers. “Let me take a look.”

  “Can you help?” Cole could hear that he was pleading. “Please?” Worsley didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his bag and bent over Caitlyn, shielding her from Cole’s view.

  Cole couldn’t help being relieved. He’d seen a lot of blood in his life, but never anything as horrifying as this.

  “You said you were going to the mines,” Hamilton said to Cole while Worsley worked. “And I thought that was bad. But this is pure idiocy! How could you be so careless? If someone had seen you—” He broke off, breathless. “You’d have been arrested, maybe worse.” Cole glanced down at Caitlyn’s inert body, still covered in her tight white dress—now horribly stained—and expensive shoes. He was an idiot. Anyone could tell she was a Prior. But he’d had no choice other than to bring her home. “Make no mistake,” Hamilton continued, “if this happens again—if you ever go back to the other side—I’ll call the police myself. I’ll get you thrown in jail faster than you can throw a punch. I will not watch you put our family at risk.”