Annex Page 12

  “Open it up, Q,” Wyatt said, moving the knife back to Bo’s neck. “You remember the combo, right?”

  Quentin didn’t answer, but he went to the combination lock and started twisting it back and forth. The first try he was too shaky and missed the catch. He had to wipe his hands and start over, but Wyatt didn’t seem to mind.

  “Remember when you said you were with me, Bo?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Bo choked, not daring to nod his head even a centimeter.

  “You’re a bad liar.”

  The storage unit rattled open. Wyatt prodded the small of Bo’s back, and they stepped up into the dark.

  14

  The smell had gotten worse, cloying and chemical. It made Bo’s eyes water. His Parasite was moving again, his heart was beating fast, but he couldn’t help either. The pod’s breathing was a raspy echo that filled his whole head. Was this a punishment? Was he going to have to sit locked in the dark with it until the morning?

  “Could you hold this for me, Q?” Wyatt said. “If he tries to get away, or if you feel the static, you go up and under and twist. That’s how soldiers do it. Shuts the brain right off.”

  Bo stayed perfectly still as Quentin took the knife, letting Wyatt rummage in his pocket with his good hand. He knew Quentin was twitchy. Wyatt held up a lighter and flicked it with his thumb. There was a click-whoosh and the flame bloomed in the enclosed space, throwing their shadows against the metal wall. The pod seemed to flinch.

  “I’ve been finding some things out,” Wyatt said conversationally. “One thing they really don’t like is fire. Makes sense, right? They must be full of gases to float like that. I bet if you lit one up it would blow like a firework. Or a propane tank. Boom.”

  He waved the lighter and the pod shrank backward, pressing itself to the wall. Bo saw rivulets running down its black sides, puddles of something shiny underneath it.

  “It’s scared,” Wyatt said, with a bit of a smile. “It knows its place now, right? Knows to respect me.” He turned back. “You respect me, Bo?”

  Bo knew there were no answers that would make Wyatt forget the whole thing, that would get him out safely. He clenched his teeth and focused. On keeping the Parasite calm, on ignoring the knife hovering behind his head, ignoring Quentin’s jumpy hands.

  “I don’t think you do,” Wyatt said. “That’s my gut feeling.” He crouched down, groping in the corner of the unit, and straightened up with a battery lamp. “You’re too special, right?” he said, putting the lighter away. “You and your Parasite. You don’t think you have to take orders.” He switched the lamp on and bathed the storage unit with bright white fluorescence.

  Bo’s stomach dropped as he saw the whole back of the pod crisscrossed with scars.

  “It doesn’t heal so fast anymore,” Wyatt said. “It’s dying.” He turned and hauled the door of the unit shut behind them, closing them in, and Bo knew for certain this wasn’t a punishment. It was something worse. “Needs to go up to the ship and get a proper refueling,” Wyatt continued. “It used those three dead othermothers for a makeshift. That was messy.” He reached into his pocket again and came out with a dull black sphere, tossing it up and down. “We have a bit of an understanding now. This is how they communicate. I’ve been talking to it.”

  “You said we were going to kill it,” Bo said. The scars made him feel sick, worse knowing some of them were maybe his.

  “More fun this way,” Wyatt said, with a conspirator smile. “Remember? Two of a kind, right?”

  Anger flared in Bo’s chest. “No.”

  “No?”

  Bo worked hard to tamp the Parasite down. “No,” he said. “You’re different from me.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Wyatt said. “The difference is I’m at peace with it. I make the most of it. You’re wasting it.” His nostrils flared. “You don’t deserve that Parasite. That power.”

  Through the stink of the dying pod, Bo could smell Quentin’s sharp scared sweat. He startled when he felt the tiny hairs on his arms rise. He’d kept his Parasite down—the static was coming off Quentin’s. Quentin’s was active too. That was why he was sweating scared: He knew he wouldn’t be able to tell if the static was from Bo’s or his own. Wyatt wouldn’t have thought of that. Wyatt didn’t have a Parasite.

  “I made a deal,” Wyatt said, looking at the black sphere in his unbandaged hand. “I’m going to let the pod go. Let it live. But before I do, it’s going to take out your Parasite and put it into me.”

  Bright white light, like an operating room would have. Bo’s heart went double time and the static swirled around his Parasite, but Quentin’s was surging too, almost crackling. Bo heard him wipe his free hand on his shirt. Heard his feet shuffling nervously against the floor. Wyatt hadn’t noticed anything yet. He was watching the pod intently, holding the black sphere out toward it.

  Vanish the knife. That was Bo’s first thought, but it was behind him, clutched in Quentin’s slippery hand, and he needed to see it to vanish it. His eyes slid to Wyatt. Bo had vanished the othermother, rippled it right out of existence. This would be like that. He was standing still. Not a moving target. Bo felt the static starting to storm. Whatever he did he would have to do it soon, before Quentin panicked, before he spoke up or maybe just shoved the knife through his skull.

  Bo thought about the look on Violet’s face when she’d run out of the theater. What Wyatt was planning to do now, cut him open and tear out his Parasite. He focused, letting the rage and the fear and the fight-or-flight build, build and build until he shook from it. The pod was drifting slowly forward, its underbelly peeling open. Quentin was swallowing spit, about to speak. Bo focused; the static lashed up and down his body.

  Wyatt would do the same to him.

  As Quentin formed the first word, as Wyatt finally felt the static and turned toward him, Bo released it in a tight focused punch, eyes fixed on the lamplight.

  Black. Bo dove to the floor, bowled hard into Quentin’s legs, felt his shoulder smack shinbone. Quentin gave a surprised shout as he toppled back. The knife clattered and Bo tried to triangulate it from the sound, kicking for it. His foot caught the handle, making it spin and skitter away. Then Bo was scrambling up and over Quentin in the dark, groping for the door, smashing his fingers against the latch. He flung it open just as a hand clamped his ankle from behind.

  Bo was ripped off balance and toppled forward, out of the storage unit, barely managing to break the fall with his hands. The concrete scraped his palms raw but he didn’t even feel it, already twisting to his feet, ready to run, ready to—

  Wyatt’s knee drove hard into his back and collapsed him. Bo’s wind was knocked out of him as Wyatt flipped him over, pinned him to the paving. The cold flat of the knife pressed up under Bo’s jaw. He stopped thrashing.

  “Man, Bo.” Wyatt laughed. “That was close.”

  He wriggled backward so he was straddling Bo’s legs, dead weight trapping him to the concrete. Bo was flat on his back, not daring to sit up, not with the blade resting on his bobbing throat. He tried to coax his Parasite again, but it was heavy and sluggish now, spent. He hadn’t held any static back. He’d wasted it. Wyatt reached down with his bandaged hand and clumsily worked Bo’s hoodie upward. The night air cooled the sweat on his stomach. His Parasite gave a slow ripple.

  “Fuck it,” Wyatt breathed. “Maybe I’ll just cut it out now. You might survive, right? Might not.” He prodded Bo’s exposed abdomen.

  Bo couldn’t turn his head but in the corner of his eye he sideways-saw Quentin standing on the lip of the storage unit, rooted to the spot. “Q!” he croaked. “He’ll kill me. Help me, Q, he’s crazy, he’s—”

  Wyatt swooped over him, clamped his bandaged hand over his mouth; it stank like stale sweat and copper. “Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say that.” Wyatt’s face was a snarl and Bo knew he was going to die. He tried to bite but the bandage was thick. He tensed himself for one last struggle. Maybe he’d be able to snap up
and get his hands on Wyatt’s face after the first slash, before the pain set in, before he bled out. Do one last bit of damage.

  Then Wyatt sucked a deep breath through his nostrils and let it out his mouth. The knife steadied.

  “Man, I hate that word,” he whispered. “Crazy.” Something in his voice had changed. He sounded, for the first time, uncertain. Almost anxious. He leaned even closer. “No secrets between us, Bo. They say confession is good for the soul, right? You want to know something?” His whisper was hot in Bo’s ear. “I didn’t cut out my own Parasite. I never had one. I did the scar for show and it’s shallower than it looks.” Before Bo could process the words, he yanked Bo’s waistband downward, widening the swathe of skin. “They never gave me one,” Wyatt continued, the words spilling out faster now, like he was desperate to get rid of them. “They never took me to the warehouse. Wasn’t my age either. It’s where they found me. Nobody in the ward got taken away. Didn’t get clamped either.”

  Bo looked to Quentin again, but Quentin had sunk to a crouch, his eyes squeezed shut. Bo knew he was hearing things the other Lost Boys had never heard. He knew it was because he wouldn’t be able to pass them on.

  “I think they were curious, at first,” Wyatt whispered. “About the hospital. But once they understood what it was, the whirlybirds went through and they just … put them all down. All the kids. Needle to the neck.” Bo felt the tip of the knife trace around his belly button. He didn’t dare breathe. “They would have done me too if I hadn’t got away. As if I was one of them, right? One of those pathetic little shits desperate for someone to fix them, to take all their little pills and be a good little zombie. They were wasters already, those kids. Right?”

  Bo’s Parasite gave another weak pulse. The static built; slipped away, hovering just beyond his reach. He was going to die. Knowing it felt how falling felt. He could see a slice of dark sky up past Wyatt’s shoulder and for some reason wished there were stars, even though he’d never cared about stars that much before.

  “And the whirlybirds thought I was one of them,” Wyatt said, louder now, caught up in the memory. “They didn’t want anything to do with me. With me! Like I wasn’t good enough for them. Like I didn’t even deserve a Parasite.” He shook his head, gave half a laugh. “I deserve it more than you do,” he said. “I’ll make the most of it.”

  His hand tightened on the handle of the knife; Bo saw his tendons moving.

  “Decided I’m going to do your throat first, Bo,” Wyatt said. “To make the next bit easier. The pressure drop should knock you right out. Then just a minute or two of bleeding. No pain or anything.”

  Bo readied himself for the last try, to jackknife off the pavement and hit some part, any part, of Wyatt. But he was also trying to remember the exact smell of the salty air blowing through the open windows, the exact sound of his mom’s voice singing and his sister’s voice telling her to stop.

  A brick smashed into the side of Wyatt’s face.

  Bo flinched backward as hot blood flicked onto his cheek. The uncontrolled knife slashed through the hood bunched up under his ear, splitting the fabric, then Wyatt was toppling one way and Bo rolled the other, legs finally freed. He hauled himself upright, head rushing, heart hammering. No time to look for Quentin or thank him or tell him to get another brick. Wyatt was on hands and knees, spitting blood and drool onto the pavement. The fallen knife glinted near his foot.

  Bo laid out for it, but a hand snatched it up and away. His fingers curled on air and he looked up.

  “I thought we were meeting at the fountain,” Violet said. Her face was ash-pale, frightened-looking, but when she wrapped her fingers around the knife handle her hand was steady. Relief washed over Bo. Violet hurled the knife off into the dark; he didn’t hear it land but he knew it was gone. He shut his eyes, breathing into his arm, feeling the cold pavement on his knee, his hips, his elbow. Alive, alive, alive.

  When he opened his eyes, Violet was picking up the brick again, carefully so the blood didn’t touch her. He watched her walk slowly to where Wyatt was trying to get up.

  Violet stopped in front of him and waited, cradling the brick in both hands. Wyatt had sunk back to his knees, heaving, drooling. When he finally looked up, half his face was already dark and swollen. He smiled. His lip split even further.

  “Couldn’t stay away, could you, Vi?” he slurred. “Missed me too much.” He lay back on the concrete with a groan.

  “I hate you,” Violet whispered.

  Wyatt looked up. “No, you don’t,” he said, blood leaking dark through his grin. “I bet you wish you did, though.” He tried to spit; most of it ran down his chin, streaked his neck. “Good throw. You were always a good throw. Remember how we used to go to that old house and pick windows? That was fun, right?”

  “Shut up,” Violet breathed, lifting the brick. “Just shut up for once.” She was still shaking from the adrenaline, from seeing him hunched over Bo with the knife. Her heart was beating dangerously fast; the Parasite seethed in her stomach. She lifted the brick higher, higher. She could do it. All she had to do was smash it downward, and Wyatt would shut up.

  “Even if you did kill me, Vi, you’re only going to meet me over and over again.” Wyatt smiled through a mouthful of blood. “I’m your type.”

  The brick was heavy. Her hands were slick from sweat. “You’re going to die now,” she said, slowly, evenly, enunciating every word.

  Wyatt’s eyes went wide, and there was something in them she had only ever seen once before: fear.

  She smashed the brick into the pavement an inch from his head. Stone chips flew and he flinched back with a yelp; one of the shards stung her shin. But she wasn’t looking at Wyatt anymore. He’d believed her. She’d made him believe her.

  She stepped over him, heading back toward Bo. Then a metallic chunk and a gurgling gasp split the quiet. She spun to see Quentin standing on the lip of the storage unit, up on tiptoe, and as she watched he jerked higher still, somehow hovering in the air. His face contorted. His mouth stretched, impossibly wide, around a scream that wasn’t coming. Violet looked down to his chest and saw something sharp and gleaming sprouting from between his ribs.

  Her stomach heaved.

  The dark shape of the pod shifted behind Quentin, then its hooked proboscis retracted with a long loud sucking sound. Quentin fell boneless, like a rag doll, and smacked against the concrete. The pod drifted in the doorway, a weak yellow light from its head rolling over the scene. Then it hurtled out of the unit like a bullet.

  Violet dove out of the way, but it wasn’t aiming for her. She heard a strangled shout of surprise as she rolled upright, saw the pod wrapping Bo in its mechanical arms. Then he was gone, swallowed up in the pod’s underbelly. Violet stumbled forward; Wyatt grabbed for her ankle and she gave him a solid kick in the side.

  The pod was going to take Bo back to the warehouses. But she couldn’t think about that. She had to think about her perfect house, perfect family, perfect reflection. She heard a muffled scream from inside the pod’s belly that made her sicker than any pill ever had.

  “I helped, didn’t I?” she said, voice raw and odd-sounding in her own ears. “You didn’t want Bo dead. You wanted him alive.”

  Slowly, almost gingerly, the pod started to rise. The chugging noise grew louder, drowning out Bo’s screams.

  “I helped!” Violet shouted, sobbing, but the pod ignored her. It had Bo. It had Bo without needing her help, and it was going to leave her here in the dark with Wyatt, who was laughing now, gasping and laughing and rolling on the concrete. Bo was going back to the warehouses, all for nothing.

  Violet hurled herself at the door of the storage unit, groping for handholds, jamming the toes of her shoes into the slats. She heaved herself up and over the top, her Parasite sparking, muscles thrumming, fueled with her panic. The pod was still rising, slow and weary. Violet scrambled to one end of the unit’s roof, wiping her hands on her shirt. Her Parasite charged the fabric with static and
she saw sparks.

  She ran and flung herself off the end of the roof just as the pod drew level. The impact jarred her, rattling her ribs. She slipped half a foot before she could find purchase. The pod’s skin wasn’t smooth anymore; it was ridged and rippled with scar tissue and she dug in with her fingers where she could. The pod lurched and shivered under her, but kept rising, picking up speed.

  Violet had a wild dizzy glimpse of the scene below, of the receding roof of the storage unit, of Quentin’s limp body spread-eagled on the concrete, of Wyatt lying back with his hands behind his head, still bleeding and laughing.

  The pod rose higher, higher. Wind whipped her hair around her face, nearly plucked one hand away from its hold. Cold air burned her bare skin and roared in her ears. The city was a mass of indistinct shadows below her. If she slipped she was dead. She knew her hands would go numb soon. Her lips had already.

  Up above her, she saw the ship, saw its lights peeled open. She realized they weren’t going to the warehouses, and just as she realized it, her cold fingers started to slide. The pod was secreting its hot yellow fluid again, turning slick. She dug in as deep as she could, trying to make her fingers into hooks, but she was losing hold. She couldn’t hear anything over the wind. She wondered if Bo was still screaming inside the pod.

  Her left hand lost purchase and she swung from just her right, slamming against the belly of the pod, scrabbling for a new hold. Her heart stopped. She wondered if Bo could feel her clinging to the outside and if he would feel it if she dropped away. Then she focused hard on her pumping Parasite, on the slick black hide of the pod. The static started to build.