The scarlet harvest, p.31
The Scarlet Harvest, page 31
Super-soldiers filed in after we changed clothes. I stopped counting heads at two hundred. Lucindas pinned boutonnieres on their chests after they stacked their rifles on racks near the door. In disbelief, I watched them exchange guns for flowers.
I glance at Dad’s watch for the tenth time, ignoring the needle of loss that pricks my heart full of tiny holes every time I look at his watch or feel its weight against my wrist.
It’s four-thirty, but the lack of natural light makes it seem later. Overnight, nature’s teeth ripped the sky apart, unleashing a torrential downpour. Blustering rain drums against the windowpanes, creating background music for my anxiety.
I bite my lip and look toward the bathrooms. The ceremony will begin soon. Everything that could go wrong runs laps around my mind.
Treb was escorted out of the room with Ovation residents, but what if he's unable to break away to the communications room? What if the frequency broadcast doesn’t affect the soldiers and they slaughter the Valley fighters? What if the virus kills Treb?
On the way back to Headquarters, when we were gathering weapons from the underground stockpile, Dr. Klein assured us the cure would work. If it doesn’t work, I'll feel guilty for the rest of my life.
Clover nudges me. “They’re kind of cute.”
Two super-soldiers rush through the double doors vigorously shaking their wet heads like dogs coming in from a storm. They stroll across the room laughing and fist pumping each other. Their jovial mood irritates me.
Gregor, Dr. Toussaint, Dr. Sorrell, and Franz climb the stage with two armed super-soldiers. Gregor and Dr. Toussaint exchange words. Gregor throws back his head and laughs. I clench my jaw and ball my fists in the folds of my skirt.
How long has Gregor been planning this? Genocide with a side of patricide isn’t planned last minute like a dinner reservation. Anger sets ablaze every fiber of my being.
Gregor is the reason my dad is dead. Gregor is the reason Dr. Hahn is bleeding to death. Gregor is the one who wants to kill my mom, Abe, and Addie.
Gregor is the one who deserves to die.
Stopping the virus release isn’t enough.
We have to stop Gregor.
Despite sharing DNA with Delilah and Gregor, I swear to the sun and moon and stars and to every planet in the sky, to everything good in the world, I will never be anything like them. I will never be a monster.
Dr. Sorrell adjusts the microphone for her height. “We are gathered here today to unite genetically superior women and men in matrimony. Although, each of us may have many genetic matches that would result in healthy offspring, there exists a single superior genetic match for all of us. The program I developed pinpoints that match.
“Super-soldiers, when I call your number, you will form a line on the right side of the carpet. Ladies, when your name is called, line up facing your future husband. After all genetic matches have been announced, each couple will be summoned to the stage where the union will be validated.”
I chew on my cuticles and listen for the intercom to crackle. My eyes are drawn to the stage. Gregor pulls the remote out of his pocket, flips it through his fingers, and puts it back in his pocket.
My heart wallops my chest. I lift my eyes from Gregor’s pocket. They snag on Franz’s face. His eyes lock onto mine like a missile launcher locks onto its target.
I return his hostile stare, imagining my red-hot anger as a tangible weapon capable of melting his bones, reducing him to a pile of blubber.
His eyes travel down my dress. Does he suspect I have a gun? Did he see me looking at the remote control? I tear my eyes away.
Dr. Sorrell removes a stylus from her suit pocket and scrolls through her transceptor. After a moment, she looks up and leans into the microphone. “Soldier 0121.”
A grinning soldier steps forward. His comrades clap him on the back. He takes his position at the foot of the stage. Most seem genuinely happy about the arranged marriages.
“Maven van Alsteen,” Dr. Sorrell says.
As Maven of House of Lillith takes her place across from Soldier 0121, I catch a glimpse of Blaise and Eugenia. Blaise is on the verge of tears. Eugenia has a sympathetic look on her face as she runs her hands up and down Blaise’s arms. I would be upset too if I thought these marriages were binding, but I know the Valley soldiers will be here any minute.
I impatiently tap my foot. Is the intercom broadcasting yet? Is Fritz near? I put my hands in my pockets. What if the knife or gun falls out when I’m taking my place in line? I remove my hands from my pockets to prevent suspicion.
Maris touches my forearm. “Stop fidgeting. You’re going to attract attention.”
“I can’t relax. What if Treb can’t get to the communications room? What if everything goes wrong?”
Maris places her hands on my shoulders. “Just be cool and go with the flow.”
Clover says, “Treb will have no problem sweet talking the guards with his baby face. They’ll never suspect him of anything. He won’t let us down.”
I lower my voice. “Remember what we discussed. The two of you will lead the girls to the Cathedral and hide out there.”
“Clover Kirkpatrick,” Dr. Sorrell says.
Clover pulls me into a conspiratorial hug. “Don’t worry. We’ve got this.” She pivots on her tennis shoes and walks away.
When my name is called, I nearly miss it. Dr. Sorrell repeats my name and the words cut through the fog of my thoughts. Hundreds of couples have lined up facing one another. The soldier at the end of the line excitedly scans the room. It’s one of the wet dog soldiers who came in late.
A pit of dread in my stomach weighs down my feet. The handgun in my pocket thumps my upper leg with each step. When the soldier sees me approaching, his chest puffs up and his lips spring into a smile that quickly spreads to his cheeks and crinkles the corners of his eyes.
I take my place across from him, next to a Supernova from House of Juliette. He beams at me, reaches across the carpet, and grabs my hands. He flips my arms over and kisses my inner wrists.
“Don’t.” I snatch my arms back and glare at him.
“You’re beautiful. Your name is Wren?”
I ignore him as he continues to grin at me. He folds his arms against his wide chest to make sure I see the size of his biceps. He must be at least six foot five. Do these mutants even have names? The nametag on his uniform reads 0010.
He catches me looking at his nametag. “They call me Deca. Like the metric system.”
“I know the metric prefix for ten,” I snap.
He chuckles and flashes his perfect teeth. “Beautiful and smart. Looks like I hit the jackpot.”
I roll my eyes and let them linger briefly on his tan face: square jaw, full lips, bright green eyes. Clover was right. Under different circumstances, he would be cute. As if he can read my mind, he flirtatiously waggles his eyebrows. I blush and focus on the streaks of rain striking the windows.
“Soldier 0379 and Everly Lockhart.” The name reaches through the speakers, grabs me by the throat, and shakes me to my core.
“Everly Lockhart,” Dr. Sorrell repeats the name that gives me so much anxiety.
I take a deep breath and will my heart to stop racing, my hands to stop shaking. Whispers scatter through the crowd as heads turn in search of the missing Supernova.
Dr. Sorrell steps away from the microphone and speaks to Gregor and Dr. Toussaint. Gregor nods and motions to a super-soldier. After a short exchange, the soldier leaves. Was he sent to look for Everly? Soon, they will realize Prisha is missing, too.
Dr. Sorrell returns to the microphone. “Soldier 0254 and Amelie Sperling, please join me on stage.”
The couple nearest the stage moves forward. We must be lined up in the order we’ll be married. I’m glad Deca and I are nearly last in line. The line moves gradually as Dr. Sorrell calls couples to the stage one at a time. Men approach the stage from one side and women approach from the other; they meet in the middle.
Dr. Sorrell stands under the arbor and says a few words to each couple. After the couple is pronounced husband and wife, they leave the stage separately and take their places at the end of the line.
Crackle. Hiss. Pop.
Was that the intercom? Did anyone else hear it? I try to make eye contact with Maris and Clover, but their eyes are glued to the couple on stage. The line of soldiers and brides tip toward each other: flirting, preening, touching—absolutely enamored. If eyes could drool, the auditorium would be flooded. They seem spellbound by the magic of marital dreams, the fulfillment of some ancient need—to possess and be possessed, to belong.
I want to shake them, to wake them. Gregor isn’t doing this for us. He’s doing it for himself. As we inch forward, Deca makes small talk. I provide short, meaningless responses.
I don’t want to get to know him. I want to get this over with so I can stop the virus and start my life with Fritz. I can’t wait to go home to introduce Fritz to my family. Addie will be smitten. The thought makes me smile.
“That gorgeous smile is more like it. It’s almost our turn.” Deca’s face seems to be stuck in a permanent smile.
I wipe the smile off my face and frown at him. I wish I could tell him I already have a boyfriend so he would leave me alone. I’m definitely not having three kids with him even if he is my perfect match.
“Soldier 0010 and Wren Weiss.” Hearing my name over the loudspeaker fills me with dread.
Deca and I climb the stage from opposite sides. He looks excited as he strides toward me. A miniscule part of me feels sorry for him. If he had been matched with any other girl, he may have experienced the happily-ever-after he seems to want so badly.
Deca’s wide smile and easy manner make it easy to forget the sole purpose for his existence. Super-soldiers protect Gregor’s interests, kill his enemies, and as of today, breed his vision of the future.
“Please join hands,” Dr. Sorrell says.
Under the flower-covered arbor, it smells more like a funeral than a wedding. Deca eagerly clasps my hands in his own. He doesn’t look like someone trained to kill. He looks like a lovesick boy. I grit my teeth and scan the room for Fritz. I hope he isn’t watching. I zone out until Dr. Sorrell grabs my arm.
“What?” I ask.
“I said to hold out your arm.” She holds a device over my inner wrist.
What is this? Another microchip? I flinch when the device zaps my arm. Wisps of smoke rise from the white digits tattooed on my wrist. I scowl at the number: 0010. Am I supposed to be his property now?
“You may kiss your bride,” Dr. Sorrell says.
Deca grabs my waist, lifts me off the ground, and kisses me deeply. I wedge my forearms between us. To my dismay, my body responds. My lips part. My heart rate jumps. I’m no longer resisting. I abruptly break our lip lock.
He lowers me, dramatically raking my torso over his muscular chest and hard abs. My feet touch the floor and I feel off balance. I stumble away from him.
I liked the kiss. My cheeks burn with the acknowledgment. What makes him think he can kiss me like that? I glower at him and wipe my mouth across the back of my hand.
Deca licks his lips and flaunts an I-know-you-liked-it grin.
Dr. Sorrell pronounces us married and dismisses us. I hurry to the back of the line. Deca takes his place across from me. I ignore him even harder than before.
I notice Fritz casually leaning against the bathroom hall. My stomach swoops and my heart dives. He’s wearing ear plugs to block the frequency broadcast.
Our eyes meet and the intensity in his eyes burns a hole right through me. Did he see me kiss Deca? Embarrassment stings my cheeks. I look at my feet.
Forty-four
The final couple is validated. They kiss and head off stage. At the stairs, the soldier leans over, hands on his knees, and vomits. Dr. Sorrell rushes to his side.
A soldier halfway up the line pukes on his bride’s shoes. She jumps back.
It’s happening.
Soldiers start retching, dry heaving, gagging. Confused murmurs ripple through the room. On stage, doctors surround the vomiting soldier.
“I need to sit down,” one soldier says as he backs away holding his stomach.
“I’m not feeling well,” Deca says.
“Symptoms?” My voice is shaky.
“Dizzy. Disoriented.” He wipes away the perspiration forming at his temples.
“Maybe it was something you ate.” I look away.
I hate lying. Lies are like acid: they eat away at you, bit by bit, lie by lie, until your integrity is completely compromised.
I cram my hands in my dress pockets. My tattooed wrist burns as it slides against fabric. I wrap my fingers around the reassuring hunk of steel in my pocket. I hope I don’t have to use it.
An ear-splitting blast sends shattered glass skidding across the floor. I cringe and cower and nearly shoot my toe off. My heart slams against my chest. I swing around. A giant palm tree rammed through the back wall of windows, threshes against the wall as if it’s a living, breathing thing.
The wind caterwauls and rages through the broken window, tearing at my hair, slashing at my dress. Thunder builds and explodes in an earth-quaking crescendo. Lightning pops and cracks and zags down the walls.
Light bulbs burst overhead raining down splinters of glass on the newlyweds. It feels like a black cloud has rushed into the room, sucking up all the light and good vibes.
Deca doubles over and pukes. At the sight and smell of vomit, my stomach convulses. My throat squeezes. I step back and cover my nose and mouth.
It’s working.
Soldiers are reeling, kneeling, sweating, puking.
A burst of bullets ricochets around the room and just like that—as if a neon sign were flashing: YOU’RE UNDER ATTACK—the soldiers snap into action like a pack of wolves tracking, hunting, strategizing.
One word blazes down the line of soldiers like a lit fuse rushing toward a stick of dynamite: ambush, ambush, ambush.
Men from the Valley rush into the auditorium yelling, shooting, attacking. People scatter.
“Run!” I yell at the girls next to me.
Clover and Maris step out of line.
“Move! Move! Move!” They herd brides toward the hallway.
Brides scramble and scream and smash into each other: a stampede of stilettos and chiffon and lace. Maris grabs two rifles at the door. Smart Maris. She throws one to Clover. Clover catches it and leads the girls into the hall. The girls nearly trample one another as they jab, jostle, jam themselves through the door.
“Faster!” Maris shouts.
A bewildered Toussaint and Sorrell run off stage and vanish into the smear of skirts and camouflage. Valley fighters rush the stage. The armed bodyguards on stage spray the Valley men with bullets. They fall.
Blood splatters and pools in puddles on the floor. Blood, blood, so much blood. My pulse pounds in my ears. Guilt and terror immobilize me.
A flash of white darts across the stage: Gregor. He slinks to the back of the stage, hits a button on the wall, and disappears into an elevator. I can’t let him get away.
Men are grunting and grabbing, clobbering and kicking. A Valley man pulls his fist back and lands decades of pent-up anger into a super-soldier’s nose. Blood spurts from his face. I dodge two men rolling around exchanging punches. A soldier picks up a Valley man by the neck squeezing and shaking him until his face turns purple. Keep moving!
The last of the Supernovas, Ada from House of Rosalind, catapults through the air, her body arching, twisting, convulsing. Blood buds across the back of her white dress: a scarlet bouquet. She crumples to the ground. A super-soldier lifts her in his arms and sprints toward the hallway. All of the girls are gone now.
Except me.
I stay low and run for the stage as bullets obliterate everything around me. My foot slips in blood. I gain my balance and run up the stage steps. My hair is grabbed from behind. I’m yanked off the steps. My hips land on the floor. Air is knocked out of my lungs and my heart feels like it took a punch.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Franz growls in my ears. He yanks my head back, keeping his fists buried in my hair, forcing me to look up at him.
I glare at him.
Franz leans down until we are cheek to cheek. “We should have tied you up with the rest of them, but Gregor wouldn’t listen.”
His nostrils flare. His breath, hot against my neck, smells of whiskey. His hands, heavy in my hair, snap my neck back harder. I squirm and try to stand. He shoves me down.
“Stop! You’re hurting me!” I say.
“You haven’t seen anything yet, precious.” He drags me by the hair toward the exit.
I blindly feel for my gun and dig my heels into the floor. What if Gregor already activated the drones? What if all of this was for nothing? I search the room for Fritz. He won’t let Franz get away with this.
“Let her go.” Deca steps in front of me, hunched over, hands on his knees. His stomach convulses and his lips purse as if he’s fighting off nausea.
“Stand down, soldier,” Franz orders.
“I said. Let. Her. Go.” Deca stands up straight, rolls his shoulders back, and steps closer, towering over Franz.
A streak of hope runs through me. The grip on my hair tightens. Men yelling. Bullets. I cover my ears. Franz draws a hand back. A hot slap lands on my cheek. My head reels. Tears sting my eyes. I look up at Deca.
He clenches his jaw. Narrows his eyes. Raises his fist. Bones snap. Blood drips on my dress. Cupping his mouth, Franz staggers and releases me.
I scoot backwards and scramble to my feet. Blood pours from Franz’s mouth. Shock pours from his face. He wide-eyed stares at Deca.
“You’re going to pay for this, soldier!” Bloody, broken teeth fall from Franz’s mouth. He spits blood and lunges at Deca.
