That was when Sara figured it out. She hadn't heard anything, because there had been nothing to hear. Not like this. Not for me. Jackie had left the lodge of her own accord.
She'd done it to protect Sara.
By midafternoon she knew she had to do something. Her guilt was excruciating. She never should have tried to get Jackie out of the plant, never confronted Sod the way she had. She'd all but painted a target on the woman's back. The minutes were ticking away. The virals in the feedlot ate just after dusk; Sara had seen the trucks. Livestock carriers crammed with lowing cows, but also the windowless vans that were used to move prisoners from the detention center. One was always parked at the rear of the hospital, its meaning plain to anyone who cared to consider it.
The cols supervising the grinding teams were Vale and Whistler. Vale she thought she could have worked with, but with Whistler watching, Sara didn't see how. There was only one solution she could think of. She topped off her bushel basket, lifted it from the ground, took three steps toward the grinder, and stopped.
"Oh," Sara cried. She let the basket drop, clutching her stomach. "Oh. Oh."
She melted, moaning, to her knees. For a moment it seemed that amid the noise of the grinders her demonstration had gone unnoticed. She amplified her cries, curling her legs to her chest, hugging her midriff.
"Sara, what is it?" One of the other women-Constance Chou-was crouching over her.
"It hurts! It hurts!"
"Get up or they'll see you!"
Another voice broke through: Vale's. "What's going on here?"
Constance backed away. "I don't know, sir. She just ... collapsed."
"Fisher? What's wrong with you?"
Sara didn't answer, just kept up with the moaning, rocking at the waist and throwing in a few spastic kicks for good measure. A circle of onlookers had formed around her. "Appendix," she said.
"What did you say?"
She clenched her face with manufactured pain. "I think ... it's my ... appendix."
Whistler charged through the crowd, pushing onlookers aside with her baton. "What's her problem?"
Vale was scratching his head. "She says something's wrong with her pendix."
"What are you people looking at?" Whistler barked. "Get back to work." Then, to Vale: "What do you want to do with her?"
"Fisher, can you walk?"
"Please," she gasped. "I need a doctor."
"She says she needs a doctor," Vale reported.
"Yeah, I heard that, Vale." The woman huffed a sigh. "All right, let's get her out of here."
They helped her to a pickup parked behind the plant and laid her in the back. Sara kept up the rocking and moaning. A brief negotiation ensued: should one of them take her or should they call for a driver?
"Fuck it, I'll take her," Whistler said. "Knowing you, you'll dither all day."
The trip to the hospital took ten minutes; Sara used them to formulate a plan. All she'd been thinking about was getting to the hospital, to find Jackie before the van took her away; she hadn't considered the next step. It seemed to her now that she held only two good cards. First, she wasn't really sick; once she experienced a miraculous recovery, it didn't seem likely that they'd ship a perfectly able-bodied woman off to the feedlot. Second, she was a nurse. Sara wasn't sure how she'd put this fact to use-she'd have to improvise-but she might be able to use her medical knowledge to convince the person in charge that Jackie wasn't as ill as she appeared.
Or maybe nothing she did would matter. Maybe once she passed through the hospital doors, she'd never come out. This prospect, as she weighed it, did not appear entirely bad, thus giving her a third card to play: the card of not caring anymore if she lived or died.
Whistler pulled up to the hospital entrance, strode back to the cargo bed, and drew down the tailgate.
"Out with you. Let's go."
"I don't think I can walk."
"Well, you'll have to try, because I'm not carrying you."
Sara sat up. The sun had peeked from behind the clouds, sharpening the scene with its cold brightness. The hospital was a three-story brick building, part of a cluster of low, workaday structures at the southern edge of the flatland. At a distance of twenty yards stood one of three major HR substations. A dozen cols guarded the entrance, which was flanked by concrete barricades.
"Am I talking to myself here?"
She was; Sara was barely listening. She was focused on the car, a small sedan of the type the cols used to move among the lodges. It was headed toward them at high speed, dragging a boiling plume of dust. Sara clambered down from the bed. Simultaneously, she sensed a figure rushing at her from behind. The car was bearing down, its speed unabated. There was something odd about it, and not just the wild velocity of its approach. The windows were blacked out, obscuring the driver; something was written on the hood, the letters scrawled in streaks of white paint.
SERGIO LIVES
As the vehicle sailed toward the barricades, somebody smashed her from behind. In the next instant she was flat on the ground, her body smothered, as the truck exploded with a blast of sound and a wave of superheated pressure she didn't believe could actually exist in the world. The air was sucked from her lungs. Things were falling. Things were sailing through the air and impacting like meteors around her, flaming, heavy things. There was a screeching sound of metal, a rain of tinkling glass. The world was noise and heat and the weight of a body on top of her, and then a sudden silence and a wash of warm breath close to her ear and a voice saying:
"Come with me now. Do exactly as I say."
Sara was on her feet. A woman, no one she knew, was pulling her by the hand against the inertia of her wonderment. Something had happened to her hearing, bathing the scene around her in a milky unreality. The substation was a smoking crater. The pickup was gone; it lay on its side where the entrance to the hospital was, or had been. Something wet was on Sara's hands and face. Blood. She was covered in it. And sticky things, biological things, and a fine, jeweled dust she realized was composed of tiny bits of glass. How amazing, she thought, how very amazing everything was, especially what had happened to Whistler. It was striking, what a body looked like when it wasn't one thing anymore but had been dispersed in recognizably human pieces over a wide area. Who would have guessed that when a body blew apart, as had evidently happened, it actually did that: it blew apart.
She broke away, first her vision and then the rest of her; the woman was running and so was she, running and also being dragged, the energy of her rescuer-for Sara understood that this woman had protected her from the blast-passing into her body through their gripping hands. Behind them the silence had given way to a chorus of screams and shouts, a weirdly musical sound, and the woman skidded to a halt behind a building that somehow still stood (hadn't all the buildings in the world just blown up?) and dropped on the ground. In her hand was a kind of hook, and with this hook she drew aside the manhole cover.
"Get in."
Sara did. She got in. She lowered herself into the hole where a ladder waited. Something smelled bad. Something smelled like shit because it was. As Sara's feet touched the bottom, her sneakers filling with the horrible water, the woman reached over her head and resealed the manhole with a clank, plunging Sara into an absolute darkness. Only then did it occur to her in fullest measure that she had been in an explosion of many deaths and much destruction and that in its immediate aftermath, an interval of probably less than a minute, she had given herself completely to a woman she did not know, and that this woman had whisked her into a kind of nonexistence: that Sara had, in effect, disappeared.
"Wait."
The glow of a small bluish flame igniting: the woman was holding a lighter, touching it to the head of a torch. A blaze leapt forth, illuminating her face. Somewhere in her twenties, with a long neck and small, dark eyes, full of intensity. There was something familiar about her, but Sara couldn't fix her mind on it.
"No more talking. Can you run?"
Sara nodded yes.
"Come on."
The woman began to move at a trot down the sewer pipe, Sara following. This went on for some time. At each of many intersections, the woman decisively chose a direction. Sara had begun to take stock of her injuries. The explosion had not occurred without effect. There was a variety to her pains, some of them quite sharp, others more like a generally dispersed thudding. Yet none was so severe as to prevent her from keeping up with the woman. After more time had passed, Sara realized that the distance they had traveled must have surely placed them beyond the wired boundaries of the Homeland. They were escaping! They were free! A ring of light appeared before them: an exit. Beyond it lay the world-a dangerous world, a lethal world where virals roamed unchecked, but even so it loomed before her like a golden promise, and she stepped into the light.
"Sorry about this."
The woman was behind her. She had reached one hand around Sara's waist, drawing her into stasis; the other hand, holding a cloth, rose to Sara's face. What in the world? But before Sara could utter a single sound of protest, the cloth was covering her mouth and nose, flooding her senses with an awful choking chemical smell, and a million tiny stars went off inside her head; and that was the end of that.
Chapter 39
Lila Kyle. Her name was Lila Kyle.
Though, of course, she knew that the face in the mirror had other names. The Queen of Crazy. Her Loony Majesty. Her Royally Unhinged Highness. Oh, yes, Lila had heard them all. You'd have to get up pretty early in the morning to pass one over on Lila Kyle. Sticks and stones, she always said (her father said), sticks and stones, but what galled her, really, was the whispering. People were always whispering! As if they were the adults and she the child, as if she were a bomb that might go off at any second. How strange! Strange and not a little disrespectful, because in the first instance, she wasn't crazy, they were one hundred percent wrong about that; and in the second, even if she were, even if, for the sake of argument, she liked to strip na**d in the moonlight and howl like a dog (poor Roscoe), what concern of it was theirs? How crazy she was or was not? (Though she had to confess, there were days, certain difficult days when her thoughts would not cooperate, like an armful of autumn leaves she was attempting to shove into a bag.) It wasn't nice. It was beyond the pale. To speak behind a person's back, to make such vile insinuations-it was outside the bounds of common decency. What had she ever done to deserve such treatment? She kept to herself, she never asked for anything, she was quiet as a mouse; she was wholly content to bide her time in her room with her lovely little things, her bottles and combs and brushes and her dressing table, where now she sat-it seemed she had been sitting there for some time-brushing out her hair.
Her hair. As she shifted her attention to the face in the mirror, a wave of warm recognition flowed through her. The sight always seemed to take her by surprise: the rosy, pore-free skin, the dewy glistening of her eyes, the humid plumpness of her cheeks, the delicate proportionality of her features. She looked ... amazing! And most amazing of all was her hair. How lustrous it was, how abundant to the touch, how rich with its molassesy thickness. Not molasses: chocolate. An excellent dark chocolate from someplace wonderful and special, Switzerland, maybe, or one of those other countries, like the candies her father had always kept in his desk; and if she was good, very good, or sometimes for no reason at all, simply because he loved her and wanted her to know it, he would summon her to the sanctified quarters of his masculine-smelling study, where he wrote his important papers and read his inscrutable books and conducted his generally mysterious fatherly business, to bestow upon her the symbol of this love. Only one now, he would say to her, the oneness amplifying the specialness because it implied a future in which further visits to the study would occur. The golden box, the lifting lid, the moment of suspense: her little hand hovered over the rich bounty of its contents like a diver poised at the edge of a pool, calculating the perfect angle for her plunge. There were the chocolate ones, and the ones with nuts, and the ones with the cherry syrup (the only ones she didn't like; she'd spit them out into a Kleenex). But best of all were the ones with nothing, the pure chocolate nuggets. That was what she craved. The singular treasure of milky melting sweetness that she was attempting to divine from among its fellows. This one? This one?
"Yolanda!"
Silence.
"Yolanda!"
In a flurry of skirts and veils and windy fabric, the woman came bustling into the room. Really now, Lila thought, what a ridiculous getup that was. How many times had Lila instructed her to dress more practically?
"Yolanda, where have you been? I've been calling and calling."
The woman was looking at Lila as if she'd lost her mind. Had they gotten to her, too? "Yolanda, ma'am?"
"Who else would I call?" Lila sighed exorbitantly. The woman could be so dense. Though her English was not the best. "I would like ... something. If you please. Por favor."
"Yes, ma'am. Of course. Would you like me to read to you?"
"Read? No." Though the thought was suddenly appealing; a little Beatrix Potter might be the very thing to soothe her nerves. Peter Rabbit in his little blue jacket. Squirrel Nutkin and his brother Twinkleberry. The two of them could get into such mischief! Then she remembered.
"Chocolate. Do we have any chocolate?"
The woman still appeared totally out of it. Maybe she'd gotten into the liquor. "Chocolate, ma'am?"
"Leftover Halloween candy, maybe? I'm sure we have some somewhere. Anything will do. Hershey's Kisses. Almond Joy. A Kit Kat. Whatever is fine."