In The Afterlight

The video zoomed in on the face of a young boy, no more than thirteen, strapped to some kind of metal post. He was panting hard, thrashing against the restraints that trapped his arms against his sides. There were small electrodes dotting his shaved head, ringing his scalp with a crown of wires. Revulsion rose in me, bile burning its way up my throat. I pressed a hand against my face and had to work up the courage to watch the terrible truth of it.

Cole glanced at me once as I stood behind him, then turned back to the screen. It was as much of an invitation as I was going to get. He started the video again from the beginning, and it was that much worse to hear the Red’s guttural sounds and screaming mixed with the scientist’s calm, dry notations to the camera.

“They were testing the kid to see what kind of emotional response triggers his abilities,” Cole said, staring at the last, frozen close-up of the boy’s face, streaming with sweat and tears. “Trying to map the way his mind processed it.”

“Ruby,” he said, turning so his face was in profile, “after tonight...after we have our Op strategy...I want you to do everything in your power to find Lillian Gray. Everything. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, finally finding the words as he started the video over again. “I do.”

10

I LEFT THE COMPUTER LAB in another glassy daze, walking and walking with nothing but the images of all of those kids trapped inside of my head. Burns. Surgeries. Blood being drawn. Questions. So many variations of What’s happening? And Why are you doing this?

Even if my mind was checked out, my body at least knew where it wanted to go. This whole day had passed like a year spent underwater. I just wanted to go to sleep for a little while, and try surfacing again later.

The others had claimed one of the empty bunk rooms on the lower level—I had my own creaky bed and everything. Truthfully, though, I would have curled up in the corner of one of the halls on the cold tile, as long as it meant shutting my eyes for a little while.

Someone clearly had the same idea. The overhead light was off, but a smaller, desk-sized one was on, perched on top of the crappy little dresser on the other side of the room. I hadn’t realized how badly I wanted to see him until he was there, and a little glow lit at my center. Liam was sprawled across one of the bottom bunks on his stomach, his face turned away, his hands tucked up under the folded sweatshirt he was using as a pillow. His hair and back were still damp from the shower he must have taken.

“Hey,” I said, coming toward him. A small test of sorts to gauge his mood. If he wanted to be left alone, I’d turn and go without a second’s hesitation. Instead, his shoulders, then the rest of his body, visibly relaxed. I dropped my knee on the free space at the edge of the bare mattress. His hand automatically moved to hook his arm around it.

“Hey yourself,” Liam mumbled. He didn’t sound sleepy, but he did sound wrung-out. “Time for dinner?”

“Not yet. How’s the garage looking?”

“Getting there. You can see half of the floor now. That’s an improvement, right?” he said, finally lifting his head and turning toward me. “Present for you.”

I followed his gaze over to the dresser, where there was a square of clear plastic to the left of the lamp. I picked it up and laughed—it was a CD case, The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds. I popped it open, smiling at the liner notes and disc inside.

“It’s like our song is following us everywhere,” he said.

He meant “Wouldn’t It Be Nice,” the opening track. I smiled. “Our song?”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older...” His soft voice trailed off into a hum. “I figured you could use some pleasant background music to drown out the sounds of you and Cole beating the shit out of each other, if it’s going to be an every-morning kind of thing.”

The warmth at my center evaporated. I closed the case, pressing it against my chest. “How did you know?”

“The two of you were the only ones that showed up to breakfast with new bruises. It’s not that hard to put two and two together.” He finally looked up at me. “Please...please be careful. The thought of him hitting you, pushing you around...it just makes me want to kill him.”

“It’s just sparring. I have to train.”

“And you couldn’t ask Vida?”

I felt myself heat up. “Are you...implying something?”

I didn’t want to explain this to him. I shouldn’t have to explain. It had nothing to do with him. I started to pull back, but his hand reached out again and caught mine.

“No, dammit, of course not. I’m sorry. That’s not the reason.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I found it in the car they’d stripped, its glove box. I brought it because it made me think of you.”

I reached over, placing it on top of the nearest dresser.

“Sorry. I’ve got a real knot in my tail today,” he said, turning those blue eyes up on me again. I felt frustration retract its claws from my stomach. “And I know you can take care of yourself, but it still drives me crazy to think about it. I guess I’m being a hypocrite, considering how close I came to hitting you this morning.”

He’d spent the whole day hauling junk around, trying to put it into some kind of order—and that was after having his brother read him the riot act. Of course he was entitled to be short with me.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. “You didn’t hurt me. Hey—I mean it. Not even close. I wouldn’t have jumped in if I didn’t know I could block you.” I picked up his hand, folding his thumb toward his palm and the other four fingers over it. “Plus, you had your fist like this—and that’s a good way to break your thumb.”