Ten

My legs ache as Seph and I race past the original break-off point to head down the path the girls took. Their corridor doesn’t go far before it makes a sharp turn to the left and then the right.

As soon as I round the corner, my body slams into something hard, and the object goes flying back while I struggle to stay on my feet. It’s Ruthie. Shit. She falls with a loud thud, kicking dust from the ground into the air. Her face is paler than ever. Even her freckles have taken on a lighter tone. This is bad.

“What’s going on? Where’s Clara?” I try to keep my voice level even though panic is tearing through my bones.

Seph helps Ruthie back to her feet, and as soon as she’s stable, she pushes past him, wrapping her arms around me.

Her body shakes against mine. “It’s horrible… It’s… It’s horrible.” Her words are a jumble and then she points behind her, to an open door.

“Is Clara in there? Ruthie focus, is Clara okay?” My voice is higher than normal, and I’m praying she doesn’t notice. That it doesn’t make this worse.

Ruthie nods but keeps her feet planted when I try to take a step.

Worry is etched across Seph’s face. His sad eyes are even sadder somehow.

I ease out of Ruthie’s embrace and grasp her firmly on each arm. “Either you stay here or come with me, but I’m going to get Clara.”

Ruthie nods again and moves forward with me. Cool air blows against my skin, and goosebumps dot my arms as I step through the doorway and find Clara curled in a ball, pressed tight against a wall. But she isn’t alone. Less than a few feet is a…was a boy. At least, most of him is still there. His crumpled body is slumped against one of the walls. Half his face has been torn from his skull, and a circle of dried blood cascades away from him.

The stench of vomit fills the air. Clara’s. It looks fresh. The sensation of something crawling up my own throat makes me swallow hard.

My stomach churns, rolls over, and ties itself in a knot. I had thought there was a lot of blood when I lost my finger. One second I’d been completing a simple repair on a LawnBot. The next, a belt I’d been adjusting tightened and sucked my hand in. I’d fixed that type of automatic lawn trimmer a million times, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t react fast enough. Nor did I have time to scream before my pinkie was ripped from my hand. Even though I wrapped it up and found the finger, it didn’t matter. The CMA assigned to my case couldn’t put it back on. And we couldn’t afford to see a specialist.

Sharp pain shoots up my arm from where the pinkie used to be. I shake my hand and shake away the memory with it as I crouch down next to Clara and put my arm over her shoulder. “We’re here,” I whisper, but she doesn’t respond or lift her head, and she’s breathing heavy.

Seph moves toward the body and bends down but doesn’t get too close. “What do you think killed him?”

Besides the missing pieces of his face and all the blood, he’s intact. No guts spilling out. No giant gaping wounds. But something had to have killed him. People don’t just die in here, do they?

I glance around. The room is simple. Nothing too big or too small. Smooth walls. Just enough light to see. And there’s nothing inside except a dead boy. A shiver runs up my spine, and a quick, shooting pain pinches the back of my neck. I reach to rub the ache away and find a small lump. I’m not sure why I’d never noticed it before. Maybe because it’s never felt like this, or maybe because I hit myself on something jumping through that window. Except it doesn’t hurt when my finger glides over it. It’s only a bump.

“He’s got a bag.” Seph turns toward us but is still crouched on the ground. “It’s wedged under him.”

Clara uncurls herself from her ball but keeps her gaze up toward the ceiling. “Do you think it could have any supplies in it?” She doesn’t sound as panicked as she looks.

“It’s possible,” I say. “Or it’s a trap.”

Everyone snaps their head in my direction.

“What? It’s not that strange an idea. Why else leave a body lying around?” Unless nobody cares that it’s here. Which in this place, I believe. Not to mention… I take a deep breath and immediately regret it. Aside from the stink of Clara’s puke there are no other smells, and I’m pretty sure decomposing bodies are supposed to stink. Without all the other things, that alone makes me think something devious is going on.

“A trap how?” Ruthie asks. She has moved next to me, halfway turned away from the body so she can look without looking. “Like if we move him, he’ll explode or something?”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose.” Seph hitches himself around the dead guy, searching for any signs that this isn’t what it seems. “Maybe you should go back into the hallway. If anything happens, then you won’t get hurt.”

Ruthie’s already backing away.

I stand up and take a step toward him. “Why would you do that?” My voice is sharp, more so than I expect. I don’t understand why he’d be willing to sacrifice himself for us. Back at school, he seemed like the kind of guy who would do anything to get ahead, but here he doesn’t have anything to gain. Does he have some kind of death wish?

Clara pushes herself off the ground and takes Ruthie’s hand.

“Because I don’t care if anything happens to me,” Seph snaps.

“Well that’s pretty reckless.” Ruthie continues to back away. “Maybe we shouldn’t risk it. We should all leave now before it’s too late.”

Seph stands. “There could be stuff in that bag we can use. What if there’s a map?”

“If there was a map, don’t you think he would’ve made it out?” Ruthie challenges. “No, we should all leave him alone.”

I shuffle my feet. They both make good points. If Seph’s right, there could be something in there that could be helpful—but then, how did he get stuck in this room? Or maybe Ruthie’s right, and it could be a huge mistake. When it comes down to it, what do I have to lose? “I vote we get the bag.”

“Lezah, no,” Clara says. “It’s too dangerous.”

I clench my hands into fists. Now’s not the time to show how scared I am on the inside. “We could die out there as easy as we could die right here in this room. But moving the guy might give us an advantage. Not moving him doesn’t leave us any better off than we are right now.”

Clara seems to consider me for a moment. She has to know I’m right about this. Right that we need to take the risk. “Then we all should stay.”

Ruthie shakes her head like it’s the worst idea.

“What? Why?” Seph sounds like he’s worried, but worried for who?

“Because we’re in this together,” I tell him, and Clara nods.

“You guys are being irrational,” Ruthie says.

Clara tugs on Ruthie’s arm. “We’re a team. Either we do this together or not at all.”

“I vote not at all,” Ruthie says.

“Well, I vote we get it, and that makes three against one,” Clara says.

Ruthie seems to think about it for a second before she lowers her head, eyes focused on the ground.

“That settles it. We do this as a team,” I say, taking my place next to Seph.

“I’m not gonna be able to convince you to leave the room, am I?” His brows lift, like maybe he’s impressed.

I glance at the girls and shake my head, heat creeping into my cheeks. “Nope.”

“You’ve always been stubborn.” The corner of his lip turns up, and we lock eyes for a few beats. My skin tingles in response. The hairs on my arms stand up. “Well let’s get this over with.” Seph takes a deep breath—so do I—crouches next to the dead guy, and reaches for him.

My face scrunches up. “Maybe you should cover your hand with something. You know. Just in case.” If I had been prepared, maybe I would’ve never lost my finger.

He glances at his hands, to me, and then his hands again. I don’t have anything to offer that he could use to protect them; I just know he needs to. And the look on his face says he’s considering my idea. In a flash he pulls off his shirt and wraps the fabric around his right hand, then fidgets with it to cover his left. My stomach flip-flops. Probably because I’m hungry. Not because there’s some nice definition to his chest. It’s not chiseled, but it’s broad, solid. And there’s a rather large tattoo on his left pec. White ink and bright colors stand out on his dark-brown skin. A Día de los Muertos sugar skull with flowers that surround the eye sockets and a rose in the center of its forehead. Instead of a name to honor the dead, there’s a date. A little over six months ago.

Carefully, with his hands fully covered, he nudges the body over to the side so he can pull the bag out from under him. I’m trembling hard, and my knees are bent, ready to jump into action if I have to. The sound of the body rubbing against the rough stone wall makes my skin crawl. But other than that, there’s nothing. No explosions or bullets flying.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Ruthie says, before racing out of the room with her hands over her mouth. Clara glances at me before heading after her. Good for them for becoming friends so fast. I’m happy for them—and completely not jealous—there’s already enough puke in this small space, so it’s probably better that Ruthie left. I hope she’s okay. Since Clara’s going to help her, I don’t feel too bad about sticking around to help Seph.

Without tipping the poor guy completely over, he’s able to get the bag out. It’s the canvas kind. Brown. Like the one Trip packed his stuff in. Seph lets out the longest breath in the history of long breaths and glances at me. “I’m not gonna lie, I was a little nervous it wasn’t going to be so easy.” A faint smile plays on those full lips, but it’s gone as quick as it appeared.

He gets back on task, unzipping the backpack and pulling things out, as I take a few steps closer. A clean blue T-shirt, a pair of house slippers, a copy of the CalTes’s Founding Principles book, and a SOUL. “Looks like maybe there’re more clothes, but I think they got soaked with blood.” He stands up, pulls his shirt back on, and stares down at the pile.

My eyes lock on the clean shirt lying on the ground. I wish I had taken those clothes and changed when I had the chance. And even though these belong to a dead guy, they look cleaner than what I have on.

“Go ahead.” Seph reaches down, grabs the shirt, and takes a deep whiff. “Smells okay. I won’t look, promise.” He spins around and faces the wall.

The shirt is better than it looks. The fabric is soft, and he’s right, it does smell okay, better than okay, actually. It smells clean, like it was washed recently in something other than that shit-ass soap they use on our jumpsuits.

“Thanks,” I whisper to the dead guy.

Even though I’m sure Seph isn’t looking, and that the dead guy can’t see, I pull it over my head before I slip my arms out of the jumpsuit. “Ouch.” With everything, I’ve forgotten about whatever’s stuck in the back of my triceps, until it snags as I try to take my arm out of the sleeve.

“What’s wrong?” Seph asks, but he stays turned away.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” I have one arm out of the jumpsuit and through the sleeve of the shirt, and the other caught somewhere in the middle. “When that game system busted, something hit me. It’s not a big deal.” I try to tug my arm out again, with the same result. Burning pain all the way up to my neck. Oh God, Mother Mary. I take a deep breath as I stretch around and try to find whatever it is back there, but I’m too tangled, and I can’t reach.

“Do you need some help?” Seph asks.

I grit my teeth and try one last time before admitting defeat. “Okay.”

He spins around. “Let me see.” He comes closer but doesn’t touch me.

My face is hot. This is beyond embarrassing. The guy who was basically my arch nemesis—okay, maybe not that bad, but we did always compete with each other, and it’s not like we’re friends now—is about to see the ratty bra I’ve been wearing for the past month, and getting so close that there’s no way he won’t be able to smell how ripe I am. But this is something I can’t do on my own, so I pull up the edge of the shirt and extend my arm back so he can get a look.

He takes my elbow and lifts it gently. Something warm flutters around in my chest. “I’m gonna tear this, okay?”

I nod and flinch as there’s an audible rip, cool air engulfing my triceps.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. Then there’s more tearing, but it isn’t my jumpsuit. As I glance back, I watch as Seph pulls a long piece of fabric from the bottom of his shirt.

“Now this might hurt,” he says, then yanks at whatever’s stuck inside me without giving me a second to prepare myself. I don’t even have time to scream, but I suck in a breath so deep my lungs ache. He presses my arm between his hands, holding it so tight it starts to tingle and stars float in my vision.

When he loosens his grip, an odd sort of emptiness settles inside me. A moment later, the piece of fabric he tore from his shirt is wrapped and tied around my arm, and he’s helping me slide it through the sleeve of the new shirt.

His hand grazes the back of my neck as he sweeps my hair to the side. My whole body is tingling now. His warm fingers run over the lump I’d noticed earlier.

I spin around and away from his touch, tying the sleeves of the jumpsuit around my waist so they aren’t dangling. “Thanks.” He doesn’t need to see all my flaws at once. Actually, I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned anything about my missing pinky yet. It’s not always the first thing people notice when they see me, but when they do, they always have something to say.

“No sweat,” he says, and our eyes lock. His aren’t just gray; they look like the clouds, with swirls of blue around the middle. That weird feeling in my stomach is back, and I’m warm, maybe a little hot even with the chill in the air. He’s so close. Closer than he’s ever been, and for a second, I allow myself to forget about the past and look at the boy who was willing to risk everything for us today.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. I’m being illogical. “We should probably…”

He takes a step back. “Oh yeah.” When he looks away I wish I hadn’t said anything at all. He crouches down and grabs the SOUL while I pick up the book. “There’s not much charge left to this, but that isn’t our only problem.” He flashes the screen at me. “Password protected.”

So basically this entire ordeal was for a shirt, which almost makes this whole thing worth it, and this book. I flip the cover open and stare at the handwriting on the first page.

Property of Dwayne Wrights.

I freeze at the name. Dwayne. Trip’s old roommate. The one he said they had set free. “Um…Seph—”

He takes a step closer, knocking into Dwayne’s leg. Then as if in slow motion, Seph’s eyes flash to mine, screaming, oh shit, while Dwayne crashes to the ground, his head separating from his body with a thump. I jump back as thousands of spiders crawl from the place Dwayne’s neck used to connect to the rest of him.

I yank Seph’s arm then spin around and sprint away.