“Holy skitz, you’re coming on to me.” She gapes at me, half-amused, half-flattered, and pushes me back.
“Come on,” I joke. “You know you want this.” I pose like I’m one of those ridiculous model guys that Talan and I found pictures of in an old pre-Fall magazine. Talan laughs so hard she almost cries.
“Stop!” she says, clutching her stomach.
We both stop laughing when the Night Siren goes off.
“All right,” Talan says, as soon as the ringing dies away. “Grow a pair, and get in there.” Her arm sweeps the doors open, ushering me in. I know she won’t come with me. Seeing her daughter’s picture will only remind her that Arden’s death is something she cannot erase. It’s not her fault Arden wandered off during Cleanup. It’s their fault she got lost in the crowds, their fault that no one would help us search for her during our shift. Arden’s blood is on the Leeches’ bloodsucking hands. But Talan blames herself, and nothing I say will ever change that.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Zeph.” She turns and strides down the street. I envy her strength, her fearlessness, but part of me thinks it’s just because she wants to die so she can be with Arden again.
“Be safe!” I call out after her. She flips me the bird, and I smile as I watch her walk into the darkness. Talan always makes me happy, but the feeling goes away when I hear a creaking somewhere in the dark. I shiver and step into the Catalogue Dome.
Commandment Three: Honor the Silent Hour.
My breath catches in my throat. I stagger back. It is a virtual graveyard. All around me, lining the black walls of the Dome, are the numbers and portraits of deceased citizens. They’re all staring at me.
Hallways lead away from the main lobby, and I set off toward the 17000 hall. My first victim’s memorial is there.
Some faces leap out at me as I walk, letting my fingertips trail the smooth black walls. 17530. I picked up her corpse last week. I remember her number, because Talan made fun of her orange lipstick. “Like cat vomit,” she said.
The Dome is quiet. My footsteps are the only sound I can hear besides my nervous breathing. There are hundreds of other mourners here, so many that the halls are completely lined with people on their knees, silently saying their good-byes.
I keep walking with my head down, dreading the moment when I look into his eyes.
But there he is. 17907. I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of his screen, a small black rectangle that flickers sadly when I place my palm on its warm surface.
Michael Kans. Husband. Father of three. Fisherman. Death during the Dark Time.
Brutally and undeservingly murdered by Zephyr James, is what it should say.
Michael’s face is kind and wrinkled, his smile huge. Crow’s feet pucker the skin around his eyes, and I wonder what made him smile so big when the picture was taken. Maybe it was his child, making a funny face. Maybe he was thinking of his wife. She was probably beautiful. I’m sure he loved her.
I rock on the floor in front of his plaque, not caring who sees me. Michael reminds me of my father. Someone who never deserved to die. “I’m sorry,” I whisper through ragged breaths. I woke with his blood on my hands, his mangled body at my feet, and fragments of a memory I didn’t want to piece together. His screams. My hands, strangling his throat. My heart, steady and sure while I made his stop beating for good. I don’t know why or when I did it. But I know I did.
It’s the same for all of them. “I’m so sorry.”
I go down my list of numbers, visiting each memorial to pay my respects, begging myself to just remember.
I’m not a murderer. I couldn’t ever be. It isn’t possible, not Zephyr James. Not the poor, pathetic Ward who scrubs the blood off the streets each week, who gives his rations to the children in the Reserve, and looks after careless, wild, broken Talan, trying to keep her safe. Not Zephyr James. He isn’t a murderer.
But he is. I am.
CHAPTER 7
MEADOW
I have never seen a man cry.
My father never does. Not even when Peri fell off of the houseboat and almost drowned. Not even when my mother died. At least, not in front of me.
No. I have never seen a man cry.
But right now, lying on the floor beside my mother’s plaque in the Catalogue Dome, a boy is sobbing. I’ve heard mourning in the streets, deep moans and agonizing screams of fury, but the boy’s cries are soft. I take an awkward step toward him, but stop. It could be a trap, and suddenly his weakness disgusts me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, through his sobs. He’s facedown now on the tile floor, his fingertips touching the image of an elderly olive-skinned woman. I wonder briefly how she died, but then I see it. She was murdered, of course, like the thousands and thousands of others in this building. “I’m so sorry,” the boy whispers again.
“Sorry for what?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. They are entirely too loud.
The boy stops moving, stops breathing. I slide my dagger out, let it hang ready at my side. This is stupid, against everything my father has ever taught me. I turn around to leave. I’d only wanted to share my triumph with my mother, to show her the badge tucked securely in my pocket. But before I can take another step, I see it. The mark of a Ward, a thick black X tattooed onto the back of his neck. The woman on the plaque could be his aunt. His grandmother. His mother, even. And now he is alone.
Wards have nothing. They matter to no one. To the Initiative, they are nothing. They may as well be invisible.