The Divide Page 8

  While scrambling to find a better grip, my eyes drift upward. The view outside my window is expansive, further than I’ve ever been able to see. The city is laid out before me, intercut by the forest, which stretches out to the river that splits and surrounds the island. As wide and perilous as the river crossing to Suffolk was, the water on this side is a raging torrent of water, impassable by any means of which I can conceive.

  Distracted by the view, I forget about the window, and lean further out, turning my gaze north. Essex is laid out before me, stretching into the distance, and I know that I am in one of the buildings that I have looked upon in the past, and tried not to think about.

  But it’s not the tallest building. That honor belongs to the impossibly tall structure to the east. It’s not far away, but the library conspired with the forest to block my full view of the megalithic structure.

  “What was the name of that building?” I ask.

  “Which building?”

  “The tallest in Boston. You never told me its name.”

  “John Hancock Tower.”

  “They named a building after a person?”

  “He played a large part in setting the people free several hundred years before skyscrapers, cars, and elevators existed. He was one of fifty-six men who signed a document declaring the land independent from the people who had ruled it.”

  “Sounds important,” I say, wondering what John Hancock would have thought about the building bearing his name.

  “He inspired people,” Shua says, sounding despondent. “A lot of men did back then. Their words still inspire men.”

  I tear my eyes away from the view. “What do you mean?”

  “My father carries a copy of the document. The ‘Declaration of Independence,’ they called it. Its words support his view. They are, perhaps, even the foundation of his views, and they are in stark contrast to the Prime Law.”

  His revelation reminds me of why we’re here. I turn my eyes outward again and my body locks up.

  “What is it?” Shua asks.

  I can’t answer him. I’m frozen, like prey, waiting for the killer bite on the back of my neck.

  The Divide lies to the northwest. I can’t see its end, or its bottom, but for the first time in my life, I can really see the far side. It looks remarkably like Essex, covered in old growth forest. But the forest is alive. A path of movement slides through the tall trees, shaking branches, bending trunks, sending birds flitting toward the sky.

  I can’t see it, but I know what’s creating it.

  “Vee,” Shua hisses. “What is it?”

  “The Golyat,” I whisper.

  “You can see it?”

  I shake my head. “It’s hidden. In the trees.” I turn toward him, eyes wide. “Approaching the Divide.”

  “You’re sure?” he asks. “Why would it? After all this time?”

  “It must see something,” I say, my stomach churning with anxiety at the idea that we might be witnessing the Golyat’s return to New Inglan. When I turn back to the window, motion pulls my eyes skyward, and I know exactly what has attracted the Golyat’s attention.

  “There’s something in the sky.”

  “Describe it.”

  “It’s round…like a pouch, but upside down, and big. Really big. There’s a basket hanging from the bottom. And…” What the hell? “…part of it is on fire. I think there are people in the basket.”

  “It’s a balloon,” he says. “A hot air balloon.”

  I don’t really care what it’s called. It’s currently riding the ocean’s breeze, carrying people toward the Divide’s far side. I’m about to head back to the stairs when I see a second balloon grow, like a fast-blooming flower, at the top of the John Hancock building.

  “Next door!” I shout. “They’re next door!”

  As I turn to leave, I spot something else. Another aberration. This time on the ground. Men. A lot of them. Moving through the forest.

  Micha is here. But has he seen the balloons? Did he hear me shouting?

  None of it matters, I decide. If the Modernists aren’t stopped, the Golyat will return.

  John Stark was wrong after all. Freedom is death.

  It’s a lesson I relearn when I free my hands from the window’s edge, and take a fast step on a rusted, metal beam that crumbles beneath my weight and sends me plummeting.

  13

  Metal beams bend, groan, and crumble beneath my weight as I fall atop what should have been my path back to the staircase. I can feel the old metal giving way, revealing just how fragile this timeworn building has become.

  “Vee!” Shua says, holding his spear out for me to grasp.

  I take hold of the outstretched weapon, but say, “I’m too heavy to—”

  “Swing,” he shouts, motioning down with his head, toward the landing on the floor below.

  It’s a horrible plan, and I’m about to complain when the metal beams decide to release me. How many corpses litter this city? I see a carpet of dead in my mind’s eye, too plentiful for the scavengers to consume. The dead were the forest’s fertilizer.

  And I’m about to join them.

  Perhaps the saplings below will grow taller from my blood, I think as gravity pulls me downward.

  Then there’s a tug as my fingers grip the spear’s shaft. My fall becomes a swing, careening me toward the landing below.

  A grunt of pain from above is followed by gravity’s swift return, but even it can’t stop my forward momentum. I’m flung back into the stairwell, crashing to the floor. I roll in a chaotic heap, across the jagged floor, and then down the next flight of steps. During the tumult, I spot the next landing below. Without a wall at the end, I’ll plummet to my death despite Shua’s rescue. As I’m beaten by the rotting steps, my instinct is to remain curled in a protective ball, but that will do nothing to slow me down. I unfurl my body and wind up lying flat, arms and legs splayed wide.

  The steps dig into my belly, grind against my ribs, and scrape my breasts. But they also stop me short of falling over the edge. I come to a complete stop when my chin whacks against a step, driving my teeth into my lip. Pummeled, but alive, I unleash a string of curses as I pick myself back up. I’m not totally aware of what I’m saying, but the look on Shua’s face as he rounds the landing above—a mix of worry and amused shock—says they’re not words typically utilized by a Lady of Essex.

  “Are you—”

  “Alive?” I say. “Yes. Okay, not really.”

  He crouches beside me. “You’re hurt?”

  “What? Yes. But who cares? The Modernists are above us, headed across the Divide in…

  “Balloons.”

  “…balloons. And my husband is below us, possibly tracking us instead of your father.” I push myself up, aware of the stinging beneath my clothing and the warm trickle of blood from several wounds.

  “Meaning…”

  “We’re too late to spare my son or your father from their fates. If Micha doesn’t know where the Modernists are, we need to show him.”

  “He might kill us on sight,” Shua says, and he’s right.

  “Then we won’t stand still,” I say, and I notice Shua’s spear is missing. “Your weapon?”

  He motions to the floor far below. “Down there.”

  “Which is where we need to be.” I vault down the next flight of steps, hand clutching the rusting rail as I round the bend and careen down the next flight. My descent is a barely controlled plummet dependent on the antique stairwell’s structural integrity. The stairs shake with each landing, sometimes loosening beneath my feet, sometimes crumbling above my head, but it holds together as Shua and I spiral downward.

  We reach the bottom at a run, out of breath, but with no time to rest. Shua’s spear is buried, blade down, in the soil at the base of the stairs. He snatches it from the ground as we pass and head for the window.

  I squint in the bright sun as I emerge, unaware of Micha’s men until one of them shouts, “There!”

&nbs
p; When my eyes adjust, I see a mob of men at the bottom of the hill, just inside the tree line. I recognize most of them, and they no doubt recognize me, which might be why they haven’t shot an arrow into my chest yet.

  I glance back and find myself alone. Shua has stopped short of the window, hanging back in the shadows, out of sight.

  “Davina?” Micha’s voice is just as deep and threatening as I remember it, but there is also a tinge of hurt in it. He’s actually wounded by my apparent betrayal.

  Micha steps to the front of his men, axe in hand, cloaked in fur despite the summer heat. His long hair is tied back, his beard braided. Beneath the grime, and hair, and furs, he’s a handsome man. But he prefers to project a fierce exterior. Believes that power—rather than intelligence—garners respect. “I didn’t want to believe it. My own wife, a Modernist. But here you are. I should have known the hardships of a shepherd’s life would drive you to betray the Prime Law. You’ve always been weak.”

  “Micha, please, listen to me. The Modernists are—”

  “Liars and thieves whose only future is death. I will not listen to your words any more than I would listen to Plistim’s…or your bastard son’s.” I barely have time to register his sudden movement, and the axe spinning toward my head, but I manage to move my head to the side just enough to keep it from being split in two. The heavy axe strikes the weathered concrete wall behind me and buries itself five inches deep.

  “Micha,” I plead, but my husband is beyond words.

  “Kill her!” he shouts, and I’m chased back inside the building by fifty men and a shower of hurled and shot projectiles.

  When I don’t see Shua, I think he’s abandoned me and left me to fend off, or escape from, fifty men. He proves me wrong when he says, “Over here,” and waves to me from the far side of the building, waiting by a hollowed-out window.

  He slips through without waiting. If I can make it through the gap before Micha and his men enter the building, they might waste time searching for me.

  Chased by the shouts of men who are not my enemies, but who want to kill me, I sprint through the sapling forest populating the ground level. Without slowing down, I dive out the window through which Shua fled. And once again, I nearly fall to my death. Shua’s hand snatches my clothing as I sail out over a twenty foot drop. The hill rising up to the building’s side is much shorter here.

  My outward leap becomes a downward circle guided by Shua’s strong arm. It ends with me being slammed into the solid exterior wall. The impact jars Shua’s hand free, and I fall—but only a foot before I find a handhold. Though my body is wracked by pain, I climb down the wall with something close to reckless abandon. There’s no way to know if Micha and his men saw my escape, but I doubt it will take them long to figure out where we’ve gone. Shua follows me, sliding as much as climbing.

  We hit the ground at a run, following the building around to the left, away from Micha, but toward the towering John Hancock building. Despite its size, it’s once again concealed by the forest’s thick canopy.

  It’s not long before the sounds of pursuit continue. Our mad dash through the forest is leaving an easy trail to follow. But we’ve got a decent lead and will reach the tallest building in Boston, then and now, without being slain. I’m not sure what will happen when we arrive, but I’m certain it will include violence and death.

  Shua takes the lead, scurrying through the trees, the forest undergrowth, root tangles, exposed stones, and ancient debris with impressive agility, never slowing and without altering course.

  A break in the trees reveals the John Hancock building looming above, its façade a mesh of metal, and tendrils of debris hanging from the exposed side like entrails. A childhood friend comes to mind in that moment. Dyer would love this, I think, looking up at the building. She had a strange fascination with entrails. I never understood why.

  And then we’re back in the forest again, closing in on the building. I’m about to ask if he has any ideas about how to locate the entrance, when I spot a woman up ahead. She’s a stranger, dressed in brown and camouflaged with foliage. I only spot her because the moment she sees us, she’s on her feet and running toward the building.

  She slips through a hole in the wall that looks like it was created through violent means.

  Shua redirects toward the woman, and we reach the door a moment later. I draw my machete as I pass through the gap, expecting a fight. But there is none to be found. Instead, there’s a staircase rising up through the skeletal tower.

  “Fuck,” I grumble, looking up. The woman is already four flights up and moving fast. After our previous climb, our crazed descent, and the mad dash, my legs are weary.

  Shouts echo from outside.

  Micha is just a hundred feet back, closer than I expected, his men in tow.

  “Fuuuuck,” I say and start up the stairs, taking two at a time.

  Thirty flights up, we’re forced to slow our pace, as does the woman we’re chasing.

  Micha is closing in from below, the weight of his men rumbling through the stairwell. But they will soon tire as well. Not even a stalwart belief in the Prime Law can push a person beyond the limits of what is human.

  We start running again, forcing the woman ahead of us to resume her faster pace as well. And all the while, Micha closes in. By the time we reach forty stories, the sound of pursuit is closer than ever. If they don’t slow to rest, they’re going to catch us before we reach the top. I know my husband, lost in rage, will never believe my words, but if he sees us killing Modernists, there is a chance he will spare our lives. That’s assuming we will survive the encounter with the Modernists, who will be warned of our approach, and not be exhausted from the climb.

  I feel ready to collapse when I see the stairwell’s end, three stories above. The ceiling is mostly missing, but a patchwork of thick metal beams remain. There are more balloons visible through the gaps. Some are airborne, and two rest atop what’s left of the roof. Great flames billow into partially inflated balloons, their heat tangible from here.

  How long will it be before they’re carried skyward by the hot air, and guided inland by the ocean’s winds?

  How long do we have to stop them?

  With so many already floating away, are we too late?

  All questions without answers.

  We pause near the top, catching our breath. While my lungs start to feel better, my legs feel barely capable of supporting me. The approaching fight needs to start and end quickly, or I’ll be useless.

  Shua looks me in the eyes, asking ‘Ready?’ without uttering a word. I give him a nod and we charge up together.

  I’m expecting an immediate assault, but that’s not what happens.

  One of the two remaining balloons is drifting skyward. Looking over the side of the large basket is a familiar face that wounds me far deeper than any weapon could.

  Salem.

  He’s older and unkempt, and he has facial hair now, but his eyes are the same. And he’s not looking at me with surprise or sorrow or anger. Instead, he looks…pleased. Maybe even relieved.

  “You made it,” A deep voice says, pulling my gaze to the one remaining balloon. Plistim himself stands beside the basket, smiling. His gray hair is cut short and his face clean shaven. He looks almost polished. Not at all the wild man I expected. Without hesitation, I hurl my machete toward his chest. He leans to the side, dodging the blade, which clatters inside the empty basket.

  Plistim laughs. “I can see why you like her.”

  I draw my knife, never questioning who he is speaking to. “I’m going to kill you, and every Modernist following you.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve misread the situation,” Plistim says, as I stalk toward him on shaky legs. He points to the trail of balloons floating east. “This voyage was inspired by the Modernist movement, but it is not for Modernists. The people you see up there, are family.”

  I grip the knife tighter, eyes on his chest.

  “You are here, because your
son asked for you. I thought it a foolish endeavor, but we wouldn’t be here without his keen mind.”

  I point the knife at him, as I get close to striking distance.

  “My son is not your family!”

  Plistim smiles. “That is where you are wrong. That boy is my grandson.”

  This stops me in my tracks.

  “I’m sorry, Vee,” Shua says. I glance back to find him unwrapping his face. When he’s done, I’m staring at the face of the man who fathered my son: Shua, son of Plistim, enemy of humanity.

  In that moment, I realize what a fool I have been. This is the price of not following the law, and not honoring my wedding vows. My indiscretions, justified or not, have provided the means for Plistim to bring about humanity’s final end.

  In the next moment, I feel a thump of pain, followed by darkness.

  14

  I shiver and wonder why I’m so cold. It’s summer, but the air feels raw. And thin. Like I’ve climbed a mountain, which the pain in my legs seems to confirm. My head pounds, the pain holding my eyes shut.

  What happened?

  All I know at the moment is that I’m hurt.

  As I wake, my senses reach out to the world around me. Despite my shut eyes, I know I’m someplace unfamiliar. The only scents I can detect are hints of wood, rope, and smoke. But mostly I smell nothing at all, which is strange. I hear even less, just the wind swishing against a variety of surfaces. It’s what I can feel that confuses me most.

  I’m lying on my side, curled up, hands and feet together. The floor beneath me and the wall behind me are solid, but somehow flexible. What confuses me is that I feel like I’m wrapped in a mother’s arms, being rocked back and forth, the wind a comforting whisper, the air crisp.

  It’s almost enough to lull me to sleep.

  And then someone speaks. “Stoke it hotter, but watch the flame’s height.”

  A repetitive shush of air is followed by a wave of heat—from above.