Scuffed one shoe against the
rug. Bode tensed, shying back as Kilroy’s hand came up. But Kilroy
only reached into his pocket, took out a case of cigarettes, and
lit one for himself. “No,” Kilroy said shortly. “I’m not inclined
to share.”
They didn’t speak again for
many miles. A specter joined them in the car, drifting about
restlessly. A thin ghost, frail and uncommanding. Bode tried to
ignore it.
The car stopped suddenly.
Kilroy looked puzzled. He went to the window and peered out. The
specter had vanished. “Oh my.” Kilroy went to the door and pulled
it open. “We’ve encountered an obstacle.”
Bode followed Kilroy
outside.
A young woman was crouched
beside the tracks up ahead. She was using a can of spray paint to
write something on the grass. All around her, white numbers
glowed.
4717. 2022. 1025. 2176.
3571905. 6271906.
Bode could hear the woman
muttering to herself. “These were my numbers; these were my
numbers, and these were the things that mattered.” Over and over as
she spray-painted a clumsy 3 on the edge of the track.
“ That’s very sad.” Kilroy
glanced back at Bode. “Don’t you think so?”
Bode couldn’t
answer.
“ Hey!” Kilroy called to the
girl. “You’ll want to move back until we’ve passed.
The girl didn't acknowledge
them, and after a moment Kilroy stepped back into the
car.
Bode thought about running. But he was in
the middle of nowhere, with no food and not enough clothing for the
coldness of the night, and no sense of how close he was to
civilization. Then he thought of the debt something hooked his
gut—regret and shame. The most effective chains were simple. They
were guilt and ghosts.
He walked over to the girl.
Watched her paint. He could see tears glistening on her face, could
hear the hitches in her breath. He closed his eyes and let strains
of memory drift through him like music. He’d spent his first few
days with the Grand Ballast forcing his fear into a cold fury. And
one night, he’d broken. Had gone behind the train while the others
were passing gin around the fire. Had crouched in the grass,
vomited, and cried. Had missed his mother, who’d never learned the
truth about what he’d done. Nobody knew but Kilroy and
Bode.
He shivered his way through
some in-between place and thought about what he had craved most
these last few years. Forgiveness. How he had wanted to pay, wanted
to suffer, but only in theory. What he had truly wanted was for
Kilroy to stick his arm into the slick, carnivorous muck of the
betrayal that stood between them, and pull out the threads of good
things: mercy and desire, the whole history of their time together,
too strong and too pure to have been ruined by a second’s poor
thinking.
“ Hey,” he said gently to
the girl.
The girl paused in her
chanting, but she didn’t look up.
“ Can you step back for a
few minutes?” he asked. “We’re going to pass now. We don’t want you
to get hurt.”
She didn’t respond, and he
put a hand out to touch her shoulder.
She whirled as soon as he
touched her, and gave a terrified screech, backing away. “Shh,”
Bode said. “Shh, it’s all right.”
He wasn’t sure what else to
do for her, and at least she was a few feet from the tracks now.
She gawked at him.
He got in the car, which
creaked as it started forward.
The specter was back,
standing near Kilroy’s bed. He looked at Bode with a horrible face
that was cracked and oozing shadows. His skin peeled and the strips
of it quivered, and his eyes were a haunted mess. Glass shards
stuck out of his middle like a vile skirt.
He watched Bode as the moon
raced among the trees. When Bode stood, the ghost’s eyes
followed.
***
The Hydra Arena wasn’t
nearly as impressive as Bode had expected. It looked like a
leaning, dripping cake—uneven concrete tiers and paint that had
dribbled down the walls in ribbons. At the entrance was an archway,
glittering turquoise with gold letters: WELCOME TO THE
rug. Bode tensed, shying back as Kilroy’s hand came up. But Kilroy
only reached into his pocket, took out a case of cigarettes, and
lit one for himself. “No,” Kilroy said shortly. “I’m not inclined
to share.”
They didn’t speak again for
many miles. A specter joined them in the car, drifting about
restlessly. A thin ghost, frail and uncommanding. Bode tried to
ignore it.
The car stopped suddenly.
Kilroy looked puzzled. He went to the window and peered out. The
specter had vanished. “Oh my.” Kilroy went to the door and pulled
it open. “We’ve encountered an obstacle.”
Bode followed Kilroy
outside.
A young woman was crouched
beside the tracks up ahead. She was using a can of spray paint to
write something on the grass. All around her, white numbers
glowed.
4717. 2022. 1025. 2176.
3571905. 6271906.
Bode could hear the woman
muttering to herself. “These were my numbers; these were my
numbers, and these were the things that mattered.” Over and over as
she spray-painted a clumsy 3 on the edge of the track.
“ That’s very sad.” Kilroy
glanced back at Bode. “Don’t you think so?”
Bode couldn’t
answer.
“ Hey!” Kilroy called to the
girl. “You’ll want to move back until we’ve passed.
The girl didn't acknowledge
them, and after a moment Kilroy stepped back into the
car.
Bode thought about running. But he was in
the middle of nowhere, with no food and not enough clothing for the
coldness of the night, and no sense of how close he was to
civilization. Then he thought of the debt something hooked his
gut—regret and shame. The most effective chains were simple. They
were guilt and ghosts.
He walked over to the girl.
Watched her paint. He could see tears glistening on her face, could
hear the hitches in her breath. He closed his eyes and let strains
of memory drift through him like music. He’d spent his first few
days with the Grand Ballast forcing his fear into a cold fury. And
one night, he’d broken. Had gone behind the train while the others
were passing gin around the fire. Had crouched in the grass,
vomited, and cried. Had missed his mother, who’d never learned the
truth about what he’d done. Nobody knew but Kilroy and
Bode.
He shivered his way through
some in-between place and thought about what he had craved most
these last few years. Forgiveness. How he had wanted to pay, wanted
to suffer, but only in theory. What he had truly wanted was for
Kilroy to stick his arm into the slick, carnivorous muck of the
betrayal that stood between them, and pull out the threads of good
things: mercy and desire, the whole history of their time together,
too strong and too pure to have been ruined by a second’s poor
thinking.
“ Hey,” he said gently to
the girl.
The girl paused in her
chanting, but she didn’t look up.
“ Can you step back for a
few minutes?” he asked. “We’re going to pass now. We don’t want you
to get hurt.”
She didn’t respond, and he
put a hand out to touch her shoulder.
She whirled as soon as he
touched her, and gave a terrified screech, backing away. “Shh,”
Bode said. “Shh, it’s all right.”
He wasn’t sure what else to
do for her, and at least she was a few feet from the tracks now.
She gawked at him.
He got in the car, which
creaked as it started forward.
The specter was back,
standing near Kilroy’s bed. He looked at Bode with a horrible face
that was cracked and oozing shadows. His skin peeled and the strips
of it quivered, and his eyes were a haunted mess. Glass shards
stuck out of his middle like a vile skirt.
He watched Bode as the moon
raced among the trees. When Bode stood, the ghost’s eyes
followed.
***
The Hydra Arena wasn’t
nearly as impressive as Bode had expected. It looked like a
leaning, dripping cake—uneven concrete tiers and paint that had
dribbled down the walls in ribbons. At the entrance was an archway,
glittering turquoise with gold letters: WELCOME TO THE
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