Joshua McCune: Talker 25

When I get close to Baby, I can hear her mewling through the bindings around her snout. I run my hand along her icy head, which calms her a bit.

“It’ll be over soon,” I say.

“Let’s roll!”

Twenty-Six begins a slow death march. With every step he takes, my heart seems to beat faster, louder.

“You’re more sad than happy,” Hector whispers through the earpiece. “This is the dragon you grew up with. A friend—look at her—but she’s too dangerous to let live. You know that now. With her death, you will be free of attachment to dragons and you will be redeemed. Feel free to cry. That would be appropriate at this time.”

It requires all my willpower not to chuck the earpiece. I chew hard at my lip. I will not cry. I need my strength to make this as painless for Baby as I can, and I will not give Twenty-Six or Evelyn or any of these bastards the pleasure of seeing how much this hurts.

Baby’s staring at me, her eyes full of question. I mustn’t cry.

I smile at her, hoping that when her life flashes before her eyes, it ends with the memory of us soaring over the mountaintops without a care in the world. A slice of dragon heaven before everything went to—

“Don’t smile,” Hector says. “You’re sad.”

I clench my fists. Why is Twenty-Six taking so long? I look up. He’s only halfway to me, all solemn faced. He doesn’t notice the camera cable and trips over it. The sword goes clattering and the crowd snickers.

“Cut! What’s going on, James? You’re a zombie out there.”

“Hurry it up,” I say. “I’m getting cold.” As if that matters.

Twenty-Six glances at me, shakes his head, and returns to his mark.

This time, there are no mistakes, though he still takes an eternity getting here. But now that he’s actually on the other side of Baby’s head, offering me the sword hilt, I wish he’d taken longer.

“You meant so much to me, but the world will be safer without you,” Hector says to me. “Then lean down and kiss her.”

I repeat the line to perfection. Safer, but not better. I touch my lips to her head, squeeze back the tears. “I’m sorry, Baby. I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if I’m supposed to take the sword now, but if I have to wait any longer, I won’t be able to do it.

As I grab the hilt from Twenty-Six, he stumbles toward me. I’m not sure whether momentum carries him into the sword, or if I push the sword into him because I’m trembling so much. Either way, the blade slides into his stomach.

He doesn’t retreat and I don’t pull back. I feel drunk, like my body’s acting a second faster than my brain and everything’s happening sideways.

All I can think about as I watch the blade disappear into him is that human skin’s a lot softer than dragon scale. And then my hand reaches his stomach, and there’s no more blade left, except for what’s sticking out his back.

He grunts something, then goes quiet.

For a moment, I wonder if I killed him. I imagine I should be happy, but for the most part, I’m confused. I don’t think I started out stabbing him, but I definitely didn’t try to stop.

In the next moment, I spot soldiers running toward us, hear shouting and screaming. At gunpoint, Lester orders me to release the sword. I didn’t realize I was still holding it. When I let go, he taps his tablet, and pain detonates behind my eyes.

I blink once and see Twenty-Six lying beside me with a sword sticking out of him. When I blink again, I’m in complete blackness, surrounded on all sides by the wails of dying people and the roars of furious dragons.

A nightmare. But I’m not asleep. My reconditioning has begun.

Adragon screeches somewhere to my left. I can’t see it. But I hear it—I hear everything, every damn thing. Behind and above me, the crackle of impending dragonfire blisters my ears, the reek of char clogs my nostrils, so I crawl through trampled brush and moist leaves, toward the whimpers of a woman. To my right, a man orders people to a dragon shelter.

In waves, they shriek their deaths. The reek intensifies. Suddenly, blinding images flash all around. A snarling Green to my left, fire bursting from its throat; a scorched man to my right; three women aflame in front of me.

I tell myself they’re not real, yell it sometimes, but each image takes longer to go away than the last. They stick in my vision, specters of death that follow me as I turn and flee.

The ghosts finally vanish. The blackness returns. But the roars and screams continue, the scent of death lingers. I crawl into a swale. The brush dwindles; the ground hardens to asphalt.

Whenever I shut my eyes too long, my CENSIR jolts me. Whenever I cover my ears, my CENSIR jolts me. Whenever I attempt to stand, whenever I stop crawling to rest my knees and hands—

My CENSIR jolts me.

Asphalt becomes gravel. Pebbles dig into my palms. Every few seconds, I extend a hand in front of me or to my side to protect myself from the obstacles they’ve put in my path. I skirt mounds of rubble, the metal frame of a car, something that I think is a roadblock.

I never find a boundary to my prison, though. They make sure of that. This time, I’m maneuvering across uneven concrete when my CENSIR shocks me in fast succession, jerking me to a halt.

I must change course. Left, right, backward, it doesn’t matter. The dragons chase me wherever I go.

Sometimes it rains. Not water. Too salty. Like Gatorade, except thicker. Early on, I thought it was liquefied dragon meat mixed with water, but I’m beginning to think it might be blood. From dragons . . . from victims?

Best not to think about it. I get so very thirsty.

Whenever it stops, a strong gust of hot air envelops me. In those minutes, as my scrubs dry and stiffen, as the liquid clinging to my skin evaporates, the clamor of murderous dragons and dying humans subsides.

And that’s when I hear the girl. Weeping, moaning, or screaming. Unlike the other noises, she seems far away. Or maybe it’s my own torment echoing back at me. Before I can ever decide, the dryer’s hum shuts off and the reconditioning cycle starts over.

My knees and hands ache, my head throbs, my eyes burn. I crawl on. The rain comes and goes. The dragons roar longer. The people die louder. Bodies pile up around me.

Always screaming.

They’re everywhere.

A dozen Reds burst forth. I turn away, attempt to stand, crash back to my knees. Skyscrapers burn all around. I scurry around a burned-out minivan. A businessman leaps from a window. He gets swallowed halfway down.

“Not real!” I shout, can hardly hear myself over the din.

My knees scrape against asphalt as frenzied footsteps surround me. A townhome collapses. I crash into a pile of rubble, jam my finger.

A flash to my left. An All-Black exhorts me to hurry, waves me toward a public dragon shelter. I adjust course, accelerate. The heat intensifies. Sweat drenches me. Flames roil in. People melt. I beg them to get down, but they never listen. A Red decapitates the soldier. His headless body bleeds out beside me, wetness seeps through my clothes, splatters my face.

The corpses dissolve, the screams fade, but the stench and wetness remain.

It’s raining.

I can hear it. The pitter-patter. I stop crawling. No shock. I fall to my back, drink as I pick away gravel embedded in my palms. Are they done? No . . . I don’t hate dragons yet. A glitch?

I need to sleep. I curl up—

Wait. A girl’s sobbing. I dab at my eyes. Not me. A hallucination? Or maybe this is phase two. This girl could be the daughter of someone from Montego Bay, of someone Baby iced. Listen to the child, Melissa. Alone, helpless. That’s the dragons’ fault. That’s your fault.