Emmy Laybourne - Savage Drift

Not there. Not in the restrooms, Men’s or Women’s. I look in the stairwell.

Someone must have taken him in, I tell myself. He must be in the room of some good-hearted person and maybe they’re sending word to the kids right now.

I start back across the courtyard. That has to be it.

Maybe he is in our room right now, while I am tearing around the campus, overreacting.

I enter the front hall of Excellence and a man grabs my wrist. It is a bald, fat man, one of the men who had assaulted me before.

“Girly, your grandpaw showed up.”

“Where?” I ask him, spinning around, grabbing his sweaty hand in both of mine. “Please tell me!”

“Ladies’ room,” he says, jerking his head toward the two restrooms off the front hall.

“Thank you!” I shout as I push away from him.

My poor Mario is on the floor, under a vanity counter right next to the door.

His body looks shriveled and tiny. Weak and endangered.

His head is lying on the floor. There is a little stain, made from drool and blood, near his mouth.

“Mario!” I say, too loud, and then I regulate my tone. “Oh, Mario…”

He is very hurt.

He needs quiet, and in the stillness, now I hear his breath. The inhale strains but the exhale is worse. Windy. A wheeze.

How, how, how could they have let him go?!

I kneel down.

“Mario, Mario,” I murmur. Tears run down my cheeks. I brush them away. I put my hand on his shoulder.

I see his arm has been set in a light cast.

He opens his eyes.

“Ha,” he croaks. “Josie.”

He closes his eyes again.

I put my hand to his forehead and then his face. It is cold and the skin feels papery and loose.

“I’m going to take you back to the clinic,” I whisper.

He wheezes.

“Thirsty.”

I get up and, of course, I don’t have a cup. I rinse my hands at the tap. The soap is long gone.

I cup a little cold water in my hands.

I kneel again, my bruised knees on the cold tile, and try to get the water into his mouth.

His lips against my fingers feel dry and thin.

His breath smells like old blood and I can’t stop crying.

“I can carry you very carefully,” I say.

“No,” he says, and he looks at me. In his eyes, he is telling me he means it.

“Josie,” he gasps.

“Yes, Mario?”

“The doctor told me…”

A gasping inhale, the wheezing exhale.

“The experiments.”

The experiments? What? He draws another breath.

“Experiments people go.”

“The people they send away for medical experiments?” I ask, trying to do the talking for him.

He closes his eyes, yes.

“Army takes ’em.”

He is trying to warn me about letting Venger send me away.

“I know, Mario. I won’t let Venger send me there, I promise.”

He purses his lips.

“You Sam Rid.”

What?

“You Sam Rid.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mario.” I cry. I want to tell him how much I love him. I want him to live. “Let me take you to the clinic!” I beg.

“Listen,” he says, his blue eyes snapping.

“U-S-A-M-R-I-I-D.” He spells it out.

“Okay,” I sniffle.

“Where they do tests. It’s in Maryland.”

I get chills then, my flesh creeping up my arms, all the goose bumps rippling up my limbs, climbing toward my heart.

Mario is telling me to let Venger send me away, because whatever that string of initials is—it is in Maryland, close to Niko’s family farm.

His dying thoughts are to get me free.

“Get sent there.”

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

I lay down on the floor, so I can be right facing his face.

He smiles at me.

His face is the only thing I see now, and I know mine is the only thing he sees, too.

It is cold on the floor and Mario is dying. I try to get as close as I can. I want to give him some of my body heat.

“Good girl. Always good.”

My eyes are leaking onto the tile now.

“Mario,” I say. “Thank you. You saved me. You did it. I’ll go to USAMRIID. You got me free. Okay? You saved me.”

His breaths are slowing, stretching painfully. A long, weak rasp.

“Do you know that? Do you know that you saved me?”

His eyes aren’t on me now. They are focused somewhere past my head.

I see bubbles of blood in his mouth, coming up to the front of his lips, starting to make their way down his jaw.

I dab at them with the hem of my shirt.

“No, Mario, don’t go,” I cry.

“Good girl,” Mario tells me.

His lips say, “Always good,” but there is no sound from his voice.

And his breath hisses to nothing and he is gone.

Now I was without a gun.

And that made me feel just fine.

Maybe you’ll think I was stupid to give it away, when we were still in danger. In danger at every moment. But, see, you get used to the danger. You never get used to killing.

I guess I reached the point where I’d rather die than take a life.

If you’re still thinking I’m dumb, then I ask you—would you have gone to retrieve it?

Would you have gone down into that dank, bloody hole and pried it out of a dead man’s hand?

I didn’t think so.

We moved into Rinée’s house. It was pretty messy, from her mother’s strange and desperate packing effort. But there was a lot of food. They were a Costco kind of family and had a very well-stocked pantry.

“Anyone feel like beans?” Jake said, holding up a can that must have been two gallons big.

He was in better spirits now.

The idea of being in an actual house was pretty uplifting, I have to say. And Rinée was delighted to be home.

She wriggled to get out of Astrid’s arms and went toddling through the house.

“Yook! Yook!” Rinée said, bringing Astrid item after item. A sock, a sippy cup, a stuffed Chihuahua. And Astrid would say, “Yeah, a sock.” “Nice sippy cup.” “Uh-huh. A doggie.”

Astrid looked totally exhausted. The added task of taking care of Rinée seemed to be draining her last reserves of energy. She sat down on the couch and let her head roll back.

Then Rinée came back into the living room. I was starting to put away the items strewn across the floor. Rinée held up her two hands and said, “Mama?”

“Oh,” Astrid said. “Sweetie… Mommy’s not coming home for a while. She’s not coming home.”