Морин Макхью - Wastelands - The New Apocalypse

“Where is it coming from?” I whisper.

He nods into the darkness. “The old labs where the scientists worked before they built the Dome. The place where they figured out how people could walk in the sun again.” His tone is sarcastic. We both know no one can walk in the sun. Everyone in Burn 3 is hiding, above and belowground. “The labs are abandoned now. At least, they’re supposed to be.”

The hair rises on the back of my neck. “Who’s in there?”

He stops, the edges of his coat floating in the ankle-deep water. “You really don’t know what they’re doing down here, do you?” His expression is a twisted mixture of terror and wonder, as if he can’t fathom the idea.

I shake my head, afraid to answer.

“They’re stealing kids so they can sell them for parts.”

I couldn’t have heard him right. I want to run and pretend this guy inhaled too much burning plastic—that everything he’s told me is the delusion of a rotted mind. Anything to avoid asking the next question I know I have to ask. “What kind of parts?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Why do you think they call them Skinners?”

The ground slides out from under me, and I stagger.

My sister…

He reaches out and grabs my elbow to steady me. “If they have your sister and she looks the way you say, we have to hurry.”

The words turn over in my mind, but I can’t make sense of them. There is only one word caught in the tangled threads of my thoughts.

Skinner .

I push past it, forcing myself to hear what this stranger is saying. “If she looks what way?”

“Light-haired,” he says. “It’s rare. I haven’t seen someone with light hair since—” He stops, his expression defeated. “Rare things are always worth more money to the people doing the selling. And the ones buying.”

He is talking about Sky like she is a bottle of clean water or a book—an object to be bought and sold at one of the stalls in the underground market. He doesn’t know how kind she is—the way she shares her food packets with the poorer children in the domicile, though she never has enough to eat herself. The way she pretends the life we have now is equal to the one we had when my father was alive to protect us. The way she never doubts me, even when I doubt myself.

I look at the man I’m following blindly. “What’s your name?”

Suddenly, I want to know. I am trusting him with my sister’s life, which is worth much more to me than my own.

He strikes the flint on the lighter again, and the flame casts a strange glow over his face. “A name is a way to make a claim. No one can claim me.”

I watch the familiar paranoia creep into his features. He reminds me of my father again. “A name is also the way you claim your friends.”

He turns his back on me and disappears into the darkness. “I don’t need any friends.”

I follow the echo of his footsteps in silence, hoping with each step that we are getting closer to Sky. I try to ignore the grim reality—that if I find her and this man is telling the truth, she won’t be alone.

I need to know more about the Skinners—these monsters kidnapping children to sell their skin. For what? I didn’t even know.

“What—” I almost can’t ask. “What are they doing with their skin?”

He grabs my arm and pulls me against the wall. There are voices in the distance, but they’re too far away to make out anything intelligible. “Shh. The tunnels echo.”

My heart bangs against my ribs, and I try not to make a sound while he stares down the black hole.

He pushes his long, greasy hair out of his face. “They sell the good skin for grafts.”

“Grafts?” I’ve never heard the word before.

He rubs his good eye, and I notice how thin his arm is under the long coat. I wonder when he ate last. My father forgot to eat sometimes. He said he lost his sense of taste and smell after the Evacuation, and everything tasted like cardboard—whatever that was.

“You can replace burned skin with new skin. At least a doctor can. They call it a skin graft. Works better than those expensive salves,” he says. “And people say it looks almost as good as the skin you were born with.”

It sounds barbaric and painful. “Who would do something like that?”

He laughs, the sound laced with bitterness. “Wealthy people who don’t want to look like they’ve been burned like the rest of us.”

“They’re willing to kill kids to get rid of their burns?” The Skinners aren’t the only monsters.

“Maybe they don’t ask questions about where it comes from. Or maybe they do. People are capable of all kinds of evil.” He peers down the tunnel again.

“Why doesn’t someone stop them?” I realize how accusatory it sounds, but I don’t care.

“The Skinners run things down in the Abyss. People that question them end up dead—along with their friends, their families, in some cases whole tunnels full of their neighbors. There’s no Protectorate down here. The Skinners are the law. No one can touch them.”

I can see the shame hiding in his eyes.

He swallows hard. “Time to go.”

We follow the muffled sounds until we reach the mouth of the tunnel. The passage in front of us looks more like a cavern than a sewage tunnel. A gray metal building stands a few yards away, artificial light illuminating the barred windows. This place looks more like a prison than a laboratory.

The man who refuses to tell me his name pulls a gun from the back of his waistband. It’s old, and it doesn’t resemble the weapons Protectorate officers carry.

He notices me staring. “It’s a semiautomatic, from the days before the Burn.” He slides a cartridge out of the bottom. “This thing doesn’t shoot fire. These are hollow-tip rounds. They can kill you in the blink of an eye.”

“Do I need one of those?”

“Only have one,” he whispers. “Guess that means I’m going first.”

He edges his way closer as shadows move in front of the windows. I realize he’s risking his life to help me, and I wonder why.

But there’s no time. He’s already at the door using something to pick the lock. I rush to catch up, my mind racing.

How many Skinners are inside? Do we stand a chance against the kind of people who cut the skin off children ?

He grabs my outercoat, his voice low. “When we get in there, we’ll only have a few minutes.” He nods at the door. “That’s the surgical room. Run past and stay to the right. They keep the kids in a box in the back. If they’re still here.”

A box?

Bile rises in my throat, but I force it back down.

“What if it’s locked?” I try not to picture my sister trapped in a box like an animal.

He hands me a thin piece of metal. “Slip this in the lock and jiggle it around until you hear a click. Then get the kids out of here.”

“What if they aren’t there?”

“If they’re still alive, they will be.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been here before.” It’s the last thing he says before he pops the lock.

We step inside and I freeze. Metal tables and trays of crude instruments covered in dry blood dominate the room. A dirty pole with a plastic bag suspended from it looms in the corner. I don’t want to think about what they do in here.

Was Sky in here?

My stomach convulses.

“Go,” he hisses at me, pointing to the door at the end of the room.

I obey and rush to the dark corridor on the other side. I stay to the right like he told me, working my way to the far side of the building. I hear muffled voices in other rooms, but I can’t stop or think about what the Skinners will do to me if they catch me.