Chapter 4: BANG (Part 2: Finale)

"I-If it’s the Plague, it’s not just you," Henry stammered. "We need to head back and report for quarantine. All three of—"

"NO!"

The word came out louder than the pistol had. Henry flinched.

"I shouted plaque," Milo threw his hands out. "Or quake. The ground was moving, wasn’t it? I was in there. There was no Plague."

"You’re coughing," Layla said.

"Because of the ash! I’ve been breathing this field for an hour. If I didn’t cough, that would be the weird part." Milo faced her. "When the dust rolled over you two, you coughed too. I watched you do it. Plus, nobody gets infected that fast." He nodded, having no idea how fast people got infected. "Nobody."

Neither answered. Both were watching something over his shoulder.

"What?" he asked, before looking behind him to check what seized their attention.

The yellow paper floated at his shoulder.

Shit. How long had it been there?

It followed him out of the ruins, apparently, hovering in plain sight while he tested the pistol and lied about the Plague. The storm rattled more out of his head than he wanted to admit.

What did people do with a boy whose Notice showed up crumpled?

Henry rubbed both hands down his face. "Good find." He looked at Milo again, as if confirming he had not vanished. "Good find."

The color and creases looked ordinary to them...?

Maybe the sheet appeared white. Or the black vapor and a talking disaster broke something in him, and there was no paper at all.

God, when did I go schizo without noticing?

"At least you came out of it with something." Layla folded her arms. "But was it worth it? Risking your life for that?"

Milo lowered his eyes to the pistol.

"I should’ve listened to you," he said.

"You should’ve, idiot!" Layla’s voice came hot, but her eyes stayed glassy. "Next time I say stop, you stop."

Henry pushed out the longest breath of his career and rebuilt himself into an instructor.

"Before we move," he said, pointing at the pistol, "does that thing have another shot?"

"Possibly. Why?"

"Take it out."

Milo worked the latch beneath the frame. With the pistol open at the middle, he tipped the second ball out of its chamber and into his palm.

"Okay, girls and boys." Henry clapped once, too loud for the empty field. "We’re done for today. For real. Let’s head back."

He set off along the colorless road at a pace suited to people with two working ankles. Layla made him slow within a minute.

A few steps behind, the second shot rolled between Milo’s thumb and forefinger. The wooden ball was no larger than his thumbnail, with the same false-gold lacquer as the pistol.

When he checked his shoulder, the yellow sheet was gone. Its disappearance had slipped by him too.

"Standard procedure," Layla said up front, making the phrase filthy. "Say it once more and I’ll report you for the Plague myself."

"Layla. Attitude." Henry’s attempt at firmness came out tired. "Is Milo a bad influence on you? You’ve never acted like this."

They argued five paces ahead, though both had shortened their strides for his ankle.

Beyond them, the waystation roof surfaced above the empty fields. Six passengers fit in each capsule. Once Milo, Layla, and Henry occupied half the seats, three strangers would breathe the same air for fifteen minutes and scatter into homes he had never seen.

He flicked the bullet upward. Gold flashed under the gray sky and dropped into his glove.

If he had the Plague, somebody in every district could be coughing by night. But an unexpected death on this road would stop the trip, and Henry would send for people trained to inspect the body before they got anywhere.

Milo tossed the ball into the air again.

After he had asked the supposed blessing for death, it put a loaded pistol under his boot.

On the fifth throw, Henry looked back.

"What are you doing?"

"Pondering my treasure."

"Put it in your pocket. You’ll lose it. At the waystation, neither of you gets on a public capsule. We report what happened and find an examiner."

"Report what?" Milo asked, closing his fingers around the ball instead.

"Your cough," Layla said. "That wall, plaque, whatever."

"The only wall there was made of clouds. There was no Plague either."

"Fine. We report the clouds too."

"And the ground," Henry added. "Tell them everything exactly as it happened."

"What if the examiner says quarantine?"

Henry’s shoulders tightened. "We quarantine."

"What if he’s wrong?"

"We quarantine. We leave when we’re cleared."

"At whose expense?"

"We’ll work that out..."

Out from her pink coils, Layla peered back. "Why are you worried about money right now?"

"Because quarantine isn’t free right now."

"You could have the Plague!"

"Could you say it louder? Someone in the next town may have missed it."

"Plague," she repeated, quieter and angrier. "If it’s in your lungs, a ward bill is the smaller problem."

Smaller, yes. Never absent.

Milo’s own town had vanished without leaving anyone to blame. If another followed because he wanted to avoid a locked room, the survivors would at least get a name this time.

If the paper wasn’t real, the Plague could explain that too. According to somebody he could no longer remember, hallucinations did come with lethal diseases.

The wooden ball warmed inside his fist.

He could die before the waystation. Henry and Layla would report what happened, and Milo would never have to reach the locked ward. Responsible.

Layla dropped back to his side. "Stop."

"I’m walking slowly."

"Your face."

Her palm pressed to his forehead. Milo almost stepped aside, but the change in balance drove a bright line from his ankle to his knee and trapped him under her smooth hand.

"No fever," she said.

"Wonderful. Can we cancel the imprisonment?"

"Fever can come later." She pulled a small flask from inside her coat and pushed it into his free hand. "Rinse your mouth. You’ve eaten half that field."

He took a mouthful. Grit worked between his teeth as he spat into the grass.

"Better?" the girl asked, eyes on his mouth.

"I can taste the other half now."

"Hurry up." She took the flask. "If we don’t have the Plague, we’ll be laughing about this."

Once he nodded, Layla hurried to Henry and resumed arguing about which counter at the waystation handled suspected infections.

The girl had lost a sister and gone on living, arguing up the road and winning an argument. Milo was only a bad influence. Henry had chosen a profession where trainees entered ruins for a living; perfect attendance was an ambitious long-term expectation.

They would recover.

A few steps behind them, Milo slowed. Anyone watching would blame the ankle.

Hidden by his coat, his thumb found the latch of the pistol. The wooden frame opened at the middle onto an empty chamber.

The ball fit with a soft click.

He closed the frame and searched the air at his shoulder.

Nothing yellow.

Was this what you gave me?

Up ahead, Layla said, "Sir, if Milo’s right about there being no Plague, you’re giving us a day off."

Henry grunted.

Milo raised the pistol. His hand shook.

When he tightened his grip, the tremor moved into his wrist. Neither of them looked back.

He opened his mouth and pushed the barrel in.

At the chemical taste of lacquer, his stomach lurched. Since one of them seeing him with a gun in his mouth would be even worse, he had to hurry.

Wood tapped his front teeth, pinning his tongue beneath the barrel. Air shuddered in and out of his nose. The road blurred as each pulse struck hot at the hinge of his jaw.

Milo’s finger tightened on the trigger.

BANG!

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⋆˚࿔ Coming right up: "Lacquer (Part 1)" ... ⤵︎ [!]