Chapter 6: Lacquer (Part 2)

The red on Layla’s thumb sent Henry into the middle of the road, both hands raised clear of everything, including his own coat.

"Don’t wipe that on your coat," he said.

"I know."

"Please don’t lick it either."

"I wasn’t going to lick it!"

"That’s it." The instructor pushed the wooden pistol deep into his coat pocket. "We treat this as the Plague."

"You were saying the opposite a minute ago," Milo pointed out.

"I said we might not have it. Might! You’re bleeding out of the mouth, and not one thing you’ve told us lines up."

"I’m not delirious."

"You spoke of trees," Layla reminded him.

"And?"

"Calamitous trees, Milo."

In fairness, that was exactly what a delirious boy would say. Put a stranger in front of him with the same story and Milo would have diagnosed the poor bastard on sight, no examiner required.

Eyes on the waystation roof beyond the fields, Henry patted the pocket with the pistol in it, tried the other, and drew out his phone. His knuckles went white around it, even whiter than they had around Milo’s shoulders minutes before.

"Nobody move," he said. "And don’t breathe near each other."

Layla stepped away from Milo and nearly backed into Henry.

"Not near me either!" he yelled.

She froze between them, arms pressed to her sides, doing her best to take up no room at all. "Sir, what happens now?"

"What happens now..." Henry lit the phone and stared at the numbers. "We follow the protocol."

"What does the protocol indicate?"

"We report it."

"That’s the whole protocol?"

"Quiet!" the instructor shouted. "We report it, stay away from others, mark the road! I don’t know the damn protocol—"

"What do you mean you don’t know?!"

"QUIET, I SAID!"

The scream took the instructor’s voice with it. What was left was a tired man of twenty-four, alone on a road with two maybe-infected teenagers and one phone.

"I should’ve studied harder... Don’t worry. We got this. I’m calling the medical center."

Layla drew breath for a reply. His thumb beat her to it, jabbing the number in.

Brrrring! Brrrring!

"They covered this once," he muttered, one foot tapping the ground in time with the ringing. "I remember a diagram with arrows. Why do I remember all of the arrows and none of the words?"

With a sigh, Milo lowered himself to the ground and drew his knees up. Sitting spared the bad ankle, the first good news of the afternoon, though it did nothing for the hard lump he felt below his breastbone, there at every breath.

A few paces off, Layla did the same.

The line clicked. Someone answered.

"Possible Plague," Henry blurted. "Three people. Two students and one instructor. We came out of a marked Misprint, and a boy may be delusional."

"Allegedly," Milo put in.

"Don’t listen to him, that’s the delusional boy," the instructor explained, walking away with the phone at his ear.

"Good afternoon," came the voice from the other side. "Any fever?"

"No. Coughing, vomiting, confusion, maybe hallucinations. He fired a relic and can’t tell us where the shot went."

"I can tell you," Milo called. "You rejected the answer."

"He also keeps interrupting."

From her few paces off, Layla said, "That predates the exposure."

Henry covered the mouthpiece. "Both of you, please."

Distance and wind whittled the other side of the call down to murmurs. The first question was about where exactly they had stopped; the next ones made Henry look over at his students.

"Where do they live?" he repeated. "Jence. The town beside the eastern Misprint."

The earpiece crackled.

"Yes, both of them." Henry listened. "You don’t have a team for this road today? You said..." His shoulders tightened. "No, we can’t bring them inside. That’s why I’m calling. Send someone out, please."

While Layla’s mouth pressed flat, Milo looked back at the low station roof.

Their town sold relic scraps with ash worked into the cuffs. Medical wagons reached their streets a day late, when they reached them at all.

"I work for the academy," Henry added. "Field instruction. My registry number is—"

The voice cut in, he heard it out, gave the number, and lowered the phone.

"They’re coming now."

"When will they come?" Layla asked.

"Maybe an hour." He pocketed the device. "But they will come."

"Good thing you remembered where you work," Milo said with a dry scoff. "I thought we were spending the night here after they heard Jence."

The instructor clicked his tongue. "It’s not like that."

"Surely."

Maybe an hour.

Regardless, he planned for three.

And so they waited, spread out along the road.

Layla watched Milo as if another weapon might creep out from his coat. Henry walked the same strip of grass, looking back at the station each time he turned. Now and then, Milo pressed a thumb up under his breastbone to check whether the pressure had eased.

About an hour in, a man in a gray coat appeared at the bend with two more at his back.

Behind them trailed four academy boys.

What the fuck are those guys doing here?

Milo had history with the four.

Different class, same academy. They picked on Milo for being an Ashpicker. Layla’s sister used to answer for her; since she’d gone, they had started on Layla too.

The tallest of them, a redhead named Paul, cupped his hands around his mouth.

"They sent three men out for you? Somebody’s important!"

"Are you really that bored?" Milo yelled back.

One of the gray-coated men stopped. "Stay back."

"We know them," said Maigh in the provoking voice that almost everyone fell for. "What’s with those sex slaves now?"

The man cleared his throat and gave one firm sweep of his finger. "You’ll know them from over there."

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⋆˚࿔ Coming right up: "Lacquer (Part 3: Finale)" ... ⤵︎ [!]