Forged Me is staring at our team with a terribly calculating look. He inclines his chin just slightly, eyeing me over the bridge of his nose. It’s an acknowledgment of my presence. A nod that he sees me.
For the briefest moment, I have the delusional thought that he will help us. That they all will. But unlike Jackson, these Forgeries didn’t see the Wall. They didn’t touch it, climb it. They flew overhead, and the structure—if it was visible at all in the darkness—was likely nothing but a blur. These Forgeries are not going to break down or malfunction. No matter how hard I wish it, they will not end up on our side.
As if he can hear my thoughts, the faintest smile tugs at the corners of Forged Me’s lips. He points his handgun in our direction and says, “Hi, Gray.”
The distant rumble is more of a roar now, additional reinforcements bearing down fast. There is no way we are getting out of this.
“What do we do?” Sammy asks frantically, but I’m too busy grabbing Bree and pulling her into my chest to answer.
“I’m sorry,” she says into my shirt.
“Me, too.”
Forged Me to his soldiers: “Ready.”
They raise their weapons. The roar of the approaching enemy grows louder.
“Aim.”
Sammy again: “Gray! What do we do?”
I rest my chin on the top of Bree’s head and close my eyes because the answer is nothing. We have lost.
“Fi—”
There is an explosion of brilliance and I’m thrown off my feet. The world goes silent.
I’m dead.
I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.
But I can still feel, and there is pain.
Everywhere.
I force my eyes open. One of the helicopters is in ruins, its metal frayed and scattered. The earth around it has been upheaved, dirt staining the snow in violent spatters. There are bodies in the mess, black and bloody and pieces of a whole. Those still alive are running for cover, but I can’t hear them. I can’t hear anything except a hollow echo in my ears.
The world smells of fire and smoke and burning flesh. Shadows pass overhead, casting bold patterns on the snow. The world goes brilliant again.
For the second time, I’m thrown aside as though I weigh nothing. I put my arms overhead, protecting myself from the random chunks of metal that rain down. When I look up another two helicopters have been destroyed.
I catch Bree in the corner of my vision. She’s crawling toward me. Her mouth is moving, but no words come out. Nearby, Jackson is pulling Bleak to his feet. They, too, are yelling, and I still can’t hear them. I try to stand but my balance is off.
Sounds return slowly.
First comes the roar of aircraft overhead, retreating, followed by the blurring screams of the Order scrambling for cover. And then, finally, Bree.
“Gray!” Her voice is murky and muffled, like she’s calling out to me underwater. “Dammit, Gray!”
And now it’s crisp and urgent as she grabs my wrist. I force myself to my feet, my balance poor and my bad leg hot with pain. I feel like I might fall over, but the roar overhead is growing louder yet again.
“Quick!” I shout to the others. “Before they come back.”
Sammy looks at the sky and I know he’s pieced together what I have. Clipper’s distress call reached more than the Order after all. Someone in AmWest heard our cry for help and the infamous Expats are flying overhead right now, giving us this small window of opportunity to escape. Of course, they may very well kill us in the process.
Jackson hauls Clipper to his feet—the boy’s shoulder is so bloody I’m amazed he’s still conscious—and we run. Every step burns my leg. We dart between the burning wreckage of two helicopters, Bree grabbing the rifle of a fallen man in the process. There are limbs scattered among the remains, fragments of soldiers that have been ripped apart as though they were paper. The snow beneath our feet is a million shades of pink. I force myself on, gagging.
Just as the lights from the still-intact helicopters begin to fade behind us, the sky goes brilliant for a third time. The explosion is thunderous, even from this distance. We sprint into the safety of darkness, and for the first time since arriving in Burg, I’m happy for such little light. We are temporarily invisible. But then I hear the pounding of footsteps behind us: the Order—or worse, the Forgeries—on our tail.
I skid to a stop when we reach the Wall. It seems especially massive tonight. Bleak slings the coils of rope off his shoulder and tosses the hooked bit of metal at the Wall. We hear it scrape on the surface, anchor in place as he tugs down on the rope.
“What is that? A homemade grappling hook?” Sammy takes the rope and tests its strength. “Genius!” A moment later he’s climbing as fast as possible, feet against the facade.
“Got it,” comes his response a few grunts later, and even though I can’t see him, I know he’s pulled himself atop the Wall. “Put a lasso knot in the bottom and I’ll help pull you up. It’ll be quicker than climbing.”
I turn to Bree.
“You first,” she says.
“Bree, don’t even argue with me about this.”
Even in the darkness I can sense her scowl, but I grab her arm and tug her toward the rope. She puts her foot in the loop that Bleak’s tied and Sammy pulls her to safety. Clipper goes next, his shoulder looking like a piece of poorly butchered meat. I’ve never seen a weapon that could do that sort of damage, and wonder if it was the scraps of helicopter that mangled his skin or fragments of the exploding weapon itself. Clipper somehow manages to remain conscious as Sammy hauls him up.
“You have to climb,” I say, turning toward Bleak. “If you go back for your people you’re going to be killed before you can even reach town.”
I can’t make out his face in the darkness to gauge his reaction, but he grabs the rope. The shouts of the pursuing Forgeries can be heard easily now. A sea of flashlight beams bob up and down as they close in, their brilliance bouncing off the smooth surface of the Wall. I motion for Jackson.
“No. You go,” he says.
I can see how close the lights are, how there’s barely enough time for even one more person. And we were supposed to be allies. How can I just leave him here after everything?
“I’m one of them, Gray,” he says as if he’s read my mind. “Maybe they’ll recognize that. Now please go. Before all of this was for nothing.”
I find the rope in the dark and step into it with my good leg. My shoulder bangs against the Wall as Sammy pulls, and while I try to use my injured leg to help scale, it’s too painful. A moment later Sammy’s hands hook beneath my shoulders and I’m heaved atop the Wall.
I look back just in time to see the lights descend on Jackson.
Even though he has his arms raised in surrender, the Forgeries do not slow. There must be a dozen of them, and my Forged counterpart is leading the charge, arms pumping. Just steps away from Jackson, he throws what I think is a punch.
But then I see the weapon in his hand: a knife held in reverse grip, the blade exposed and gleaming.
Jackson’s hands go to his neck.
And then he collapses in the snow, dead.
THIRTY-THREE
I’M SCREAMING AT MY FORGERY, cursing him. How could I be capable of that? How could some piece of me kill a man who had his hands up in surrender?
Sammy pulls the rope up before anyone can grab it. Forged Me turns to the others, starts shouting orders, instructing them to form a pyramid so they can get into the Outer Ring. Over half of them seem distracted, though, staring at the Wall the way Jackson did when he first saw it.
I look between the few Forgeries at work and the group at a standstill. I’d bet almost anything that Jackson was an older model, an F-Gen4 like Blaine, and that these Forgeries, pausing to admire the Wall rather than trying to scale it, are the same. The towering structure is causing something to flicker in their programming. But Forged Me, and the handful that must be F-Gen5 models, are stronger. Nothing seems to faze them.