The First City (The Dominion Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  The steel man slows and she reaches out, setting him in motion again. She understands him. How he balances on the narrowest point without any safe way down.

  Outside, the weather looks poisonous even though the rain has stopped. Clouds roil above the buildings, and their reflections paint every glass surface in tones of gray. Zoey draws out the small watch Lee had given her while she packed, and checks it, internally cringing after seeing only an hour has passed. It is barely after one and she’ll have to wait until seven o’clock to start their plan in motion. Lee will appear on the street below and that will be her signal to climb down the stairs to the alley and put the machine beneath the tarp concealing a stack of wooden pallets.

  After that it will be up to fate.

  She shifts on the floor, turning the timepiece over; all at once it is the watch she saw in the mass grave when they passed through the desert in search of the Fae Trade. At first she hadn’t recognized all the bones for what they were. Maybe it had been her mind’s way of protecting itself but the shock of that much death still resonates within her. Of course it would, since she caused something like it only days later.

  Zoey stands, moving out of the hallway, trying to leave the thoughts behind, and into the office. The two guards are still at their positions before the hospital entrance, and the rest of the street is quiet. She returns to the hall and sits again, stifling a yawn behind one hand. She shouldn’t sleep, shouldn’t take the chance, but exhaustion from the last weeks has taken its toll. Her wounded foot aches and she props it up on her bag. If only Chelsea were here. She would have a remedy for everything.

  For the nth time she wonders what the others are doing right now. Have they come to terms with her departure? Maybe they’ve returned to Ian’s house. Maybe they’re still looking for her. She hopes for the former, flicking the balancing man into motion. His silent movement draws her heavy eyelids down, and as she succumbs to sleep her fingers open and the watch slides to the floor.

  Zoey wakes with a start, the vestiges of a nightmare sliding away in shredded images.

  The group lying dead on a highway. Lee saying her name through a mouthful of blood. The baby disappearing in the tank as it turns opaque.

  She grounds herself in the present. The hallway is much dimmer and her legs remain asleep even as she tries to rise, panic sending a flood of adrenaline through her system.

  The steel man is motionless on his pedestal and she swears under her breath, cursing herself for letting rest overtake her so easily. She finds the watch on the floor and holds it at an angle to the wan light filtering in through the office windows.

  6:49 p.m.

  A sigh of relief rushes from her. She hasn’t overslept. With hurried movements she draws the apparatus from her bag and examines it, making sure she remembers how to set it. A few more minutes and she’ll stand near the windows and wait for Lee to appear. If anything is wrong he’ll signal her by running his hand through his hair twice.

  Swallowing the sour taste of sleep, she reaches back into the bag to retrieve her water bottle but stops.

  A click echoes up through the far stairwell followed by a quiet cough.

  Zoey stiffens, hand drawing her pistol as her vision begins to throb with her pulse.

  The hallway is dark, cut only by fans of light coming from the interspersed doorways.

  A murmured word floats up the stairwell. The scratch of a boot.

  She climbs to her feet, her senses screaming. Only one other direction out, the opposite way down the second set of stairs. She starts to move but stops, trying to gather her bag.

  No time.

  Instead she grabs Lee’s machine and jogs down the hallway.

  A flashlight beam slices the darkness at the end, lighting the doorway from below.

  She’s trapped.

  Zoey skids to a stop, frozen with indecision. Fight? No, it would ruin everything. They would be lucky to get a block without being captured or cut down. Hide? But where?

  She glances back the way she came and sees light growing outside the corridor. They’re seconds away. The room to her left is dark, no visible windows. She steps inside, pushing the door shut without a sound.

  The smell hits her like a slap.

  Something is rotting in the room, the scent nearly overpowering. Her head swims with it and her stomach clenches, nearly forcing her to double over.

  Light seeps from the gap beneath the door.

  She moves deeper into the space and her foot brushes something solid, her hand finding a desktop.

  As her eyes adjust she sees the room isn’t large. In the corner is a narrow closet beside two file cabinets, the desk she leans on taking up most of the space. Two shapes poke out from where someone would sit.

  Legs and feet.

  She steps over them and sees the man has been dead a long time.

  He was large in life and is larger still in death, his stomach bloated to twice its normal size, skin a splotchy purplish green. He is bare from the waist up and a dark stain covers the wall beyond his head. The shape of a pistol lies near his outstretched arm.

  “Got a bag here and some supplies. Looks fresh,” a voice says in the hallway, and she stiffens.

  “I told you I heard someone yell,” another man responds. Zoey grimaces. Her nightmare. She must have cried out while sleeping.

  “Yeah, yeah. Check the rooms. Gotta be close.” A door bangs open in the hall a second later.

  Her eyes scan the room. There’s nowhere to hide where they won’t spot her immediately. Her gaze drops to the dead man.

  Without thinking she steps over him, the smell of decay like a physical presence this close. The leg space beneath the desk is small but it’s large enough for her to fit. Zoey crouches, sliding past the body, cold skin brushing her hand as she squirms into the alcove.

  Another door crashes. Closer. Maybe the next room down.

  She sets Lee’s machine on the floor and reaches out, finding the dead man’s arm, and drags him closer.

  The skin on his forearm comes loose and slides free of the muscle beneath. It peels off like a sock in her hands. She gags but doesn’t release her grip. The body inches toward her, filling the gap under the desk. Zoey yanks one more time and the corpse gurgles wetly, a soft exhale of gas belching from its open mouth.

  Bile coats her tongue but she swallows, tucking herself in close to the body as the door to the room opens.

  “Holy fuck. What the hell is that?”

  Zoey holds a breath of rotting air in. Footsteps pad closer, light coming with them. Is she hidden enough that he won’t see her? She presses herself into the bloated body, ignoring the softness of the skin, the cool dampness of the floor beneath her.

  “God Almighty,” the voice says, but it is muffled as if the man is covering his mouth and nose.

  “What is it?” someone says from the doorway.

  “Dead guy. Dead a long time.”

  How long has it been since she checked the watch? Two minutes? Three? Has she missed Lee already? She can almost feel the seconds ticking by, their opportunity dwindling with each one. Zoey feels the body shake and realizes the man must’ve kicked it. More gas erupts from it and she hears a deep grunt from the soldier only feet away. “I’m gonna puke, move it.”

  The light fades and the sound of retching fills the hall.

  “Oooo, he is ripe,” the other man says. “Get your shit in order, Jimmy. Let’s go to the next floor. Maybe our guy got ahead of us.”

  Zoey listens to a muttered reply before the booted feet trail away toward the closest stairwell. When she can hear only silence again she pushes at the corpse, rolling it away. One hand sinks into the doughy flesh and she nearly screams when her middle finger pierces the gelatinous skin.

  Gagging again she grasps the machine and climbs free of the recess. The door is open and she steps into the hall, pointing her handgun both ways before crossing to the next office street side.

  It is dark enough for several of the working
streetlamps to have kicked on, pouring yellowed light onto the sidewalks. Down the block a single figure walks straight toward her building. Lee’s hands are in his pockets and he makes no move to touch his hair.

  It’s time.

  Zoey hurries back the way she came, heading away from the stairwell the soldiers took. She leaves the contents of her bag where they are strewn and launches herself down the flights of stairs. The taste of decay is thick in her mouth and she spits, rounding the last turn before stopping at the street-level door.

  The fresh air gusts against her face as she checks to make sure no one occupies the alleyway.

  It’s clear.

  Lee will be at the mouth of the alley in less than thirty seconds.

  She rushes to the tarped pallets and lifts the tattered cover, dropping to her knees.

  The machine feels heavy in her hands as she begins clamping it to the most solid-looking pallet. When it’s secure she places her gun in the V at the top of the apparatus and twists the knob on its side, locking the grip into place so that the barrel points to the rear of the alley.

  The ammunition tester, Lee had explained, was used to safely cycle test batches of new ammo through a weapon. If a round was manufactured incorrectly and caused the handgun it was being fired with to detonate or malfunction, the user wouldn’t be harmed. The timer to trigger the gun without a person manning it was Lee’s own design.

  Zoey twists the timer four times, releases it, and pulls the tarp back into place.

  She runs.

  The mouth of the alley looms as she draws a small knife from her pocket and slices the blade across her hairline before yanking her hat low.

  Warmth trickles down her forehead, gathers in her eyebrows. She hesitates several strides from the street, sure that she hadn’t set the ammo tester correctly.

  A gunshot explodes behind her and she lurches forward the last two steps, falling to the sidewalk.

  There is a brief pause and another shot echoes through the alley.

  Yells come from across the street and there is the scratch of shoes beside her.

  Hands grasp her shoulders and Lee whispers, “Are you okay?” She barely nods. Another gunshot booms and on cue, Lee starts to yell.

  “There’s a guy with a gun in the alley! He’s got a gun!” Zoey risks a glance at the hospital.

  The men guarding the entrance are running toward them, weapons at the ready. As she ducks her head again, blood flows into her eyes and the world becomes a dark red.

  The last shot resounds as the soldiers come to a halt nearby. “What the hell’s going on?” one asks.

  “There’s someone in the alley with a gun,” Lee says breathlessly, dragging her partially upright. “This guy’s wounded.”

  Zoey places one hand against her face and through the haze of blood sees both soldiers staring down their barrels in the direction she came.

  “Bennett, circle down the block and contact Daniels on the roof. See if he’s got eyes on whoever it is,” the closest man says.

  “I’ll get him to the hospital,” Lee says, pulling Zoey to her feet. He slings one of her arms around his shoulder and guides her across the street. She does her best to hobble, still hiding her face. As they near the doors she glances back, wiping blood from her eyes. Both soldiers have disappeared, and yells come from up the block as more men race into view.

  Then they’re through the doors and in a spacious lobby.

  A man sits at a counter thirty feet away, eyes wide and staring at them. Lee motions to her. “He’s been wounded. Where’s the doctor?”

  “Fourth floor,” the man answers. “What’s going on out there?”

  “No idea,” Lee says, ushering her through a doorway that reveals a stairwell. When they’re out of the man’s sight Lee releases her and they jog side by side up the flights, their footfalls echoing hollowly. At a door marked with a four above it, they slow, Lee opening it and peering out before looking at her.

  “You’re really bleeding. Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Cut a little deeper than I meant to.”

  “Okay. It looks clear.”

  The tiled corridor is empty and eerily quiet. Zoey swipes at her eyes and forehead again, the sleeve of her coat coming away bloody. Doors open on both sides of the hallway but light spills from only three of them. Thirty yards away is a curved countertop and across from it the last of the three lit rooms.

  A shadow darkens the floor inside the doorway and a moment later a man with steel gray hair steps into view. His head is down and he’s studying a clipboard in his hands. He doesn’t look up until they’re ten feet away.

  “Doctor,” Lee says. “We need your help.”

  “What’s this about?” the man asks scanning Lee’s face before traveling on to Zoey. His eyes widen at the sight of the blood. “What happened?”

  “We need to speak with you in private. Which floor do you use for testing?”

  The doctor frowns. “Testing what?”

  “Blood.”

  “I don’t understand. Now if you’re injured,” he says, motioning to Zoey, “we should get you in a room and . . .” His words trail off as she takes her hat off and steps closer. “My God,” he whispers.

  “Doctor, we need your help and there’s no time to explain,” she says. “Please.”

  He gazes at her for several more seconds before blinking. “This way.” He moves past the lit doorway, which houses a single bed, the occupant lying propped up on pillows, his arm bandaged from the shoulder down to his fingers. He doesn’t look at them as they file by.

  The doctor stops at an elevator and touches the up button, glancing at Zoey again before looking away.

  “Are there any guards on the top floor?” she asks as the doors slide open and they step inside.

  “One man does rounds every hour. He came through twenty minutes ago,” the doctor says.

  “If you’re lying it won’t end well for you,” Lee says.

  “I’m not lying, young man.”

  The elevator chimes and the doors open to an almost identical hallway. The doctor doesn’t hesitate, moving quickly out and to the left. Zoey and Lee follow, her attention focused on the doctor, but unease at the surroundings keeps making her glance over her shoulder and into each darkened room they pass.

  The lab at the end of the hall gives her a jolt when the doctor flips an extra set of lights on. It is strangely similar to the fifth level of the ARC. Along one wall behind a bank of floor-to-ceiling glass are several partitions, each containing counters full of machines and equipment. The doctor stops beside the first one, turning to face them.

  He looks them over, dismay creasing his aged features, and it’s then that she realizes he’s much older than she first thought. “What’s this all about?” he asks.

  “We need to test this against my blood,” Zoey says, holding out the vial.

  The doctor takes it. “Direct relative?”

  “Maybe. Can you do it?”

  He sighs. “Yes. But it will take a little time.”

  “How long?”

  “Twenty minutes, a half hour? I’m not sure. It’s been a long time since I did this.” He sets the vial down and moves to a compact machine sitting beneath a cabinet, drawing it out into the light. The top opens, revealing a small wheel with clear oblong tubes attached to it. He draws one of these out and twists it open at its center.

  “What is that?” Zoey asks.

  “The machine is a bioanalyzer. In the early days of the Dearth, NOA made it a requirement for every major hospital to carry at least one. They were developed as a rapid DNA-testing device for determining blood relation in patients.” As he speaks his hands work at the vial. There is a quiet click and the vial opens, a cap at one end snapping free. He pours the blood into the tube and shuts it once more. After replacing it in the wheel he opens a drawer, drawing out a plastic sealed syringe. “I’ll need a sample.”

  Zoey takes her coat off and draws up the sleeve of her shirt, expo
sing her pale forearm. The old man is gentle, hands steady and sure as he slides the needle into a barely visible vein. She doesn’t even feel it.

  “So tell me,” he says, not looking up, “why would a person such as yourself ever risk coming to this place?”

  She takes a long time answering. “The truth.”

  He nods, pressing a cotton ball over the point of the syringe as he withdraws it. “Good a reason as any, I suppose.”

  “We’d like his blood tested as well,” she says, motioning to Lee. The doctor studies him briefly before depositing her blood into another tube. When he’s drawn Lee’s blood and labeled each of the tubes, he pushes a button and the wheel recedes into the machine. He fold ups a digital screen from one side and presses two buttons.

  The machine whirs quietly.

  “I can only guess at what this all means,” the old man says, busying himself with several plastic-wrapped items before turning to Zoey. “But I’m not going to ask. My mother used to say wishing for things out loud broke the spell and your wishes wouldn’t ever come true.” He opens some packages and spins the cap off a bottle. “I’m going to clean that head wound if it’s all right with you.”

  “Okay.”

  Again his hands are gentle and sure. He dabs at the cut she made in the alley, some of the disinfectant stinging, but the pain keeps her alert, listening for the ding of the elevator arriving above the bioanalyzer’s humming.

  The doctor finishes cleaning the cut and places two small bandages over it.

  Zoey touches his work lightly. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Why are you helping us?” She asks the question before she’s truly registered thinking it.

  He pauses at a trash bin before tossing the plastic wrappers inside. “Because you need it.”

  The machine on the counter beeps softly. The doctor moves to the screen and touches it three times. Its whirring begins again.

  “What’s it doing?” Lee asks.

  “Phase one is complete. It separated the white blood cells from the red. There’s no DNA in red blood cells so it needs to divide the two before it can analyze and compare the samples.”