“We must be a long way underground by now,” she muttered.
“It’s all right, love,” Grimm said. “Trust me.”
“Look, you wanna get pushed down these stairs?” Lemon growled.
“Not really, no,” the boy replied.
“Then stop calling me love, dammit.”
The Major’s voice rang up the stairs. “We’re almost there.”
Lemon heaved a sigh, one hand around Grimm’s waist, the other on the cutter at her belt. These hatchway locks were mechanical as well as electronic—if she got trapped down here, she wasn’t sure she could get out again. But those three words kept pushing her on where the butterflies in her belly were urging her to turn back.
One.
Of.
Us.
And so, pulling on her streetface, she followed the Major and Fix down, through another hatch. And there, she felt her breath stolen clean away.
“Wow…,” she whispered.
Greenery. Wall to wall. Beds of dark dirt and ultraviolet lights humming overhead, and beneath, everything was green. Plants of all shapes and sizes, broad leaves and long limbs, and trees, actual trees hung heavy with…
“Is that fruit?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“That it is,” the Major replied. “This way. Quickly.”
The old man led them through the green, Lemon breathing in the rich, earthy air. Among the rows of garden beds, she saw the big boy, Fix, kneeling on the concrete with Diesel laid out before him. He beckoned Lemon and Grimm over with frantic waves of his big, callused hands. It was gloomy in here, and as the boy pulled his goggles up, Lemon saw his irises were the strangest green she’d ever laid eyes on—so bright, they were almost luminous.
“Will she be all right?” Lemon asked, looking Diesel over.
“I seen worse,” Fix declared.
Grimm glanced to the Major, nodded at Lemon.
“She took a dose of rads,” the boy said. “She’ll need a fix, too.”
“…Um, actually, I don’t feel too bad anymore,” Lemon said.
“They call that the walking ghost stage, love,” Grimm explained. “The nausea, the pain, it all goes away. But your bone marrow and the lining of your stomach’s all dead. You don’t get fixed soon, you will be, too.”
“I…” She swallowed hard. “You mean…I’m still gonna die?”
Grimm shook his head, held out his hand. “Not if you trust us.”
Lemon looked to the Major, unsure what to do or say. Truth told, whatever this was, she was in it up to her neck now, and the queasy fear of radsick poisoning hushed the rest of her concerns. Breathing deep, she took Grimm’s hand.
“You wanna back off, sir,” Fix said, waving the Major away.
The old man retreated half a dozen steps. Satisfied, the big boy nodded, took a deep breath. Lemon watched him put a hand on Diesel’s chest, place the other in Grimm’s palm. Grimm entwined his fingers with Lemon’s.
“This is gonna feel strange,” the older boy said.
“What do you m—”
Lemon felt her skin begin to prickle, as if electrical current was dancing over her skin. Her mouth was suddenly dry, the air greasy and charged. She felt a surge of warmth, starting in the hand Grimm was holding, spreading out through her body. It felt like pins and needles, like being wrapped in an itchy blanket, like a million warm cockroaches crawling on and under and through her skin.
Fix tilted his head back, a frown darkening his smooth brow. Lemon saw the color of his irises begin to warp, run, spilling out across the whites of his eyes until they were almost entirely green. She heard a whispering sound, realized the leaves around them were rustling, curling…
Dying.
Like some invisible flame was raging through the garden, the plants withered. Green turned to brown, ripe fruit turned to husks, the plants wilting as if they were aging a hundred years in the blink of an eye. Lemon felt butterflies in her belly, caught her breath as she saw the wounds in Grimm’s hands and feet, the bullet hole in Diesel’s chest, the scrapes on her own skin…
“Spank my spankables.”
Lemon realized every plant within a three-meter radius of Fix was totally dead. And all their wounds, the nail holes, the bullet holes, the cuts and bruises earned in the last few days…
…they’re gone.
Fix opened his eyes, gently touched Diesel’s face. He seemed out of breath, sweat on his skin, chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. But his lips curled in a goofy smile as the girl’s lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes.
“See?” he wheezed. “Funkin’ miracle worker, me.”
Diesel reached up and put her bloodstained arms around Fix’s neck. Dragging him into a fierce embrace, she pressed her black, paint-smudged lips to his.
Grimm groaned. “Gawd, get a bloody room, you two.”
Lemon could see the bigger boy was clearly drained. Shadows were puddled under those bright green eyes, his face paled, his shoulders slumped. But he still looked triumphant as he pulled his lips away from Diesel’s.
“How’d you get shot, anyways?” he murmured.
“It was Grimm’s fault,” Diesel replied softly.
“Screw you, Deez,” the dark-skinned boy said.
“Ew, no.” Diesel unwrapped her arms from Fix’s neck, gave Grimm a solid punch to the thigh. “But thanks for the offer.”
“Glad you’re all right,” Grimm grinned, brown eyes sparkling.
“You too,” Diesel smiled. “But it was your fault.”
“Hey, I found you a present,” Grimm said. He pawed his vest, his shirt, as if looking for something. Finally he dug a hand into the pocket of his cargos, brought it out again with his middle finger raised. “Eat it, freak.”
“Make me, freak,” Diesel laughed.
“If you two are quite finished?” the Major asked.
Grimm and Diesel both looked to the old man, their smiles disappearing. Diesel stood quickly, clicked her heels together. Despite her torn and bloodstained clothes, the weariness in her face, the girl saluted the Major with military precision.
“Apologies, sir.”
“You two hit the showers,” the Major ordered, studying the dead plants around them. “This exercise has cost us a great many resources, and almost cost us everything. So get yourself fed, cleaned up. I want a full sitrep in thirty minutes.”