Ash faced the creek. “Snare, dry them off.”
Water left their clothes and puddled beneath them before slipping back into the stream.
“See? All dry.” Ash smirked while the guards studied themselves in awe. “Snare’s only trying to finish these final trades. She wants to leave as bad as we do.”
“Everyone, put your hands up!” Candace’s voice boomed within the thicket, like déjà vu from the night before. This time, she barged in clutching a hunting rifle. The barrel located Ash. So did panic. Ash stumbled back, but Candace pursued. “Don’t move. I can either send you home or send you to the other side.”
“W-wait!” Ash lifted a trembling hand. “What are you so afraid of?”
“Exactly what you should be afraid of,” Candace replied. Behind her, more people spilled into the clearing. Gina Narducci gripped a prim silver pistol. Paul Ellsworth, the Downhill Diner’s owner, lugged a paint-faded shotgun. Lastly, Mick Lapinski barged in with his bare fists. “Look around, Ash. Everyone here traded something important. Many will die if Snare steals their parts.”
“Snare’s not stealing anything.”
The rifle inched closer. “Your empty wrist says otherwise.”
“Candace,” Dad said, his fingers twitching above his holster. “Lower that weapon.”
“No,” Candace said. “And you keep yours holstered.”
“Can’t we vote on this or something?” Ash asked.
“Vote? Oh, please. We made our choices when we traded. We knew we’d be stuck within the zone. We accepted that. It’s a small price to pay for a normal life.”
“Normal?” Ash scoffed. “An hour ago you had my father locked in a storage shed. Then you stabbed him in the neck. And now you’re pointing a rifle at me. With people watching. What part of this is normal?”
Candace gritted her teeth. “Nothing great comes without challenges. I don’t want to shoot you, but I also don’t want people dying from losing their organs. We Traders need to survive. We have roles to play. Bigger roles than lead guitarist in some no-name heavy metal band. We’re wives and husbands, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters.”
Something went off like a bomb inside Ash’s skull.
Mothers and sons.
Candace and Mick.
Of course.
Ash had been focusing so hard on MacReady and his “HIP” part that she never asked herself who actually needed it. If the “HIP” meant hippocampus like Cheeto said, then MacReady was likely killed to free up Snare’s brain. According to Berke, one person here had a serious concussion recently. And if it were bad enough—or if it were the latest of several concussions—it could warrant a replacement brain.
“You, Candace,” Ash said, locking eyes with her. “You had MacReady killed.”
“Ridiculous.” Candace shook the rifle. “You’ll say anything.”
“MacReady traded more than kidneys. He traded part of his brain.” Ash turned to the others and pulled the stack of bills from her pocket. “On these bills Candace wrote the initials of every Trader and the first three letters of the part they traded.”
“More lies,” Candace said, her voice hollow. “Do you ever run out?”
Talking over her, Ash continued. “The top bill has “JMHIP” written on it. The only “JM” Trader is John MacReady. The “HIP” part can’t mean the hip bones, though, because Narducci has them.” Ash eyed the woman. “Or am I lying?”
Narducci looked away.
Ash faced Candace. The rifle no longer fazed her. Nothing did. She felt invincible. Just like when one of her guitar riffs pummeled a hostile crowd.
“MacReady traded his hippocampus.”
Candace laughed. “Hippo-what?”
“His memory bank. I’m guessing he had Alzheimer’s.”
“Guessing? Oh, please. You’re making this up.”
“Hang on,” Elaine said, still on hands and knees. “Few years back, Mac was forgetting things. One time he ordered a cheese omelet three times in ten minutes.”
Her boss frowned and lowered his shotgun.
“This is ridiculous,” Candace said. “Mac never made such a trade. Believe me, I know the details of everyone’s trades.”
“Exactly,” Ash said. “You knew he had the hippocampus. You needed it back because it’s part of the brain. And once the whole brain was available, you gifted it to a certain concussion-prone football player.”
“Are you talking about Mickey?” she said, appalled. “Mickey’s healthy. He had no reason to trade.”
Ash shrugged. “If that’s the case, prove it. Have someone drive him out of the zone. If he makes it out safe, you win. If he doesn’t—”
Candace raised the rifle, her reddening face compressed with fury. From between her nicotine-yellow teeth came a surreal noise—part war cry, part maternal shriek. It filled the clearing as the barrel rose eye-level with Ash.
Voices shouted.
Bodies shuffled.
A hand grabbed the rifle as it went off.
55
Everything went dark as Ash hit the dirt. Her ears rang, and for a second she thought she was at a concert, that she’d lost her footing and tumbled off the stage. Hell, maybe she looked cool doing it. Maybe the audience loved it. Maybe they were Tweeting and Instagramming about what a badass she was.
Another blast erupted. That shook her from her trance.
Holy shit, she realized. Candace meant to kill me.
When she opened her eyes, she saw chaos. Next to her, Candace and Mick wrestled over the rifle; the other Traders scattered. Dad charged toward the scuffle. The rifle went off again, firing skyward this time. The deafening report was followed by screams.
Before Ash could find her feet, another bang pounded her eardrums.
Then all she heard was Mick shouting.
“It’s true!” He ripped the rifle from his mother’s hands and stuck the barrel into the mud. “It was me! I did it!”
“Mickey, no!”
“Shut up, Ma!” He dragged Candace to her knees. “The doctors said if I hit my head again I could be a veggie for life. I didn’t want to hurt the old man. I didn’t. But Ma—”
Candace slapped her hand over his mouth.
“That’s enough!” Dad said. He jumped in and cuffed Candace’s wrists behind her back.
Trembling, Ash rose to her feet. After some deep breaths, she noticed faint sunlight coming through the trees. We don’t have long. She faced the Traders.
“Candace sold you out. Not just MacReady—all of you.” She met their eyes. “You tell me. You want to keep following her the rest of your lives?”
Heads shook.
“That’s what I thought.” Ash approached Father McKagan, half-hidden in the thicket, gym bag hanging from his shoulder. “You ready? We gotta hurry.”
“Candace,” Dad said, grabbing his phone. “What’s the new camera code?”
Candace lay tight-lipped in the mud, still pinned beneath Mick.
“Please, Candace.”
“You’re not getting that code,” she snarled. “And don’t think you can hide behind a tarp again. I repositioned the cameras.”