Chapter Eleven — Aecker
“What’s wrong with her?” Noah asks.
“I don’t know.” I breathe out a full sigh, wringing out the wet cloth over a small mixing bowl. The warm liquid spills between my fingers. “I know this warm water is not helping to bring down her fever, but I need to disinfect the wound. It’s a good thing for the fever. Last time―”
As always Noah interrupts. “Last time? This has happened before? I thought Trackers didn’t get sick.”
“They don’t, but look.” I pull her injured shoulder from the surface and gently rock her forward so he can inspect the wound. It has already healed under the stitches.
“I told you I’m a genius when it comes to sewing,” he boasts.
And it is true. Noah is very good with a needle. Once he got over the goriness of the wound, that is.
“Ugh. She makes me sick.” He breathes into the vodka bottle.
“Give me that.” I reach over and grab it, take a mouthful, and place it back on the shelf beside me. The thing is, Noah has to be drunk in order to look past the gore. But being drunk makes him an even bigger ass than he already is.
“Look at her... she’s perfect. Her skin, her sparkling dewy eyes. And don’t get me started on her perfect lips, all rosy and shit.” Noah stands, slightly rocking on his feet. “What girl on this planet still looks that good? It’s all fake! She’s a fake bitch!” He giggles to himself.
“You are drunk,” I say, laying Opel back down. I wipe her hair away from her face one more time, making sure to clean well into her hairline. Noah is absolutely right, though, girls don’t look like this anymore.
“Sweet place the doctor has here.” He scoops up some glass object from a low shelf packed with eccentric ornaments.
“What is this crap, anyway?” He shakes it.
“Put it back.” I stand and try to grab it from him.
“No.” He snatches it away and turns to raise the glass dome to the light of the moon. “It has tiny figures inside.” He shakes it again. I don’t know why he does that, but it causes some kind of movement inside.
I move forward. “Let me see.”
“It’s snowing inside this little world, people are all stuck in there and stuff. It’sss so prewtty,” he slurs.
“Wow, you are drunker than I thought.”
“Shut up!” He turns. Losing his balance, he stumbles forward and crashes into the table, dropping the object. A shiny, white liquid escapes, oozing into the cracks on the wooden floor.
“Look what you did, Noah! Your broke the tiny people world,” I mock.
“What?” He stares at me incredulously, considering his mistake.
I laugh out loud and reach for him as he falls down onto his knees, trying to scoop up what remains of the tiny domed world. From goodness knows where, he releases a squalling sound, mumbling things I can’t comprehend.
“Why, why, why?” he says, over and over again as he looks up at me, his eyes red, cheeks soaked and snotty.
“Noah, are you crying, you big baby?”
“Screw you, Aecker. And screw that bitch on the table, too.”
“Watch your mouth.” I lift him to his feet but he collapses in my arms, his entire body crashing into mine.
“All I ever wanted to be was good looking. Pretty people get anything they want.”
“Now you are acting insane. I think it’s time for bed.”
“Am I, Aecker? Am I really? She’s pretty, you’re pretty, and you both have something the world has forgotten. It’s something I would die for!”
I try to drag him to the room where the doctor used to sleep. The bed is fluffy and the mattress is thick and impossibly high. Especially when trying to lift a heavy, deadweight like Noah.
“Noah, come on, help me just a little, you fat ass,” I whine.
He mumbles what sounds like, “Screw you.”
I roll him up and over onto the bed, while trying not to step on any of the remaining furniture ST had managed to throw to the ground on their ransack of the place. Noah keeps rolling to the middle and falls face first into the mattress. As I pull the sheet over him, I notice an old digital frame that has a picture of a little girl inside. She has the same dark color hair Dr. P. used to have. But the little girl’s eyes are blue, not green. They have the same smile, though. This must be the doctor’s daughter before cancer took her, I muse.
As I get to the curtain door, I turn back. “Are you gonna be okay in here like that, Noah?” I am scared he will spew all over himself and choke on the thick liquid now clogging his brain.
“Shewt up and leave me alones!”
“Great.” I walk away, pulling the curtain that separates the sleeping quarters from the tiny kitchen and eating area closed. To the right of the kitchen is what remains of Dr. P.’s examining room.
With Noah and Opel out cold, the night becomes increasingly silent. Only a symphony of crickets sing out, filling up the dead space between the cottage and the forest. First, I stare at the overturned sofa―it somehow disturbs me the way it’s flopped over so carelessly. Bullets have sliced and ripped through the stuffing, and I can see the springs sticking out the bottom like the insides of a dead yellow animal. And then, my eye catches the silver pot lying disregarded under the relics of a wooden chair. I feel so bad for Prilla, having to hide out with nothing and no one to keep her sane. But in a strange way, I envy her solitude, too. It must be nice to have no obligations and no one to impress, to not have anyone judge your every move.
Leaning down to pick up the pot, my hand brushes against the scorch marks left by chemical grenades. Before I can stop myself, I am straightening out tables, sweeping up glass and fragments of roof, windows, and strips of material from the sofa and chair. There is blood in three different spots, the biggest being where Cyrus fell after he was gunned down. The others are remnants of my wounds. I hope the last stain is not from my brother, or the good doctor.
Once my attempt at scrubbing out stains fails, I sort out all the broken furniture. One pile is for recycling, the other to use for burning. This chore clears my mind for a while, as I focus on getting the place all sorted for when Dr. P. returns. I feel the angst of a thick guilt. Her sanctuary has been destroyed because of her kindness toward us. I don’t want to think of what they are possibly doing to her, or to Dyllian. I know they will be kept alive for information, but I wonder how long my brother can hold out. To them, if he has spilled all the secrets of Cupola and the regime, he will be useless and ordered to die. The doctor will be held captive until each bit of her brain has been drained of its ideology and its many scientific secrets. I cannot imagine which ending would be worse.
***
Dusk slowly comes and goes, and the night burns on through the gentle draft coming from the broken windows. Moonbeams slowly crawl over wooden floors as the night marches on.
Pouring myself a glass of water, I take a seat beside Opel’s bed. The water is smooth and free of chemicals as it travels down my throat, the taste pure and delicious. I can’t help but feel each time Opel is injured that her rebooting stage takes longer. I also can’t help feeling that one day she might not come back from her recuperative slumber. It’s discomforting not seeing her chest move as she breathes, not being able to hear the steady beat of her mechanical heart. Freakish, even, but still I don’t think any less or different of her. To me she’s still that wondrous girl feeding the doe.
I am going to have to accept her design at some point. I just wanted to give her happiness, make her feel less lonely, wanted and appreciated. Everyone deserves that. I just wanted her to feel even if for the shortest time what it is to be human. Maybe I want to prove a point to the ST and the world. Humans are not a weak, dying breed. We are survivors who don’t need their stupid encoding. I thought her accident a blessing, a sign that this was a way for her to be something other than a ‘drone’. My head slumps forward. I lied to her and its eating at me. If she had known the truth of who she was, what outcome would that have forced? Perhaps it would be me on this table.
I stare at Opel, her lips are cracked and parched from dehydration. Dipping my fingers in the glass, I sprinkle some water over them and think of our first kiss. The memory leaves a beautiful ache in my chest.
I sit back, feeling her pulse on her wrist. Still nothing. I get that same feeling now as I do every night before a hunt, a scavenger run, or night shift―it is a feeling that this might be the last sleep, that perhaps my life or hers will end while our eyes are closed. Over the years, I have learned to deal with the ache, to sleep with it, because without it I am dead. But the ache now holds something more, something I don’t want replaced.
I pull the sheet over her body, tucking the frayed edge beneath her chin. Leaning my head back against the wall, I keep my eyes on her perfect face. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever been lucky enough to lay my eyes on. I have seen girls before, but not like her. There weren’t many female survivors after the raids; many were raped and killed, or simply shipped off. Now, girls and women cut off parts of their body, shave their hair and remove teeth to look unattractive to men. Those women are then killed for their flaws, so it’s a horrid place for any female. Even within the haven of Cupola, they hide themselves in piles of clothes. I can’t even tell you what their kind really looks like, but I know I have never seen the female species look anything close to Opel after The Clearing. Before The War, I only knew my sister and mom to be of the pretty kind. But Opel is a perfect blend of every girl I have ever read about. As her skin turns a milky, white sheen under the light of the moon, I know she is of the stars, because nothing human could create something so entrancing.