The Green Ones

Episode 3, Part 8

I close my eyes, focusing on what I know. If the mind pits are the source of the telekinetic field, that means we’re stuck in a common door lock, an automated security measure. I’ve seen kids stuck in these before. Depending on the manual shut down option chosen, we’ll either be scanned and stunned for detention or left unharmed.

Botch the shutdown or disrupt the signal, and we’ll be scrambled—unless…something or someone grounds the field, in which case the bridging object will be scrambled instead. Unsure of why, I latch onto the last part.

I open my eyes. The air is bouncing worse. In my peripheral vision, the guard flips open the access panel. I can’t lose my future again. If there’s a telekinetic signal there’s a source. Remote or not, I have to find it. But how?

Frustrated and desperate, I scream.

The jittering air slows. The hallway falls away in shattered pieces, replaced by the image of a face in my mind’s eye—a young boy, larger than life. From his mouth streams orange flame—the source of the signal, I’m sure of it. I focus on quenching the flames, and from my mouth shoots a river of water.

The hallway returns.

In a spasm of rage, I clench my fist. Breaking free of the vibrating prison, I shoot out an arm and grasp the guard by his braid. He jolts with surprise as I yank. The air solidifies like millions of needles piercing my skin. All the fear and pain exploding throughout my body floods into my right hand, focusing there like the tip of a spear. And I scream, unleashing the caged demons pent up in my unseeable heart of hearts. No one will take anything from me ever again.

Silence rips through my brain as if erasing the memory of sound. For an instant I’m falling. My head bounces off a hard surface, jarring open my eyes. Slowly, two identical halls merge into one as up and down return to their proper places. I breathe. The air is rank, burnt. My body is numb. I’m afraid to look. “Zorrah?”

I hear a nearby whimper in response. Pushing into a seated position, I realize I’m gripping something in my right hand. I hold it up. My brain registers what it is, and yet refuses to make sense of it. Finally the pieces collide. “What have I done?”

“What you had to.” Centavo’s voice startles me.

Jumping up and spinning to face him, I lose balance. I stumble backward, crashing down on a warm, brittle heap. In horror, I realize what’s beneath me. Tossing the salt and pepper braid in my hand, I scramble to my feet and press against the wall. “Oh gods, I killed him. I killed him.” Frantically, I brush the brittle fragments of fused bone and charred flesh from the back of my tzotzomatli.

Centavo grips my shoulder, shaking me until I look at him. “Unfortunately, some of us are not given the luxury of clean hands.” He glances toward Zorrah, huddled in a ball and crying. “It is a sacrifice we make for the sake of others.”

I glare at him, replaying his words. “You promised I would get my hands dirty.”

He nods.

“You did this—the alarm, the guard—you staged this exact scenario just to make me a…” I can’t finish the sentence.

“Even if I did,” Centavo winks, “give yourself credit where credit is due, Callie Bluehair.” Smiling, he gestures toward the smoking human remains, “You did this all by yourself. Haven’t you questioned whether you could kill if the necessity arose? Now you know the answer, and there’s no going back.”

“I,” my breath comes in ragged gulps, “hate you.” I swallow my grief and rage, unable to fathom why anyone would be so wicked. Through all of it, I know one thing for certain. I’ll never give him the pleasure of seeing me cry. I push it all down, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

“As it should be,” he sighs. Stooping, he picks up the guard’s braid. It’s a dead ringer for the one dangling from the back of his own head. Breathing deeply, he stares beyond me and exhales. In the blink of an eye, both braids disintegrate.

He shakes his head, brushing away the dust that a moment earlier had been hair. He stares at me—cold, emotionless. “Some of us must be monsters.”

I can’t bear to think about all the things Centavo is capable of. Instead I turn to the tiny girl crumpled on the floor. “Zorrah, it’s okay. It’s all over now.” I pick her up.

“I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to see this place ever again.” She covers her face.

“Come on, we’ll get your things.” She’s light enough to carry, but I know she needs to walk away from this under her own strength.

She stands on wobbly legs, wiping her eyes.

I squeeze her hand. “You can stay with me and Olin until registration.”

“Really?”

I nod. “We’ll do this together, the three of us.”

“Come,” Centavo strides away, “there’s one more stop before tonight’s business is through.”