Doll Hands is back for round two.

  She shoves the gurney away from her in a jerky motion, struggling for air as she straightens. I watch her clasp a hand to her side as she fights to breathe, and I can’t help but grin at the sight.

  “My bad. Did I break your ribs?”

  “Drop dead,” she bites out.

  “You first.”

  “You’re deluded,” she says. “This is not a victory. You have no idea what they’ll do to you now.”

  The sirens kick into higher gear, wailing with renewed vigor. It’s probably a matter of seconds before this place is swarmed.

  “Look,” I say, shouting a little over the chaos. “I don’t love this situation, either. It feels really weird to hit a girl. But considering the fact that you just murdered me a minute ago, I think I’m entitled to retribution. So I’m giving you two options: show me how to get out of here, or hand over your knife.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Did one of those broken ribs puncture a lung?” I ask, really smiling now. “Can you feel yourself dying?”

  “Have you ever had your intestines ripped out of your body?” she says, her eyes flashing. “I hear it’s excruciating.”

  “You have five seconds to decide,” I say, crossing my arms against my chest. “Five. Four. Three. Two— Fuck—”

  I rear back as a searing pain sets fire to my arm. Apparently she chose option two: hand over her knife. I squeeze my eyes shut and yank the blade out of my shoulder, somehow managing to bite back a deluge of expletives.

  “You have terrible aim,” I say, gritting my teeth as I wipe the weapon clean on my shirt. “The trick, if you haven’t figured it out yet, is to kill me instantaneously.” But when I look up at the girl, I can see why she threw the blade badly; she’s half-bent, holding on to the wall for support, her skin ashen. Still, I’m surprised by the look in her eyes. She doesn’t seem angry anymore.

  She shakes her head, almost disappointed when she says, “Idiot.”

  Then she retrieves a syringe from her pocket, bites off the cap with her teeth, and plunges the needle into her thigh. She nearly screams as she straightens, her chest heaving as she draws air into her lungs.

  A thunder of footsteps echoes down the hall.

  I turn, bloodied and confused, to discover a swarm of military personnel storming toward me. I mean, obviously this was going to happen—The Reestablishment wasn’t going to just let me walk out of here—but, damn. They’re aiming weapons in my direction I’ve never even seen. Huge, heavy, scary, neon shit. They look awesome. I want one.

  “Rosabelle,” a voice booms.

  A man detaches from the group and steps forward, and I’m so busy processing the fact that the serial killer is named something as soft as Rosabelle that I nearly miss the sight of his veiny metal arm. It also takes me a second to notice that he looks insane. Blue light glazes over his eyes, pulses at his temples, radiates across his bionic prosthetic. A feeling of unease prickles my skin.

  Bad memories.

  The Reestablishment once put my dad back together with similar sleek prosthetics. That sort of seamless limb regeneration was unheard of a decade ago, and while we still haven’t figured out how to replicate the tech precisely, it looks like it might be commonplace around here. Clearly, The Reestablishment has been advancing new levels of bioengineering, and, clearly, we’ve been underestimating their ability to progress in isolation. For over a decade we’ve been trying to prepare for whatever fresh hell they might be brewing out here, but our spy efforts fall short, over and over, because all our tech is built upon the entrenched systems and networks that they established.

  The Reestablishment knows how to deactivate our satellites because they designed them; they know how to mess with our power plants because they built them; they know how to shut down our electrical grids because they engineered them. The civilians don’t seem to understand that outliers of The Reestablishment still live among us. When the regime fell, only the rarefied elite decamped to Ark Island. Only the highest-ranking, richest military families of The Reestablishment were even notified of the exit plan; they were the ones who could hop on private jets and avoid the fallout.

  The rest of the sycophants stayed behind.

  It’s never been easy to discern which of the “reformed” members of The Reestablishment might still be loyal to the old order. Many of them are now undercover agents dotted all over the globe, undermining us at every opportunity. Last year was more brutal than ever: there was a mysterious gas-line explosion at one of the elementary schools, and over a hundred kids died. It was one of the darkest days in our recent history; the nightmare is still embedded in my skin. We keep trying to explain to our own people that we’re being hacked and attacked, but it’s getting harder to convince people of these facts when The Reestablishment appears, by all outward appearances, to have gone totally dark.

  All we know for certain is that we’re struggling.

  These psychological operations are meant to turn the masses against us. People have short and fickle memories; too many are beginning to wonder whether life under The Reestablishment was better. Juliette is worried. Even Warner, who rarely shows emotion, seems stressed. He floated the idea of launching a covert mission into the Ark, but we all knew he wouldn’t leave Juliette in her condition.

  So I came up with this genius plan: uncover something useful about the psychopaths out here, make it home alive, and, in the process, earn the respect of my friends and family. The problem is that no spy from the mainland has ever breached these borders and survived. I’d hoped I had the necessary skills to be the exception.

  Looks like I was wrong.

  The guy with the robot arm is striding toward me now, weapon raised. I’m running a few scenarios in my head, trying to do the necessary calculus to determine whether it’s worth stabbing this dude before he blasts a hole through my chest, when suddenly he slows. He studies me with those creepy eyes. Lowers his weapon.

  “Incredible,” he says, his voice touched with awe. “You look so much like your father. What a shame that both of you should die such tragic deaths.” Then, tossing his gun blindly at Rosabelle: “Make it quick.”

  ROSABELLE

  CHAPTER 5

  In the split second the weapon sails between myself and Soledad, the inmate launches himself forward, snatches it out of the air, and lands in a smooth tumble.

  He immediately opens fire on everyone.

  Shots explode, screams pierce the din. Soledad barks orders, but sounds warp and distort; sirens blare as lights flash. I back up against the cold wall, my heels knocking against the footboards, my hands searching for purchase. The scene developing before me is so impossible it seems to bleed at the edges. I feel as if the floors are melting under my feet, my breaths loud in my ears, the pain in my ribs beginning to crescendo once more. They shoot at the inmate over and over, but his reflexes are extraordinary; he manages to dodge most of their fire, sustaining minor injuries that I now realize he can easily overcome. Watching him move is like witnessing wind: it’s only clear he’s been there when someone else falls.

  There is no precedent for this situation.

  I’ve been summoned here countless times, and my work has always been faultless. Never have I failed to kill a mark. Never has an inmate been able to escape. This one cannot be allowed to run rampant through these halls; he cannot be allowed to report back anything he’s witnessed here. And I—

  I will be executed for this failure.

  The realization hits me like another shot of adrenaline. An image of Clara flares to life behind my eyes, her name repeating in my head. If I am dead, no one will wipe the blood from her lips. If I am dead, no one will catch her when she collapses. No one will bathe her, no one will read to her, no one will comb the knots from her hair. Clara is only allowed to live as she does because I take full responsibility for her needs. Without me, they will toss my sister in the asylum, where she will die a slow, torturous death.

  If I am dead, no one will ever smile at her again.

  I drag myself upright, biting back a sound as pain lances through my body. I have no idea how many ribs I’ve broken. Systematic starvation has weakened my bones, atrophied my muscles. I feel the telltale tremble in my right hand and clench a fist against it.

  The Reestablishment has no sympathy for the weak.

  I realize as I step forward that I’ve gone slightly deaf from the barrage of chaos and sound. There’s a ringing in my ears so loud I hear only a muted dissonance as I force myself into the fray, limping slightly over fallen bodies. My vision has tunneled to a single figure: the inmate is now engaged in a round of hand-to-hand combat with the only two remaining officers, and I watch him land a bone-crushing blow to the jaw of one, then the other, before he racks his stolen weapon and opens fire directly at their throats. I flinch twice, in concert with each recoil. Blood spatters everywhere, but only one officer’s head detaches fully from his body.

  My ears are still ringing.

  Dimly I register that Soledad is lying nearby in a pool of his own blood, the glint of his prosthetic flashing in my periphery. In a movement so excruciating it nearly takes my breath away, I bend to swipe Soledad’s gun from his limp fingers, then hoist the hefty weapon into my arms, absently checking the laser fill of the magazine. Floaters crowd my vision; sweat beads at my brow. It occurs to me that I’m running a slight fever—that perhaps my physical state is worse than I feared.

  Strangely, this realization offers me comfort.

  If I’m to die either way, there is little to fear from injury. I will not be afraid of this stranger who seems chronically unafraid. I will not be afraid of an arrogant insurrectionist; a worthless rebel. Soledad’s last words to him echo in my head—

  You look so much like your father.

  I don’t know what that means. I don’t know who his father is or whether the information is relevant. Perhaps I will never know, as Soledad is dead. I know the inmate has blue eyes and brown hair, a reductive description that fails to illustrate a problem. His face is like none I’ve known. His beauty is absurd and shocking, the effect aggravated by contradictions that draw the eye over and over: he’s a study in contrasts, at once playful and unyielding. His brow and jaw are severe, but there’s a boyish dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His body is solid, taut with muscle, but he seems at ease in his own skin. His eyes seem to shimmer, as if laughter comes to him freely—and yet he single-handedly slaughtered a dozen soldiers.

  He was unarmed.

  I still feel the crinkle of plastic in my pocket; still recall the synthetic apple scent on his breath. I thought Clara might like to cut out the colorful bears illustrated on the wrapper. I thought she’d like to know what sugar smells like. I thought I’d be returning home to her with food and medicine and firewood, and I realize now that I might not return to her at all.

  I close my eyes. Open them.

  I didn’t cry when my mother shot herself in front of me. I didn’t cry the first morning I found Clara choking on her own blood.

  I will not cry now, or ever again.

  In the emerging silence, my hearing seems to improve, the metallic ring fading. Now I hear my heartbeat, the sound of my own dragging feet. The weapon is slick in my hand, heavier than I remember it. My arms are shaking. I can’t seem to breathe.

  The inmate turns around.

  I fire.

  He’s faster than I am; stronger; smiling as he dodges my imperfect shot. Blood is now smeared across his face, streaked through his hair. His clothes drip as he walks, his boots leaving red footprints along the white floors. He’s wounded in several places but this fact doesn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he seems delighted.

  There’s no one left to kill but me.

  News of this massacre has certainly reached officials by now, but all our surveillance technology can’t make up for a lack of manpower. I don’t know how long it’ll be before another troop is notified, armed, and unleashed. We are unaccustomed to such attacks. We have more scientists than soldiers. Never, since its inception, has the island sustained such losses.

  The inmate winks at me. “Looks like we’re finally alone, beautiful.”

  I fire again.

  He dives out of the way, laughing, but the kickback damages my injured body anew. I stumble as fresh agony turns the edges of my vision white. One of my broken ribs, I realize, must’ve finally pierced an organ.

  I rack my weapon, heart thundering in my chest. I wonder how they’ll tell Clara I’m dead. I wonder whether they’ll be gentle with her, but I already know that they won’t. The electric battery thrums under my hands as the gun recharges. We learned early on that manufacturing bullets was expensive and time-consuming. Most of our weapons are now powered by directed energy. Lasers so powerful some can reduce bone to ash in a single shot. The inmate is pointing two such weapons in my direction. Over his shoulder he’s slung four more, collecting loot as he stalks toward me. He must be carrying over a hundred pounds of weaponry, but he doesn’t seem fatigued by the effort.

  Another flash of white teeth as he grins, and suddenly the distance between us has vanished. I don’t realize I’m on my knees until it occurs to me that I’m staring up at him, my head burning bright with fever. He pries the gun from my hands and it seems to be happening to someone else. I stagger slightly and he says Now we’re even but the words stutter in my head and I wonder whether I’ve imagined them. Pain is crowding my thoughts, heat devouring my mind. I am delirious.

  Already dying.

  He aims the glowing barrel at my face and I’m less ashamed of defeat than I am of what I intend to say next. My greatest moment of weakness: observed by a stranger. Recorded by machines. Remembered forever.

  “Please,” I gasp. “Tell them to be gentle with her.”

  The inmate lowers his weapon an inch. “What?”

  My head rocks backward, meets a hard surface. “She’s just a child.”

  “Who?” he demands, his voice booming between my ears. “Hey—”

  “My sister,” I choke out, though I can’t seem to move. I feel as if I’m going blind. “When I die, they’ll throw her in the asylum.”

  The inmate seems to still.

  I feel this somehow, though perhaps I’m hallucinating. I can’t tell whether my mind has already detached from my body. Perhaps it’s the fever. Chills wrack my bones; pain spasms across my torso.

  For once, the silence scares me.

  “She’s just a child,” I whisper again.

  When he says nothing I brace myself for the final blow, for the pain that precedes nothingness, for the failure that was my life, for the futility of all that I am—

  But when I force myself to look up, the inmate is gone.

  ROSABELLE

  CHAPTER 6

  In my dreams, everything is soft.

  The harsh edges of the world are blunted, my face cradled by clouds. My body seems suspended in water, my hair freed from its utilitarian knot, silky lengths cascading down my back. I am a body still becoming, untouched by tragedy. In my dreams I am safe; I have a strong hand to hold; a door to lock against the dark; a trusted ear into which I whisper my fears. In my dreams I am patient and kind; I have room in my heart for more pain than my own. I am not afraid to smile at strangers. I have never witnessed death. In my dreams sunlight glazes my skin; gentle wind caresses my limbs; Clara’s laughter makes me smile.

  She is running.

  In my dreams, she’s always running.

  You’re so pretty with your hair like that, Rosa, she says. Would you like to play a game with me?

  I inhale sharply as my eyes fly open.

  The chorus of my own harsh breaths and pounding heartbeats surge with a disagreement of unintelligible, distant sound. I lay frozen a moment, trembling with cold, my eyes communicating horrors to my mind.

  My first thought is that I’ve been buried alive.

  I lift a hand to the smooth, eggshell interior of my tomb, and only after my heart nearly gives out do I recognize the first flaw in my theory: this narrow, enclosed space is unnaturally illuminated. Tentatively, I rap my knuckles against the cool stone, and the sound echoes. A second flaw: I don’t appear to be underground.

  I strain my ears for more—more anomalous sound, more clues as to my location—and make out only a distorted jangle of metal and the intermittent hum of machinery. Looking down at myself as best I can, I run a blind hand down my body.

  It occurs to me then that I feel no pain.

  I’m wearing a hospital gown. My ribs appear to be intact. A deluge of memory assaults me: the inmate, the massacre, my imminent death. Clara.

  The smiling rebel, who disappeared.

  At this reminder of my disastrous failure, I stiffen with dread. If I’m still alive after failing to kill a spy from the mainland, it’s because The Reestablishment has chosen a different avenue of punishment. They don’t believe in acts of mercy.

  Voices swell suddenly, footsteps growing louder. I steel myself in anticipation of something—anything—

  Several clicks and a sound, like a gasp of air, and my tomb unseals around me without warning. The hulking top lifts upward as fluorescent light blazes through the open sides. I blink slowly against the glare, realizing I’m parched. I swallow against the sandpaper of my throat, then study the surrealist landscape of my nightmare. The stone lid hovers just above me; to my right I glimpse a cross section of torsos. Lab coats swarm and scatter; the steady, familiar blue light of surveillance strobes into my vault.

  Even here, now, I am being watched.

  I school my features, trying not to betray emotion as I scan what’s visible of my location. There appear to be five people in lab coats; two are turned away from me, and one is exiting the room. I can’t decipher the various clicking and humming of machines. I don’t know what they’ve done with my clothes. I have no idea what torture they have planned.