Page 41 of The Godhead Complex
“Why’s this bothering you so much?”
He wasn’t sure exactly. Something about being on the other side of the wall made life feel different. Waves. Ripples. The more days he spent training himself not to kill people, the more he started to regret the times he did. “Anyone who touched our borders. . . . We were instructed to not let them say more than three words before shooting.” He’d always broken that rule. He’d let them say a sentence or two, because every man deserved to speak before they died.
“Why only three words?”
“Just a rule. Lots of rules.” Minho looked over his shoulder to make sure Orange wasn’t on deck to hear. “I’d always let them say more, though.” Trespassers would either insist they weren’t infected or they’d beg for the Nation’s help for someone whowasinfected. Someone they loved. “Everyone. . . . They all had a story to tell.”
Roxy sighed. “At least you were different enough to recognize such a thing.”
Minho wanted a change of subject. Anything to stop Roxy from picturing him killing trespassers. “What about the books? Your grandpa’s books?” he asked awkwardly.
“Oh, I still have them. Well,hadthem. Most of them are back at the house where you found me.”
The Orphan remembered seeing lots of books on shelves when she welcomed him in for a meal. Somehow, thinking of Roxy leaving all of her grandfather’s stories behind felt like more of a death than all of the intruders he’d killed put together. “You left all his books behind to come with me?”
“Of course!” Roxy said. “Those stories will be there. I know most of them by heart, anyway. But in this story . . .” She hugged Minho tighter than anyone had ever put their arms around him before. She hugged him like Minho had seen Dominic hug Jackie before they left her behind. His reflexes tightened. He fought the urge to twist her wrist and flip her to the ground. “In this story, it’s a true adventure. And in this adventure, I get to have a son.”
The Orphan named Minho would never get tired of hearing her say that.
And instead of flipping her and breaking her arm, like every instinct within him screamed to do, he did the exact opposite.
The Orphan hugged her back.
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Losing Grip
Flying the Berg back to Alaska was more difficult than he’d imagined. The stab wound near his kidney had stopped bleeding but the wound in his mind only grew. Gaps of time were missing. Memories. Lost. Second-guessing everything.Madness,as Alexandra would say.
Complete Crank-filled Madness.
The shock was wearing off.
He swerved the Berg and took another swig of the canteen he’d filled with turmeric water. He choked down the pain-killing and bacteria-stopping concoction. It tasted like armpits, as bitter and pungent as the rust-colored spice looked. A warmth within his mouth and throat made him cough, but Nicholas had taught him long ago that the spice aided in calming inflammation.Always keep a jar of turmeric on hand, Dear Mikhail,Nicholas would say.
Mikhail could not remember if the spice was meant to be used on open wounds or just internally, so he did both. Maybe it was neither. Who the hell knew? Not Mikhail. He guided the Berg back to the edge of the mountains outside of New Petersburg. As long as he kept the wound from getting infected, he’d live despite the loss of blood.Ifhe could remember his landing path.Where was his landing path?He needed to get to his very own safe haven. The cabin in the woods that no one, not even and especially Alexandra, knew about. The one he’d built high enough above sea level to watch the war unfold.
He took a deep breath, tried to think hard, but he had so many questions still. What did Nicholas mean when he’d said that trauma could affect his brain? His personality?SQUUUEEEE . . . SQUUUEEEE. . . .The squeals of the pig echoed in Mikhail’s mind.
But there was no pig on board.
Madness.
SQUUUEEEE
Mikhail was going crazy. Nicholas warned him that could happen. Infected trauma.Inflicted?Inflicted trauma. That was it.
The war would continue. The Remnant Nation had the coordinates and the time. As long as the Crank Army held itself together, literally and figuratively, the Evolution could still be stopped. He laughed to himself as he swerved the Berg back and forth.SQUUUEEEE.The pig in Mikhail’s mind, his own wild boar of a soul screamed to be freed. The future of the world depended on Cranks. Cranks! Laughable. Complete Madness. He should have shot every single one of them deadie dead dead back in the bunker, but he couldn’t. He didn’t shoot them deadie dead dead because he’d have been killing himself. All he’d worked for. Gone.The Gone.
Where was he going, again?The cabin.He had to land and get to the cabin.
He steered the Berg like a proper captain and took another sip of turmeric water.
The Goddess stirred her tea, staring deeply into the tea leaves as if they held some sort of answer, but there was nothing there that could calm her mind. Mannus had survived the boat ride. Of course he did. Those women at the Villa may have known more about creating the Cure than her, but Alexa knew more about living it.
She knew the Evolution was good.
It was already inside of her.
