Page 53 of The Darkest Half

“My brother,” I say, and already I am beginning to feel slightly…fuzzy, “wants no part of this life, so a promotion will not be necessary.” I pause and blink a few times to disperse the sleepiness—James Woodard has moved closer to the air conditioner mounted beneath the window. “In fact,” I go on, “Niklas is the one who will need relocation and the simple, normal life he was denied from the moment of his birth.”

Vonnegut’s head bobs slightly, but he regains control and appears to think nothing of it.

“And Izabel?” he inquires.

“Izabel goes where I go. If you want to officially train her to become a member of The Order, I am certain she will have few objections. Though, I cannot guarantee she will do anything you tell her without”—I shrug and think how stubborn and combative she is and the hell that she will undoubtedly give them—“well, some kind of argument.” In her case, that would entail a few broken noses and perhaps a couple of castrations.

“That all can be arranged,” Vonnegut says.

Lysandra’s head dips, and she jerks herself awake, repeatedly blinking and running her hands across her face and the top of her head.

I feel it, too, and there is little time left before the gas filtering through the air conditioning unit renders me as immobile as everybody else in the building.

Woodard now stands in front of the air conditioning unit, his upper body swaying somewhat to match my own but wearing a gas mask on his face.

Behind me, the cold, hard metal of a gun barrel presses to the back of my head, and a deep, male voice reverberates in my ear.

26

Victor

“The game is over, Faust,” he says, and my eyes avert to where the medics were standing as they worked to keep Izabel alive—the older one is no longer among them.

Lysandra takes advantage of the opportunity, and scrambles, due to the gas in her system, to help Vonnegut. She falls twice before making it only six feet from him.

I act fast and duck low to remove myself from the medic’s gun barrel, bury my elbow into his gut and then sweep him from his feet with an outward leg.

Everything from this point on happens so quickly that it is all a blur to me. Shots are fired from both sides, but most miss, even from my gun, because none of us can see straight. The medic somehow grabs me from behind and takes me down to the floor. We roll and swing fists at one another and roll and swing more fists until both of our noses are bloodied.

My gun fell from my hand at some point, and I never noticed, but I see it now, just inches from my fingers. With all my strength, I bring both legs up and wrap them around the medic’s thick neck; I pull him down and off of me, and I hear the back of his skull strike the marble floor.

I can no longer see straight. I blindly search for my gun on my hands and knees, sweeping my hands back and forth.

“Quick, Victor!” I hear Woodard’s voice.

The second gas mask hidden inside the air conditioning unit slides across the floor and between my arms. I fumble it into my hands and quickly put it on, adjusting the tight strap around the back of my head. After a few moments, I am not free of the gas I have already inhaled, but unlike Vonnegut and Lysandra, my lungs are no longer taking in more.

I stumble to my feet.

“We have to go, now,” Woodard insists, grabbing my arm. He inhaled the least amount of gas because he could hold his breath in controlled intervals and refrain from talking; he was also able to get his mask on before anyone else noticed.

I turn to see Vonnegut, Lysandra, and the medic who had attacked me lying on the floor, trying desperately to hold their breath but only making it worse. Each time they need to breathe, they exhale sharply and inhale more deeply, taking in larger amounts.

Vonnegut. He is my brother, my twin, no doubt, but still, there are too many things that I want to know. I came here to kill him—I spent the past few years wishing only to kill him—but now…I cannot. Is it because he is my flesh and blood?

No, it is something so much more than that.

“Victor,” Woodard urges, the sound of his voice muffled inside the gas mask, “we c-can’t stay here long.”

Standing over Vonnegut, who struggles to stay conscious, lying on his back against the floor, I ask the only question that comes to mind.

“Why am I still alive?”

It is ultimately the biggest mystery, despite the story he gave me.

Vonnegut manages a weak smile; his eyes flutter, and he raises a hand as if to gesture while he speaks, but then it falls beside him. His eyelids win the war with his will to keep them open, and he is unconscious in under two seconds. Lysandra and the medics have been out for a few minutes now.

I hear Woodard in the background, yelling at me through his mask, but it is not until moments later that I acknowledge him, too lost in my contemplations.

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