Witch and Wizard_ The Fire - James Patterson [23]
“Whit?” Wisty calls after me.
“Yeah?”
“It’s in the other direction.”
Chapter 23
Whit
AS WE NEAR the center, it’s like I can feel the power within me growing. Seeing all of these people in need in one place seems to help reopen the channels of magic that The One’s influence has shut down. I look to my sister, and I don’t even have to ask.
“I feel it, too,” she says. “I think I might even have enough juice to do a morph. Might be safer.”
Disguised as middle-aged hospital staff, we head into the clinic, which is in an old parking garage from the days before the New Order restricted vehicle use for officials only. Wisty’s rocking a blond perm and a fake tan, and I look like the once popular comedian Mark Dark, all scruff and slouch. I make a mental note to keep up my workout routine into my forties. The paunch is not working for me.
Inside it’s way worse than I expected, and apparently a whole lot worse than when Wisty was last here. For one, it’s all kids.
Moaning, bleeding, dying kids. Kids on filthy cots or sprawled on mats on the floor among the decades-old auto grease.
Wisty gasps, her hand covering her mouth. We’ve seen a lot under this brutal regime, but this is … too much.
“It’s The One Who Is The One’s latest ‘cleansing program,’ ” a nurse says from behind us. Her face is lined with worry, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. “Or at least that’s what the rumor is. The New Order wants to expand its fancy headquarters into the old town, and the youth in that district seem especially tough to convert. So if the cleansing can take out a few thousand young potential dissenters in the process, that’s just icing on the cake.”
I want to hit someone. That’s not accurate. I don’t want to hit just anyone. Just One person. I want to bash his bald head in.
“Let’s get on with it,” Wisty says bitterly, and I know she’s just trying to keep it together. She still knows her way around the clinic and heads to the end with the youngest kids, where the floor starts to slant up to the next level.
A young nurse named Lenora whom Wisty recognizes nods to us as we gather bandages. We help her move a few of the delirious kids from the floor to free cots. They feel like tiny birds in my arms, hearts racing.
“There’s never enough beds,” Lenora huffs, wiping the sweat from her freckled forehead. “We try to keep the sickest off the floor, but the plague seems to be mutating.” She unwraps a toddler’s soiled, unsightly dressings and uses fresh gauze to cover the sores, cooing to him as he cries. “Before, some had a chance, the fighters could pull through. Now, it takes almost every single one, and quickly. These children aren’t in good shape, but those over there are faring the worst. If you can stomach it, what they could really use is someone to hold their hands. All any of them wants is a mother.”
We walk over to where she’s pointing. It’s darker, and quieter. The kids don’t talk or cry in this part of the garage; there’s only the sound of labored, shallow breathing. Wisty is pressing her lips together, her face pale. I know she’d hold every single kid’s hand as he died if it would help, but I’m hoping we can do better than that.
The first patient we visit is a little boy with sallow skin and the telltale plague scabs on his face. His big brown eyes are still lucid as they peer at us, but they’re shot with red. He doesn’t say anything as I put my hands on his shoulders, just sucks his thumb and squeezes his eyes shut against the pain.
I don’t want to think about what has happened to his mother.
I nod to my sister, and she places her hands over mine. For a moment nothing happens, and worry fills my chest, but then I feel the jolt of energy as our power surges into this boy. We watch in awe as his breathing evens out and the red drains from his eyes.
“I can’t believe that actually worked.” Wisty gapes.
I shrug self-consciously. But then the boy smiles up at me, and I feel … like God.
Wisty and I get a sort of assembly line of healing going, and while we’re not