I could not move, clouted not by debris, not by bullets, but by the shackling stench of raw Eugenex. That poison, a willful prison the Enhanceds had built in their souls. Rotten, sulfurous gunk, like putrefying corpses and fish gone sour. And toxic. Melted your skin in contact. Killed you if it went up your nose or through your throat. Made me want to lose my sense of smell, but the stink was nothing compared to the grime itself.

A raw Eugenex glob landed on my back. And melted my skin off. Pain pulsed through my nerves. I thought I would never walk again. The blazes of the Bridge felt as spring waters compared to raw Eugenex. I hollered a second, but shut to remain calm, not call attention to myself. Felt my skin fall off, blood gush. Each second as if I lay on sulfuric acid, lava. And could not move. As if I dove in boiling water. And could not swim to the surface. The floor was a turlough and my back a waterfall. Like Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. And like Him, I would live. Even in injury.

I focused on the fact that at least I had saved Almyra. It would have landed on her head. And melted her skull off. But my back had protected her. That soothed me, but it did not dissolve the pain. I guessed it was a test, a trial, like Job’s. And I just offered it for my conversion and that of Almyra.

That ache. Someone had to go to Heaven for that.

But before I could even stand, ask Almyra if she was fine, mucus flooded my nose and breathing felt like Samson punching your solar plexus as if you were a Philistine. And I almost threw up. Tear gas. Mixed with a smoke bomb. An ashen haze engulfed the Square. Wails and cries all over. Worse than the pain. For a second. Because someone stomped my back, right where the raw Eugenex had charred me. And I hollered. Felt tears sting my eyes and fall on Almyra. But the saints had lived through worse. And I would as well.

I shut my eyes. “Close your eyes, Ms. Bernhart, and cover your face,” I declared. Stern voice. So it didn’t sound broken.

“Who is—”

“Just listen to me.”

We stood. Almyra wrapped her shawl around her mouth and nose as a facemask. And I thought she would flee, or that her bodyguards would arrive, but she didn’t. They didn’t. They must have betrayed her. The only ones with access to raw Eugenex were Zielkkenhom and those who worked at Bernhart Industries’ Eugenex manufacturing facilities. I knew her family’s poison had killed my girlfriend, but a shard of sadness still pricked my heart, regardless of my efforts to suppress it. That people would betray you for stupidity. I knew the feeling.

I took off my shirt and tied it around the lower part of my face. I then opened my eyes a second, surveyed the area. And despite the smoke, I could see everything. Seeing through the haze was like seeing through a deluge. The darkness of the Bridge had adjusted my eyes to seeing in the dark. Kind of like natural night vision goggles. If only that came in handy in peaceful situations, but it never did.

The scene was bloodless. Somewhat. The only blood spilled was that of the Naturals, those whose blood did not clot. Eugenex made your blood coagulate faster than usual, turning it into a crystallized patch of hollowness. So the Enhanceds closest to the blasts, the only ones who had perished, looked like diamond statues, lavish corpses, so they wouldn’t lose status, not even in death. I prayed for them, because I knew their souls didn’t look as translucent as their bodies.

I held Almyra’s hand and stepped ahead, but the second after we did, Mildred and Samuel jolted my brain. They lived there. The Square of the Naturals rested in Section O. Their apartment did.

But before I could even turn to their apartment, I stepped on something. We both did. Almyra couldn’t see what it was, but I did. And it was not a what, but a corpse. A human corpse. The blasts must have barreled him to where we stood. At least I hoped Almyra hadn’t seen him, because she did not utter a sound, a gasp. Not even a twinge of disgust. And I didn’t think she had seen several corpses to be inured to them, right?

It was Ivore. What remained of his corpse, veiled by iridescent shards of red, looking more animal than human, and the first thing that jolted my mind was you deserved it, for what you did to that volunteer’s innocent daughter. An ice blade lacerated my soul. Was it wrong? To stand in front of a corpse, a human corpse, and not feel a sciollán of sadness? To stand in front of a human corpse, and be only a second away from gloating? If I didn’t have God with me, would I have been like the Achroites? God forgive him. Forgive me. I hoped I would feel sadness, but I didn’t.

But then I noticed I wasn’t holding Almyra’s hand. And I heard some punches and kicks. I opened my eyes for two seconds. Four men manhandled Almyra, and were about to inject her something. She handled herself well against two of them, but no one could handle four fighters. I opened my eyes again, the tears stung, though not as much as the raw Eugenex. Her bodyguards still nowhere. Probably gloating with those Harmonist terrorists about how many innocent people they had just massacred with their raw Eugenex blasts. Bastards.

But an eight of a second after I stepped toward Almyra, I heard a wail, a cry, which brought me back to Wexford for a moment. Except without the bombs. But still with semi-darkness. I glanced right and spotted a Natural trying to remove a statue from his wife, from my district even.

“Please, anyone,” he pleaded. “We were just visiting.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t take Eugenex,” his wife muttered. “I think this is our answer.”

“Why did God do this to us?” the husband said, in tears, tears that the tear gas did not cause.

And I turned to them, but then I glanced back at Almyra, and saw one man down, but the other three carry her away. My soul hauled me left and right. The medics would come soon. But Almyra’s bodyguards were not going to rescue her. I felt I was forsaking the Naturals, betraying them, but I knew what I had to do. I chose Almyra, even though my chest tightened to the point I could not breathe. To the point I felt my organs squirm and writhe, as if I had chosen the wrong person.

I sprinted toward Almyra and hurled my pocketknife at the man hoisting her. It punctured his lower spine. He plummeted. And I halted for a second. I had done it to defend someone, but my mind still writhed my heart, because of how fast it had been, because of how arctic it had been, of how cold I had been. Did not even think it for a seventh of a second. But that was not the time to mull about it.

The man drew out the pocketknife, ready to pierce Almyra, but she knuckled his Adam’s apple and snatched the pocketknife from his hands. Punctured another captor’s stomach. Thrust him against the floor. I guessed I was wrong. Perhaps she had seen enough corpses to be inured to them. But she was an Achroite. They were not used to death. Or training. Most of them. What had she done? Or what was she doing? That she was such a skilled fighter.

But the remaining captor snatched her neck and kneed her lower back. Marched to the end of the plate, right next to the central abyss. My mind pelted me. Pictured her plummeting. Perishing. I would not allow that. I sprinted toward them, not even feeling the raw Eugenex burn, leaped as if I was jumping from Praia to Vladivostok, and hauled them down before he tossed her into the abyss. We all crashed into the floor. I bowled from the burn. But Almyra was safe. She then elbowed the man’s thorax, snatched my pocketknife, and stabbed his chest. In a second. The adrenaline. Or perhaps just self-defense training, I supposed. Hoped.

She opened her eyes for a second, but could not tell who I was. So she aimed the pocketknife at my neck. And her smartwatch at my arm. “Five feet, seven inches, of medium complexion, straight, close-thatched nut brown hair with a dash of waviness on the front, forest green eyes, twenty-two years of age, and Class A+ bridger with a success rate of ninety-seven percent,” she said. “You must be Cael Cavanaugh. Come with me.”

For a second I almost went with Almyra, but then I remembered the Natural’s wife trapped. And Mildred and Samuel. “I can’t,” I said. “You go if you must. Keep the pocketknife for safety.”

She snatched my arm. “I am not in ability to do that.”

“It’s equal to me what you think, Miss,” I said. “I have things to do.” I let go and raced to the Natural’s wife, hoping no raw Eugenex glob had killed her while I saved Almyra. Its stench still lingered. And only equally lethal cleaners could dissipate it.

Almyra dashed in front of me. “It concerns Mildred Williams, Samuel Gieves, and the fate of the Naturals,” she said. “Your fate, bridger.”

I halted, struck by her words.

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