Gods Under The Dome

16.3

   《A New Day》

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The inside of Della's room is exactly what I'd expect from a terrorist leader. The furnishings were minimal - a bed, a drawer, side table. Surprisingly, a dispensary hugged the corner near her bed. The surface had been tarnished and scuffed, the front screen cracked, but the glow of yellow spilling from the dispensing mouth meant it was working. But there was no pill chamber that could feed the machine, so it'd be worthless sitting here, collecting dust, unless Della had a pill chamber installed in secret. In that case, why did Della need such access to pills, and why keep it a secret?

Aside from the dispensary, nothing stood out of the ordinary. The room was absent of flourishes or personal touches. No photographs hung from the dingy walls, no mementos. The window had been boarded up from the inside, slats of unfinished wood hammered into the wall at awkward angles. The curtains, a dusty rose color, had been torn from the window, and sheared into thin strips, makeshift bandages if the return trip back to base called for it.

The hardwood creaks as I lug Della toward the bed. Every few feet she winces and clutches her side, though I can see the look of detest swimming in her eyes at having to show such vulnerability to me.

Once Della can place a hand on the bed, I release her from my grasp. She undoes the strap of her thigh holster and sets in on the bedside table, where loaded cartridges lay scattered.

"Here," Della says, handing me her conceal carry holster. I take it, feel the worn leather straps as I run my fingers over them. "Closet." Della points to the door on her right.

I nod as she begins to remove her boots, and make for the double doors. The door moans in protest as I slide it along its rusty track. Inside, there's a few uniforms - black shirts, black cargos - hanging from the rack. On the floor, sits another pair of boots, almost identical to the ones she'd been in the process of removing, except these were polished, un-scuffed, near mint condition. Like they'd never been worn.

I yank down an empty hanger, sag the holster over it, and pause as the light glints off the gun grip. My mouth turns dry and I immediately toss the hanger back on the rack, wanting to smother that gun between layers of clothes so I don't have to look at it, don't have to be reminded such things existed, and that I had used one to murder a child.

"Ten," Della calls. I slam the door closed, take a few deep breaths and turn to face her. She raises her good arm. "Help me get this off."

I shuffle back across the room, and taking Della's injured arm, raise it carefully, and begin to slide the ruined shirt over Della's breasts and head. She heaves a sigh of relief once she's free of the stained, tattered rag. Dirt rubs off on my fingers, the shirt's acrid odor- a mix of smoke and sweat and gunpowder - causing my nose to wrinkle. Della nods to the floor. "Toss it."

I release the garment and let it flutter to the ground. At the slight disturbance, dust takes to the air, coating my sneakers in a thin layer of brown.

Bending over, I wipe the toes of my shoes. "Ever think about hiring some cleaning services? I heard they're pretty cheap. Saw a few adverts on the Network feed before--" I swallow.

Before the pictures came back of the destroyed sect. Before Dove's speech dominated every corner of the Network, the country naively rallying behind his declaration.

The traitors would be dealt with - that was Dove's truth. I crane my neck to gaze up at Della, the weight of a thousand questions dragging my mouth into a frown. Had she done it? Had she blown up the sect?

Della shifts on the bed, her back flush with the wall. "In there," Della says, motioning toward the bedside table. "There's a few tools wrapped in a towel. Grab them."