by Anna Abner
Thirst drove me back to the car.
As for supplies, we were pathetically undergeared. In my backpack I carried my personal belongings, a canteen of water, some snacks, and a couple changes of clean clothes. An extra-long screwdriver. My short sword, a fully functional replica from the Lord of the Rings films that had been my dad’s before the red plague. And the golden-hued guitar Ben had given me.
Definitely not enough to build a secure shelter and hunker down for days.
Depending on the temperature, my water supply might only last twenty-four hours. The same for the snacks.
And with Ben not in his right mind, everything fell to me to do. Except I wasn’t any good at taking care of other people. I was okay at caring for myself, but awful at taking care of others.
I opened the driver’s side door and reached between the seats for my pack and the canteen inside it. Because of the tiny interior I was forced to get very, very close to Ben. I tried not to disturb him, but my ribs brushed his arm. He snapped awake, and I squeaked in surprise, banging my head on the roof of the car.
“Maya?” he exclaimed, and then he scampered out of the car on all fours into the soft sand.
“It’s me,” I confirmed, climbing out and massaging the top of my head.
“What happened?” He used the car to push himself upright.
“We escaped from Camp Carson,” I explained, glossing over the rough parts. Like the fire. The torture chamber. Unstrapping him from a gurney.
He turned in a circle, scanning the area, and then pinned his intense red eyes on me. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better.” Muscles and joints I didn’t even know I had ached. I stretched my arms over my head, and my spine crackled like pretzel rods. “How do you feel?”
He was standing and alert, and he had color back in his cheeks. All good signs.
“I’m okay. How far are we from the base?” He squinted down the beach.
“I drove about fifteen miles-an-hour for two hours.” Camp Carson was southwest of Richmond, but after traveling north and east I could no longer picture our location on a map. We definitely weren’t near any big cities. “The car’s out of gas. I haven’t seen or heard anyone.”
“Where’s Pollard? And Hunny?”
I kicked at a clump of grass. “They left a hole for us to go through. I stayed behind to get you. We said we’d go straight east and meet on the beach.”
“Did you go straight east?”
No. I had messed up. I should’ve forced Ben onto his feet and gotten us through the trees the night before, but I’d been so scared I’d wanted to get as far away from Smart as possible. He’d tortured Ben for days in his locked room, and I was scared he would follow us and recapture Ben.
And because of it, we may have lost Pollard and Hunny for good.
“There were woods to the east,” I said. “I drove north until I found beach access. I guess they went a different way.” Or, worse, went back to rescue us. If they had, they could be locked in Ben’s old prison.
“Was there a backup plan?” he asked.
“Meet at the Washington Monument. Pollard thinks there might be people there.”
Ben blew out a long breath. “Have you seen any sign of them at all?”
“I searched while you were sleeping. I walked up and down the beach but I didn’t see anything. Not even a piece of trash blowing in the wind. It’s too dark, but if I turn on a flashlight I might attract trouble.”
“I need some fresh air.”
I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “We’re already outside. How much fresher can the air get?”
But he was determined and wobbled across the sand to the edge of the water. Just as I had done, he inched too close and wet his boots. Except he didn’t jump back like I had. He stood in the surf and let it wash over his feet.
A memory of him strapped to a gurney in Smart’s barracks room flashed in my mind. What had they done to him?
After he’d injected my dad’s antiserum, I’d been so sure the right thing to do was get him to a doctor and pull the answer to reversing the red plague out of his blood. But Smart had lied to me. I’d thought Ben was being cared for by the residents of Camp Carson. But as soon as they’d closed the door on him, they’d started the horror show. They could’ve done anything to him in there. Surgery. Amputation. Complete exsanguination.
One thing they hadn’t done was extract the cure.
“Are you okay?” I asked hesitantly, afraid to spook him. I stepped closer, itching to feel his brow for fever, but I didn’t dare. Not with him so unsteady.
“Stay away from me,” he gasped. ”For God’s sake, Maya, just stay back.”
I moved away so quickly I nearly tripped and fell on my butt in the sand. But I steadied myself and then kept a healthy distance between us.
Ben’s expression was tense as he turned toward the churning surf. “I don’t like being tied up,” he growled. “They tied me up. Do you understand?” He sucked in a ragged breath. “It was like being in lockdown in Dogwood.”
The Dogwood Juvenile Detention Center in Raleigh, North Carolina. The one Ben had been sentenced to. The same one my twin brother had been inside when the red plague hit.
Mason had been incarcerated when he was fifteen and ordered to serve time until his eighteenth birthday. A milestone he probably would never make. We didn’t turn eighteen for three more months. If he hadn’t escaped before 212R spread, then he would have been trapped inside the jail when chaos erupted. Theoretically, he could still be inside.
I shivered. “Can you walk?” I asked. Silly question. Ben was in no condition to walk. He could barely stand. “Nix that. I’ll get you some water. You need to drink lots of fluids. Fruit would be nice.” I was babbling like an idiot. We didn’t have fruit. We were lucky to have clean, drinkable water.
“Here.” I tossed the canteen at his feet so he didn’t have to touch me. Or smell me. “Drink.”
Whatever progress he’d made in the last few days seemed lost. He was just as unstable as the first day after injecting the elixir.
“It’s not safe here.” He took a long swallow from my canteen, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Carefully, he straightened his heavy boots, then the cuffs of his trousers, and then the sleeves of his black T-shirt. Finally, he rearranged his dark hair. “We have to keep moving.”
“No.” One thing was obvious. Some awful stuff had gone down in Smart’s so-called lab and Ben had regressed to near zombie status. “It’s two o’clock in the morning. We should stay here and sleep. At dawn, I’ll forage in the woods.” I glanced at the Atlantic Ocean rolling away from us. “Maybe I can even fish something.”
“You said Pollard is going to Washington, D.C.?” He frowned as if piecing a puzzle together. “Then we have to follow him.”
“What? No.” I advanced a step, and then reversed trajectory. “Sorry. I mean, you need to rest from,” I eyed him up and down, “whatever happened. We don’t have to rush into another trip.” Because I wasn’t even sure if Pollard was in D.C. Or okay. Or alive.
“You came back for me.” There was a growly resolve in his voice. “I will take you to your Pollard.”
“He’s not my anything,” I said quickly. “And you’re not ready to go on another road trip.”
“You should be part of a family, Maya, even if it’s not your own family.”
I huffed a laugh. Where had that come from? “I’m fine by myself,” I assured. “Besides, I had a family. They’re all dead.”
But Ben had stopped listening. “Is D.C. north of here?”
“It has to be.” There was no way I’d passed it during the night.
“Please pack our stuff. I just need another minute.” He plopped onto the sand again, pressing his palms against his eye sockets.
“Headache?” I guessed.
“Mmm.”
I left him in the sand to collect my backpack from the car, as well as my guitar and short sword. By the time I clo
sed the Bug’s door, Ben was back on his feet.
“I'll follow you.” His pace would be my pace, even if it meant slowing to a crawl.
Without saying a word, he lifted the backpack right off my shoulders and walked up the starlit beach, veering away from the water where the ground was firmer and easier to navigate. I jogged to catch up.
Chapter Two
With every passing hour the weather grew warmer and more humid. Late spring would soon be early summer, and then the rains would fall for days at a time. I didn’t look forward to traveling in the rain, still homeless, still searching. We needed a place to call home. Somewhere safe and dry and comfortable.
Maybe it was in D.C. with Pollard. Maybe it was my house on Cherry Blossom Court. Either way I was ready to quit our seemingly never-ending walk north and settle down where Ben could have time to readjust to having his humanity back.
The eastern sky brightened and eventually threw glittery morning sunlight across the water. The ocean sparkled, a jeweled drape spreading wide to the horizon.
“Tired?” Ben asked.
I shook my head. “Nah. I’m just getting warmed up.”
Grunting something under his breath, he led me onto a narrow access road. In the distance rose the white peaked roofs of a beach resort. Without saying anything, we both turned and headed in that direction.
The buildings were low and flat and opulent. Lots of glass walls and palmetto trees. The kind of place my parents would’ve loved to spend a week during the summer as long as there was a good history museum or art gallery nearby.
We wended our way around a dried out swimming pool with attached hot tub. “I wish I could have seen this hotel before 212R,” I said as we passed deluxe locker and shower rooms, folded white cotton towels still stacked on wicker tables.
“I think I stayed at a hotel like this once,” he said, frowning. His memory was returning, but slowly. I took it as an encouraging sign that he was accessing a memory from before the plague at all.
I prodded a little to help him flesh out the recollection. “How old were you?”
A long silence. As we walked toward the main lobby, I feared he wasn’t going to answer. Maybe he didn’t have any other information on that particular experience.
“Little,” he said, startling me. “Seven or eight. Steven was even smaller.”
“Steven is your little brother?”
Ben nodded. “He was. I haven’t seen him in…”
“Since before the red plague?” I prompted.
“Not since I was sentenced to Dogwood.”
But he had been out of juvenile detention for months. “Not after you were released?” Why hadn’t his family visited him after he got out?
“I wasn’t a good person,” he said, with difficulty. “It was better for him, and everyone else, if I stayed away.”
My stomach soured. I couldn’t imagine disowning Ben. He was a good person. He cared about people. He had been kind and gentle with eight-year-old Hunny even when his instincts were probably screaming to hurt her. He had protected me from harm when his body and mind were ravaged with the 212R virus. He had fought so hard against being a zombie he had reclaimed his humanity. Avoid Ben? The sick feeling burst into fury.
“Better if you stay away?” I exclaimed. “That’s insane. You’re a great person.”
He shook his head. “Maya, I’m not—”
A hiss from the other side of a white picket fence snagged our attention, and he never finished his sentence. He mom-armed me into a full stop, and my pulse thrummed out of control. I turned to run, accidentally nailing Ben with the headstock of my guitar, but my feet got tangled in his, and I couldn’t escape.
A woman with white wispy hair and a heavily lined face popped out from her hiding spot behind the fence.
“Help me?” she begged in a strong southern accent.
She was one old woman. Hardly worth panicking over. Feeling a little foolish, I eased out of defensive mode and attempted a smile.
From the corner of my mouth I warned Ben, “Keep your eyes down.” Nothing good had ever happened after survivors saw his ruby red eyes, a symptom of the 212R virus that didn’t revert after he had taken the elixir. “Until we know what’s going on.”
I faced the tiny woman. She was shorter than I was and thin, but the muscles in her exposed arms and legs were well defined. And the pockets on her cotton shorts were bulging. She must have been out foraging for food and supplies.
“Have you been living here all by yourself?” I asked. “Are you thirsty? Hungry?”
She didn’t track what I said. “Oh, thank heavens.” She clasped dirty hands under her chin as she visually studied me from the top down. “I’m so glad you’re here, darlin’.”
I didn’t remember my grandparents. By the time my twin brother and I were born, both my parents were orphans. But she gave off a strong grandmotherly vibe, and I found it comforting.
“Are you by yourself?” I tried again.
“Heavens, no.” Her expression fell into a sad mask, the lines around her mouth deepening. “My husband’s with me. My sweet Walter.” Then she waved away anything else I wanted to ask. “I need your help, darlin’.”
My dad’s rules banged around the inside of my head. One of the big ones was, You’re safer alone, away from other people. I’d lived by that rule for weeks, but the woman seemed so sweet and helpless, I put aside my anxiety and let her tow me toward a two-story cabana.
“Please. I need your help.”
I sent Ben an uncertain look and trailed the little woman across a brown lawn. “Of course. Are you all right? Is Walter okay?”
“I really need your help,” she continued babbling. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She rushed me up the stairs to the second floor. I glanced back at Ben, stuck on the first step, unable to follow me.
“I’ll get Walter,” I told him, making a plan on the fly, hating the thought of him being alone again, even for a few minutes. “Maybe we can take them with us to D.C.?”
Ben didn’t respond, but he scowled at being trapped downstairs. 212R had messed with his inner ears and he may never be able to change altitude quickly without making himself sick.
I wouldn’t normally leave him, and I didn’t want to, but this little old woman was very persuasive. Plus, she was in need of help.
I hadn’t been very neighborly since the red plague. But, strangely, being around Pollard and Hunny, and especially Ben, made me more open to the idea of helping others. They’d all done so much for me, from sharing their supplies to sharing their time, and it wouldn’t take long to make sure this lady and her husband were okay.
I took the stairs slowly, keeping pace with the woman’s unhurried gait. “Do you have enough water?” I asked. “We’re going to Washington, D.C. to look for our friends. Would you and Walter like to come with us?”
“You’re such a sweet child. That’s good.” The woman patted my hand. “That’s good.”
We reached the landing and I heard Walter before I saw him. Chains rattled behind the first closed door.
Something wasn’t right. Normal, healthy people didn’t rattle chains.
“What is—” I turned toward the woman at the same time she tried to stab me with a pocketknife. I deflected the blade away from my ribs, but she was small and strong. The pocketknife sliced open my right palm. Blood spurted into the air a moment before the searing pain hit.
“What are you doing?” I screeched.
“Maya!” Ben bellowed. All our gear hit the ground, but I couldn’t keep track of him because the old lady was tougher than I ever would’ve guessed. Desperation made her vicious.
“He needs to eat,” she argued, rabbit punching me in the ribs, forcing me through the door.
I pulled my short sword and spun to face whatever lurked inside.
At the sight of her husband, I bit my lip to keep from screaming. Ben was downstairs, out of sight, and I didn’t want to scare him worse.
&nbs
p; But Walter was not doing so well. Heavy chains around his birdlike neck and his shrunken waist secured him to a wall. He had only enough slack to lie down and sleep, but he had fought so hard against the restraints he’d rubbed his skin raw. Rust colored blood covered him from face to feet.
The moment he spotted me his red eyes widened and a growl burst from deep in his chest.
“Screw you both!” I really hated to hurt an old woman, but her plan sucked. I was not going to end up Walter’s meal after everything I’d been through to get to that moment.
Waving my sword, I dodged the lady, but she was quick with a knife. She swiped at my face, and I avoided losing an eye by millimeters.
She shoved me hard with her shoulder, pushing me closer to Walter, who struggled against his restraints. His stained and bloody fingers reached for me.
I dug in my feet to push back at the old lady, but she jabbed at me with the knife. Two shallow stabs in my arm. And then she hauled back and drove the blade at my abdomen. I shielded my guts with both hands, dropping my sword in the struggle, and the small blade disappeared into the fleshy part of my left forearm, scraping bone and sending shivers of terror up and down my spine.
She shoved me again, and in my shock at being stabbed, I didn’t fight as hard as I should have. Walter clutched my hair in his skeletal fist.
He yanked my head back so hard I feared he would break my neck, and I screamed.
“Maya!”
Ben.
I had to get back to him.
If they killed me, they’d kill him next.
I balled up my fist and punched the old lady in the head the same way Ben had struck Smart. She crumpled at my feet.
“He’s so hungry,” she whined into her trembling hands.
I picked up my sword and cut a good six inches off my hair, freeing myself from Walter.
And then I ran.
As the Red grabbed for the woman on the floor, she cried out pathetically and, though I felt a moment of sympathy for the tiny, wannabe executioner, I jogged downstairs without looking back.
Ben stood on the bottom step, a pistol in his hands. Stein’s pistol. The one I had stolen from his belt, and the one Ben had shot him with so we could leave Camp Carson for good.