The Bedrock
Book Four of the Virulent Chronicles
Shelbi Wescott
For Cora
Honestly, it took less time than the kitchen
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Next in the Virulent Chronicles
Also by Shelbi Wescott
About the Author
Prologue
Kymberlin Island
the Atlantic Ocean,
off the coast of the former state of Maine
10 years after The Release
Bishop and Eunice kept careful notes about the hidden escape passageway in the Unit C hallway.
With advice stolen from old books, they mastered the art of using little tricks (hidden strings or pieces of paper) to determine if someone opened the panel in their absence. After six months of close watch, they determined the door was never disturbed.
They appeared to be the only two people on the whole Islands who knew about or used about the small, secret hallway. To ensure clocklike precision for their escapes, the inimitable pair kept their notations in a small notebook Bishop stored in his front pocket. The kids always found new reasons to run the staircases, searching out privacy.
They discovered the passage by accident one afternoon while playing a lazy game of sardines with their classmates in the Education Program. Their guides should’ve known better than to let the school run wild, but the affirmations set a distinct tone: childhood was precious. They encouraged play. Let them run.
It wasn’t badness that led Bishop to notice the small handle on the panel next to the stairwell and push it with a determined shove. The metal swung inward on a hinge to reveal a coiled staircase funneling downward inside a cramped metal tube. No, it was the spirit of competition.
The first time they disappeared down into the blackness of that mystery tunnel, they did not expect the immediate roar of ocean waves and cold wet drops of water to splash and greet them at the bottom. But that was what waited for them down below: a private escape. Bobbing outside the doorway, a metal platform moved with the ocean. It was secured to the underside of one of the base towers; it was a platform left behind after construction and forgotten about.
It was their ocean sanctuary away from everyone else on the Island since they determined the panel wasn’t ever opened by anyone except for them; whatever purpose the stairwell held no longer mattered.
Now the platform in the ocean was their plaything.
Years went by and no one ever knew they’d end up down there on most days, talking, enjoying the rhythmic bounce of the tide, safe and secure from their declared paradise at sea.
When questioned, later, Bishop couldn’t remember which one of them initiated the idea of sneaking to their platform on Anniversary Night, holed up beneath the overhang, hearing and not watching the fireworks extravaganza above.
In the end, it didn’t matter whose idea it was.
The Island families partied upstairs, celebrating with raucous joy the freedom of their lives within the floating utopia. Bright purples and pinks lit up the sky in joyous cries of FREEDOM into the night air. Ten years of survival was momentous—they had thrived and rallied in their ocean cities—and even though they could all still remember little slips of that crowded, hurt-filled, menacing life from before, this was their home now.
The earth was healing and they were the heroes of history.
Bishop’s first memories started on the helicopter ride to Kymberlin, his father’s heart beating against his own body, his eyes bright with excitement. “Look at our home, little boy. We were chosen. You are special and you will grow up without worry.” His father sobbed with relief as they’d collapsed into the comfort of having a place in the future.
Bishop believed the promises of the Islands, and his school affirmations reiterated the same message: On Kymberlin, you grow up without worry. Kymberlin is joy. Kymberlin is hope. The Islands saved the world.
“Ten years of bliss…ten years of Island life,” Eunice crooned, attempting to match the classical melody humming down from the top deck of the Island Tower where the anniversary party raged. They lounged twenty stories below as the jubilant sounds carried and filled their secret alcove on the water with distant but distinct music and laughter. Eunice continued her made-up song. “And together we will reign….heroes of our domain!”
“Stop,” Bishop said with a laugh. “You’re acting drunk.”
“I’m acting fun,” Eunice corrected and leveled her gaze. She plopped down on to the metal boardwalk and bundled up in her Island-issued winter coat. It was spring on the sea but temperatures still hovered near freezing at night. “It’s too cold to be down here.”
“Whatever,” Bishop sighed. He tucked his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, staring out into the abyss of water that stretched out into nothingness on the horizon.
A pop. A bloom of green lit up the ocean waves.
“I wonder if it was cold that day, the day we came here,” Bishop wondered. “I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything about the underground, really. Do you?”
The anniversary always devolved into long stretches of storytelling: Where were you when it happened? How did you find out you were the chosen?
Fifteen now and planted firmly in his father’s grand promises, Bishop wished he could remember life from before. The museums housed nice stories and important artifacts, but it wasn’t the same as knowing what the Old World looked like or tasted like.
Once upon a time, the earth was filled with greed and violence, and men—rotten to the core—destroyed humanity in search of personal wealth. Life had been awful back then, but he wished he could remember that it was awful. Instead, the snapshots of that world boiled down to a library, a porch swing, and someone feeding him banana chips at a park. An expanse of greenery with a wide spreading sky. He’d gone to school, he thought, with a great number of kids. They’d sung a song. If you’re happy and you know it. He didn’t know if he was happy—he shouldn’t have been.
“I remember,” Eunice nodded. “I remember going into the underground and feeling scared. We were on a plane before I saw anything. So, no bad memories for me. Anthony Fisk though…you heard his story?” She didn’t wait for Bishop to respond before she kept going. “His dad didn’t trust the planes. Thought men would shoot them from the sky. So, they drove to the bunker a few days before. The instructions said not to do that under any circumstances, right? Before his dad could show their paperwork, guards shot them. Anthony stayed in the car and that’s the only reason he’s alive right now.” She finished with a shrug.
Bishop heard that story before. A beautifully manufactured island legend.
Some said the Elektos Group recruited Anthony from an engineering program for geniuses and he agreed to leave for the Islands without his parents. The story of his mom and dad ignoring instructions and taking bullets was told to wash away the simple truth: that the kid left his mom and dad to die from the virus right around the same time they discovered he wasn’t at home—he’d escaped in the night to catch his private plane.
Except, that was the beauty of their Islands.
People could be whatever they wanted now. Th
e Old World didn’t matter at all. Whispers and legends might have been all that was left of their time on land.
Another firework popped overhead and a roar of people cheered.
Eunice wiped a wisp of her hair out of her eyes. “Look, Bish, you need to start paying attention in the classes,” she said. “My brother didn’t pass his exams. Qualified for Land Teams Leader only. Our parents were so angry that he’d waste this. Don’t waste the chances, okay?” She shivered and looked at him through heavy lids. “I mean, he came back after one tour of the Dead Lands but he was changed, you know?” She picked up the small basket they brought with them and fished out a piece of bread. She ate it, silently. “You don’t even want to know what it’s like there now.”
Another pop. Reds and purples.
“I am studying,” Bishop answered her, “but maybe I want Land Teams.” He tossed out there with a cold stare. “Everyone treats it like it’s some degrading place to be, but maybe utopia could stand to be a bit bigger, you know? Out there…where’s your limit? So, it’s scary…but hey, it’s more.”
“It’s not more, you Old Worlder. You sayin’ you don’t even care if you die?” Eunice asked. She fished a piece of bread out of her teeth and tossed the remnants into the water.
“I think so. Yeah, I am. I mean, I don’t care if I die. Maybe it’s better to die and see the world than to be old and to have seen it through a screen.” He shrugged and looked up at the sky while another round of color burst around them. Bishop stood and shook out his arms, trying to stay warm. He balanced on the platform and the waves moved him in a gentle roll.
“That’s not profound and your argument is void because we can see literally ev-ery-thing,” Eunice replied. “Unlike any other generation, we can experience everything.”
“The VR systems can’t replicate everything. I don’t want to take an educational tour with a suit on, knowing my physical body is still on the Island. What if I want to see the real thing? The real cities…the real Great Wall…”
“You think you can get to the Great Wall?” Eunice laughed. “How even? You can put on the VR suit and walk around in the former China forever. Pick your century. It’s indistinguishable from real life, so what’s the difference? Besides, you can’t get there now—what would you even find?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nah, the lessons are no different than the real thing. That’s the beauty of the science—”
“Maybe I don’t want the science,” Bishop shrugged.
“Don’t let your dad hear that.”
Eunice stood and took measured steps to not lose her balance.
“Or my dad. Or anyone’s dad.”
“Or Huck. God, could you imagine?”
Boom. Pop. Crackle.
And a white light flooded the ocean and for a second, out in the waves, illuminated for just a moment by the fireworks above, Eunice saw the outline of a boat.
It was there one second on the horizon and gone the next. Eunice stepped back and waved to Bishop, her eyes wide with fear and shocked disbelief.
“There’s someone out there,” Eunice said, frozen to the railing, too confused to know if she should run.
“But…that’s impossible,” Bishop replied. “The Land Team always has clean sweeps. It can’t be.”
“Maybe it’s one of us?” she asked. But no one came by boat. Boats were forbidden.
“Without a light? On a boat?” He said out loud what she realized too late.
Another burst of fireworks cast a glow along the water and for that stretch of time, the outline of the boat appeared again. Small and dark, only visible when the lights above flashed, a boat crawled in their direction. No one appeared at the helm as the craft appeared to make a straight beeline toward the teenagers, hidden in the dark.
“They can’t see us,” Bishop said. “Impossible.”
Within a few seconds, the dull hum of an engine cut through the night and the waves and the boat made its way closer to the Island towers. A plume of exhaust sputtered while the boat was illuminated in a pop of purple light. Closer and closer the intruder crept and when it got within fifty yards of the Islands, it cut the engine. The fireworks stopped and the inky blackness of the night hid everything but the gentle roll of waves.
In that blackness, the people above them cheered and toasted their ten-year anniversary.
“We have to go,” Bishop said and he stepped back against the edge of the tower, motioning for Eunice to do the same. “We have to tell someone.”
Eunice swept down to pick up their small bag of contraband—loaves of breads and chunks of cheeses stolen from the charcuterie plate in the gala hall, stolen flasks as well—and she rushed to the door in a flash. Her eyes were wild with terror at what she’d seen and what she’d heard, and could no longer hear. An outsider. A survivor.
But there had never been one before.
Bishop followed Eunice’s lead and wrenched the door to the stairwell open, pushing his friend in before him and then clipping at her heels the entire way up the long stretch of spiraling ladder.
The only thing they could hear was their own breath flooding outward as they rushed and panted, skipping steps, cognizant of a draft billowing up from below, the door opening. The ocean grew louder, then softer again. They heard the door slam shut and then saw a light shine up the stairwell, catching them as they sped away.
At the top, they didn’t have the luxury to pause and listen for other people in the hallway before making an entrance. Unlike every other time they’d emerged from the hiding spot, this time they hoped someone else was there. Bishop and Eunice burst forth from the metal panel in a rush of activity, their arms and legs flying forward, pulled by the momentum of fear and chaos.
“Close it. Close it,” Bishop instructed and together they shoved the metal panel closed into place, eclipsing the stranger into darkness and providing one quick barrier between them and the person who didn’t belong.
They made it halfway down the hall when they heard the distinct sound of someone pushing the hinges of their panel door open with a creak.
The panel fell open, and Bishop dared to look behind him.
Gaining ground were two figures clad all in black wetsuits. They didn’t bother with closing the door and while Bishop instantly grieved at the loss of his hiding spot, he knew without a doubt that the people approaching were wrong. Bad. Trouble. They weren’t supposed to be there.
“Weapons,” Eunice squeaked and she clutched at Bishop’s arm. Her legs went to jelly and she wobbled as she stepped away, toward the noise of the celebration, toward people who could help them, and away from the glint of a gun.
If the intruders wanted to make any demands, they didn’t yell or call to the kids. Instead, they followed after them at an even, wary, pace. Through the bright and airy tunnel, Bishop and Eunice tried to rush to safety.
As they turned the corner to bounce up the next set of steps, two armed Island Guards bolted into the hallway and pushed the teens out of the way. Bishop’s head cracked against the wall and Eunice tumbled over his legs, but before they had time to register what was happening, two pairs of hands grabbed at their shoulders and clothes and dragged them into a waiting elevator.
It happened so fast that Bishop didn’t even know he was bleeding until he looked up at saw Eunice staring at him, her eyes full of worry and fear.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered.
One of the guards kicked at her with his foot, grazing her shoulder hard enough to send Eunice to the floor.
“Shut up,” the guard said. Rick. They knew him. “Don’t say anything.”
Another voice floated from somewhere behind them, but not Bishop nor Eunice dared to turn and look.
“Tower One from the Lower Deck. I need someone to crank up the anniversary music.”
From Rick’s radio, someone answered, “Keep one alive long enough to find out where they came from this time.”
Someone answered the call and soon, as their
elevator lifted skyward, Bishop and Eunice heard two very distinct sounds: the thumping of bass in some Old World popular song and a rattle of gunfire.
Huck Truman liked it best if everyone treated him like he was their grandfather. He kept candy on his desk, dished out with a silver spoon, and was known for giving strange artifacts to people whose company he enjoyed. He was their savior, sure, but he relished in his Islands with a childlike sense of enjoyment.
A girl in Bishop’s class once wrote a poem that made Huck cry and he gifted her an original Mary Cassatt.
Now the man and legend of their tribe stood over the scared and cowering teenagers without his characteristic avuncular humor and good nature. His eyes had gone cold and he paced the length of his office with increasingly quicker steps until he eventually grabbed his candy dish and hurled it to the wall, where tiny lemondrops rolled every which way.
“How is this possible?” Huck seethed. The guards said nothing.
A tall black man entered the room. He seemed startled when he noticed the lump of teenagers in the corner, Bishop’s face still streaked with blood.
“Claude,” Huck said. “Tell me how.”
“Construction access wasn’t decommissioned properly.”
“And no audio?” Huck spat. He pointed to Bishop and Eunice, his mouth twisted in insults he was refusing to say. “How did we miss this?”
“I don’t know,” Claude Salvant answered and he put his hands behind him and stood up tall. He wasn’t going to risk saying anything else—Bishop could see that even their architect was afraid.
He turned to Eunice and tried to convey a look of apology. If they’d never discovered the stupid staircase and thought they could keep it a secret, then they wouldn’t be there, in Huck’s office, waiting to hear their consequence. Bishop thought of his dad’s anger and sulked at the inevitable disappointment.
The Bedrock Page 1