by Aaron Hodges
The woman was busy preparing her syringe, and it was a moment before she answered. It wasn’t until she leaned over Liz that he heard her whisper. “The others are being kept in their comas,” she breathed. “To make the change easier.”
Chris watched as the woman inserted the needle into the middle of Liz’s back and depressed the plunger. Then she moved over to him, the needle disappearing into a bag marked Biological Waste. Another appeared as she raised the vial.
Turning away, Chris winced as the needle pinched his back. The cold tingle of the injection spread between his shoulder blades as the woman stepped back. To his relief, there was no pain, and the cold sensation quickly faded.
“Are we done, Doctor Faulks?” came the guard’s voice from outside the cell.
“Yes.” Chris glanced up at the sound of retreating footsteps. He watched the woman reach the door and turn back, her eyes catching in his. “I’m sorry.”
Then she was gone.
Chris frowned, already resigning himself to whatever fresh torment had been in the injection. He was certain now it had not been antibiotics. Something in the doctor’s face as she looked back, in her final words, had warned him.
At least this time there was no pain.
A gurgling sound came from Liz’s bed, drawing Chris’s attention back to his friend. She had rolled onto her back now, her mouth wide and gasping. Her eyes were closed, her brow creased as though she were struggling to wake. Fingers clenched at the sheets and the veins stood up against her neck.
Chris’s heart lurched and a sense of urgency gripped him. Careful to protect his injured hand, he rolled from the bed and crawled across to the other set of bunks. Pulling himself up beside Liz, he reached for her as she started to thrash. A wild arm swung out, catching him in the face, and her foot struck a pole, making the bunk shake. Another awful gurgle came from her chest.
“Liz, Liz, stop,” Chris shouted, struggling to calm her.
With growing fear, he realized what was happening to her. She was choking, drowning in the fluid filling her lungs.
Ignoring the agony in his hand now, Chris caught Liz by the shoulder as another convulsion took her. He pulled her close, fighting to hold her, to turn her on her side. Desperate fists beat against him, and fire ripped up his arm as she struck his broken hand. Gasping, he twisted, and narrowly avoided a wild thrust of her knee.
Chris heaved, pulling Liz onto her side. As she rolled, he saw her eyes were wide open and staring, though it was clear she remained unconscious. Bloodshot veins threaded the whites of her eyes, and a trickle of blood ran from her nose, staining the white of her pillow.
As she settled onto her side, a ragged gasp tore from her lips. Her chest rose, the gurgling fading to a whispered cough. She gulped again, wheezing in the cool air, as though still struggling to take in enough oxygen. Chris tilted her head forward slightly, memories of a high school first aid class guiding him.
Moving her upper arm, he placed the hand beneath her head, then pulled her knee up towards her chest. Liz’s breathing eased as she settled into the Recover Position, the gurgling fading as her airways cleared.
Finally, Chris let out a long sigh, satisfied that for the moment she was safe. Holding her in place, he sent out a silent thanks that Liz was so small.
Only then did his own weariness return. His head sank onto the pillow as he watched Liz, a smile pulling at his lips. Her eyes had closed again, her lips parted just a fraction. A wisp of hair fluttered against her nose with each exhalation.
As the adrenaline faded, the sharp throb of Chris’s hand returned. He stifled a groan of his own, eager not to disturb Liz now that she had settled.
Closing his eyes, he saw her again in the padded room, thrashing on the floor, and felt again the awful helplessness. He shuddered and pushed the image away.
Only Fallow’s intervention had saved her, saved them both.
Fallow.
The woman’s face drifted through his mind. She had been a part of this from the start, had admitted her role in this whole project while helping them prepare for their fight.
You are the culmination of my life’s work.
Was that why she had saved them, why she’d stopped Halt from killing Liz? Or was there more to it? Had the woman’s conscience gotten to her?
Chris struggled to concentrate, but cobwebs tangled with his thoughts, and he could find no answers to his questions. His body throbbed, the ache of a dozen bruises dulling his mind. Heat radiated from Liz, banishing the cold of the cell. Distantly, he felt the pull of sleep.
His eyes fluttered open, catching a glimpse of Liz. The pained twist of her lips had faded, revealing a softness in her face, the kindness of the girl hidden within. Her breathing had quieted now, and her eyes quivered beneath her eyelids, lost in some dream.
The weight of exhaustion slowly dragged Chris’s eyes shut again. He knew he should move, should return to his own bed, but he could not find willpower. His last ounce of energy had fled.
Within seconds, the soft wrappings of sleep had claimed him.
29
Light burned at Liz’s eyelids, dragging her from her dreams, back to the pain. It washed over her like rain, a tingle that burned in her every muscle. Gritting her teeth, she willed the agony to fade, to release her from its fiery grip. Slowly it slipped away, until only embers remained.
Liz took a breath, suppressing a groan as the ache returned, now an icy frost that filled her lungs. Then she paused as movement came from beside her. Cracking open an eye, she found Chris asleep beside her. She frowned, the beginnings of anger curling in her stomach. Then a dim memory surfaced, of water all around her, of drowning in a bottomless ocean, of fire in her chest as she breathed the salty liquid. Then…Chris’s hands on her shoulders, pulling her up, dragging her to the surface. The relief of fresh air, filling her lungs, of oxygen flooding her body.
Her anger vanished, replaced by a warmth that swept away the pain. She looked at Chris, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest, the flickering of his eyelids. She remembered her fear as the Chead beat him to the ground, the terror that had risen within her. Yet instead of panic, it had filled her with purpose, with the need to act, to save him.
A moan came from Chris and he wriggled beneath the thin blanket, drawing closer. Slowly his eyes cracked open.
“You know, when I said I’d give you a chance, I didn’t mean it as an invite…” she teased, a playful smile tugging at her lips.
She caught him as he flinched away. Gently taking up his good hand, she pulled him back, drawing him closer, until only an inch separated them.
“Don’t,” she murmured, basking in the heat of his body. “Don’t.”
His hazel eyes stared back at her, bloodshot but clear, and filled with…something. She leaned in, trying to make out what, and her mouth brushed against his. A jolt of energy passed between them, and then she was kissing him.
She felt Chris grow tense, and for a second thought he would pull away.
Then his hand was in her hair, and he was kissing her back, his lips hard against hers. A prickling came from her hip as he gripped her. Blood pounded in her ears, spreading outwards until her entire body was tingling. She wrapped her arms around Chris, holding him tight, leaving no escape. Goosebumps prickled her skin as fingers slid to the small of her back.
The scent of him filling her nostrils, Liz parted her lips, her tongue flicking out to taste him. His tongue found hers, and they danced to a rhythm all of their own. Her mind fell away, drowned by the rush of blood to her head. Her pain was forgotten, replaced by threads of pleasure winding through her body. Her skin was aflame, burning wherever he touched.
She slid her fingers through his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Hunger filled her then, a need that grew with every heartbeat. A moan slipped from her lips and she gripped him hard, desperate now.
Chris flinched in her arms and she paused, remembering his broken hand. For a moment they slowed, but their lips di
d not part, their tongues still dancing, tasting. Liz wriggled in under his arm, her chest pounding like a drum as he held her.
Liz drew back then, sucking in a breath. Opening her eyes, she looked at him, saw the smile tugging at his lips. She shivered, a memory rising of the horror from the day before. A sour taste filled her mouth, the pain returning. She blinked, and a tear streaked her cheek.
“What are we doing, Chris?” she whispered.
Chris pulled back, his eyes sad. Reaching out, he wiped away her tear, then kissed her on the forehead. “What do you mean?”
“What’s the point?” she choked, closing her eyes, the darkness welling within. “They could kill us tomorrow, mutate us beyond recognition, burn the last traces of humanity from us, like that thing—”
She broke off as Chris kissed her again, fast and hard. He pulled back, looking her in the eye. “We can’t let them win, Liz,” he whispered. “They’ve taken so much from us already, used us, stolen our humanity. But they can’t take our spirit, our hope. It’s all we have left. And I won’t let them take it.”
“Haven’t they already?”
Chris only smiled. “Not yet. It’s like Ashley said—they’re only human. They’ll make mistakes.” The fingers of his good hand found hers, and squeezed. “When they do, we’ll be ready.”
Staring into his eyes, Liz could almost bring herself to believe.
Almost.
Still, he was right. They couldn’t let their captors win. For the moment, they still had each other. She would not let them take that from her too. Leaning in, Liz gave herself to the fire burning within. Their mouths locked and she pressed herself hard against him, her hands sliding beneath his shirt. A wild hunger filled her, her kisses becoming ravenous. His arm went around her again, gripping her with a new fierceness. His lips left hers as he pulled away—then they were at her neck, stoking the flames within.
She groaned, arching backwards, her fingers tight in his hair.
His hands slid beneath her shirt, trailing down her back, tingling wherever they touched. The warmth inside her spread, and she started to tremble. Lost in her passion, she leaned in and nipped at his neck.
Liz smiled as Chris gave a little yelp. His hands continued to roam, though they had not yet gone far enough for her liking. She slid her fingers through the buttons of his shirt and began to undo them. A fine layer of hair covered his chest, which was surprising muscular. His skin was hot beneath her fingers.
She groaned as Chris’s mouth found its way to the small of her throat. With a rush of impatience she helped him with her own buttons, knowing his good hand was already occupied. His lips slid lower, his tongue darting out, tasting her, even as his hand etched invisible trails across the soft skin of her back.
Then he paused, his fingers stilling on her back. Liz stifled a moan as she opened her eyes. She found him staring up at her from between the folds of her breasts, fear sparkling in his eyes. Her stomach twisted as ice slid down her spine.
“What?” she whispered.
“There’s…there’s something wrong. There are…lumps,” Chris replied softly.
Liz’s cheeks burned, but her fear fell away. Laughing softly, she shook her head. Her hands slid through his hair, drawing him to her, until his lips brushed across her nipples. She arched her back as Chris groaned. Barely able to catch her breath, Liz slid her hands lower, sliding them beneath his waistband, reaching for him…
But he pulled away again, shaking his head. “No,” he said, his cheeks reddening, “not…not those.”
The hackles rose on Liz’s neck at the look on his face. Her lust went from her in a rush. “What?”
“On your back,” Chris said, barely breathing. “There’s…something on your back.”
Again, fear flooded Liz. Sitting upright, she craned her neck, straining to see. Her movements grew frantic as she fumbled at her shirt, tugging at the collar, desperate to rid herself of it. Chris reached out, trying to calm her, but she pushed him away. Fabric tore and the shirt came loose. Throwing it aside, she twisted her neck again and looked.
Beside her, Chris’s face was flushed, a flicker of desire still lurking in his eyes. But in that moment she no longer cared. Her naked back shone in the fluorescent lights, the lumps unmistakable. They bulged in the center of her back, on either side of her spine, midway between her arms and hips.
Pressure grew in Liz’s chest, escaping as a low whine, a muffled scream. Horror swept through her, a raging anger at the doctors, at their violation of her body. Another shriek built, but she swallowed it down, blinking back tears.
Her eyes burned as she looked at Chris, saw the fresh tears in his eyes.
“Where does it stop?” she whispered.
30
Within hours, Chris discovered the same growths on his own back. Though there was no pain or discomfort, they ignited a terror that threatened to overwhelm him. Whatever the doctors had done to them, it seemed they’d failed after all.
They made a mistake. The words whispered in his thoughts, along with something else, a familiar word, a horror from his childhood.
Cancer.
The memory of his father’s illness still lay heavy on his mind—the wasting sickness, the slow loss of strength, of life. Despite its ferocity, his father had fought back, had even won, for a time. But cancer was like a weed, always there, waiting to return. It wore you down, drew the life from you one drop at a time.
And his father, once larger than life, had been laid low.
As the hours ticked past, Chris could think of no other explanation for the lumps. Vicious and unrelenting, the cancers would spread through their bodies, poisoning their blood, feeding on their strength, until there was nothing left but empty husks.
Lying on the bed, he held Liz in his arms, each alone in their own thoughts.
The next day, they woke to the first beginnings of pain. It began as a soft twitch in the center of his back, radiating outwards from the strange protrusions. The ache pulsed, flickering with the beat of his heart, but growing sharper with each intake of breath. Hour by hour it spread, threaded its way into his chest, until it hurt just to breathe.
For Liz, it was worse. When she woke she could barely speak. Her skin had lost its color; even the angry red marks beneath her collar had paled to white. By lunch she could no longer lie on her back, and when he touched her forehead, he found her skin burning with fever.
Each hour the lumps grew. Their skin stretched and hardened around the protrusions, darkening to purple bruises. Each bulge was unyielding to their scrutinizing prods, and soon tiny black spots appeared on their surfaces.
When the lights woke them on the third day, Chris could hardly move from the pain. Agony wove its way through his torso, spreading out like the roots of a tree, engulfing his lungs, reducing each breath to a battle, a desperate fight for life.
The next time a guard arrived with food, Chris could no longer tell whether it was breakfast or dinner. He blinked hard into the light, pain lancing his skull. The room spun and then settled into a double image. His stomach churned as two Liz’s appeared to stand over him, offering a bowl of dark-colored stew. He saw her waver on her feet, and blindly took the bowl before she fell.
Sitting back, he raised a shaking spoonful of broth to his mouth, but there was no taste when he swallowed. His stomach swirled again, then he began to heave. He barely made it to the toilet. A moment later, Liz was beside him at the sink.
Afterwards, Chris slid to the ground, his head throbbing in the blinding light. Liz sat with him, her head settling on his shoulder. For a moment the pain faded, giving in to a wave of warmth. He closed his eyes, savoring Liz’s closeness, but the relief did not last long. His stomach lurched again, and he released Liz and crawled back to the toilet.
The clang of the lights going out was a welcome relief.
Stomach clenched, lungs burning, head thumping, Chris returned to the beds. Stars danced across his vision, but he hauled himself up, no longer ca
ring whose bed it was. The room stank of vomit and spilled food, of unwashed bodies and blood. The scent of chlorine had long since been overwhelmed.
Caught in the clutches of fever, Chris lost all track of time. At some point he felt Liz’s body beside him. He drew comfort from the heat of her presence, in the closeness of her face. Then her face warped, and it felt as though his own body was distorting, and he forced his eyes closed.
Wild colors spun through his mind as time passed. At one point he remembered calling out, begging the guards to come, to bring the doctors, to bring anyone. But no one came, no one responded, and he soon gave up asking for help. He started asking for death instead.
In his dreams, he saw his body slowly decaying, watched his veins turn black, his arms begin to rot. Then he would find himself whole, riding in the passenger seat of his father’s ’68 Camaro, his dad driving, an infectious grin on his youthful face. A moment later he was in a hospital, the smell of bleach and the beeping of machinery all around. And his father, lying in a bed, his arms withered, his face lined with age. Only the smile was unchanged.
The image faded, and Chris was back in the cell, back with the pain. Looking at his arms, he wondered what was real, what was not. One instant it was night, the next the blinding light of day, then back to black. At times he would wake, gasping for air, shivering beneath the blanket, and know in his heart he was dying.
Once, he dreamed that he was flying, soaring through mountains, far from the nightmares of their prison cell.
Then he woke.
31
It was a long time before Chris realized he was no longer dreaming. He shivered as the cold air wrapped around him, but otherwise there was no discomfort. The pain had vanished, and for a second he considered the possibility that he was dead. Then a groan came from someone nearby, and he knew he was not alone.