by Teri Terry
She answers without turning. “Where has Cepta gone? Find her and tell her to come back; I need her. Then put cool cloths on foreheads. Hold hands.”
She’s at Aristotle’s side. Somehow her face is more alive than it was a moment before. She says something low to him, takes his hand. And then her eyes go weird again. His pain eases. I can see this instantly, but Shay shrinks further in on herself like she is being crushed.
I wish I could help her in a way that matters, help take their pain so she doesn’t bear it alone. I’m not a survivor, but Cepta is; Xander too. They should be here—why aren’t they helping?
I dash out the door.
Xander’s house is closest. I try there first. I knock, afraid not to. Then call out, open the door. No one is here.
I run toward Cepta’s house, and I’m nearly there when I hear voices: they’re outside, by the front of her house. They are out of sight behind trees. I can feel the discord before I hear it in their voices, and I hesitate, not sure I should interrupt.
“You know I’m right. This is the path, the way we must take.” It’s Xander.
I feel a light touch on my mind—it’s Cepta. So tuned in to me, as she always has been, she must have felt my approach. She identifies that it is me, then withdraws. She doesn’t say anything to Xander to tell him I’m there, and I know I should step forward, make myself known, but I stay still and silent. Listening.
“Your people are dying.” Cepta’s voice is anguished.
“Yes. We search for the truth, for pure knowledge, all of us. No matter how hard it is, this is what they must do.” His voice isn’t sad like hers, and I’m first shocked, then curious. What knowledge does he seek?
“Callie?” It’s Xander. He’s noticed I’m here now, and I step forward, hoping he didn’t realize I’d been listening.
“Shay sent me. She needs help.”
They are looking at each other; there is a brief silence. I know they are talking inside their heads.
“I’ll go,” Cepta says. “In a minute,” she adds, and nods at me. Dismissed.
I run back to the hall. “Cepta is coming,” I say, but Shay is with Aristotle still and doesn’t hear what I say.
But there is a boy I can see to: Jamar.
He’s a few years older than me; we’ve never spoken. His face is twisted in pain. A cool cloth, Shay said?
I find the bowl and the cloth and kneel beside him, place it on his forehead gently. His eyes focus on mine. There is surprise there. He wasn’t here when Shay got the rules changed, made it so Community could talk to me.
“Hi,” I say.
He swallows; a wave of pain crosses his face. “Hi,” he answers, a whisper. Like he’s afraid Cepta will hear.
“It’s okay, you’re allowed to talk to me now.”
I take his hand, and as another wave of pain crosses him, he grips onto it. So much pain, his and everyone else’s. So much death. Community always seemed to me to be a place that was content to be on its own, one that couldn’t be bothered with the rest of the world. It seems wrong this could spread among them like this—as if they were ordinary. Even more ordinary than me.
Has it reached other branches of Community? Jamar and the others had been to the farm, and now I’m scared for them too.
I can’t stop myself from asking. “Is the sickness at the farm?”
He shakes his head no, then gasps as that slight movement hurts.
“I don’t understand. If it isn’t there, then why did you get sick?”
He winces. “Aristotle said we had to come back. We met some people on the way. We must have caught it from them.”
“When?”
“A day ago.” His whole body shudders, caught in spasms of pain, and I grip his hand tight.
But it isn’t enough.
I can never do enough.
CHAPTER 4
SHAY
I’M INSIDE ARISTOTLE’S MIND, lost in his pain. I’m trying to take it from him and can no longer tell if it is his, or mine.
Cepta is back now. She joins with us, and her help eases the pain enough that I can continue my search inside him—deeper, closer into the coiled strands of his DNA.
And just like Persey, and the last few who died, he is missing some sections of junk DNA that I have. I convince Cepta to let me look inside her again, and her junk DNA is almost identical to mine. There must be some link between these differences and what is happening to Aristotle now; I can feel it.
But I don’t know how to fix it, or if it can be fixed, or what to do. I’m as helpless as I was before.
I ask Cepta what she makes of it, but she doesn’t answer. She’s distracted, deep in Aristotle’s mind. Even as he is about to die, she is trying to learn something from him, and he is somehow resisting, and I’m both puzzled and angry and can’t follow her thoughts.
And then he is gone.
The link between the three of us is broken with his death, and I open my eyes. My vision is defocused, split. It wavers, and then two become one again.
Cepta has moved on to a woman behind us.
Callie is holding a boy’s hand; he’s crying out, and there are tears in her eyes. I frown. What was his name? Jamar—yes, Jamar. His hair—that’s how I remembered him. It sticks out in odd tufts.
Like my hair did when it was growing back after the fire. I changed my hair—changed my DNA.
I don’t walk. He’s on the floor, like Aristotle’s body. Easier to crawl.
Callie protests. “You can’t do this anymore,” she says. She’s right, but how can I stop? He’ll die screaming in pain if I don’t help him right now.
I ease her away and take her place by his side.
I smile at Jamar, hold his eyes and reach out to him. We are joined, inside.
Now there are others in my mind to help. Beatriz has linked them together and found me again. They ease his pain, and I focus deeper inside. Cells, DNA, junk DNA—but like all those who die, he is missing the sequences that I have, that Cepta has.
But what does it actually do?
With Beatriz shielding me, now I can think.
Go back to basics.
Genes in DNA code for RNA; DNA is transcribed to RNA, making a messenger that can be translated into protein—the stuff we are made of, head to toe, is all produced this way.
But junk DNA doesn’t do this—it doesn’t code for any known genes. It’s thought to be structural—purpose or purposes largely unknown. Hence called junk.
How do differences in junk DNA change whether someone lives or dies?
I don’t know.
But die he does: Jamar, and then another, and another.
Until finally they are all gone. I lie down among them, as still as they are, on the ground. Callie tries to raise me, but I can’t even open my eyes. I hear her footsteps; she’s gone. Cepta too. I’m alone with the dead.
What use am I as a healer? Everyone dies, and as each one slips away in a kaleidoscope of fear and agony, they take part of me with them. Soon nothing will be left behind but an exhausted shell, one that has almost stopped feeling anything at all. I wish it would stop completely and take away the pain of the dead—their last thoughts and memories. But the only way that can happen is if I die too.
It wouldn’t be much of a step for me to take now, crossing the line between living and dying. My fatigue is absolute, and with it comes cold, deep and numbing. A cold that settles into my bones, makes them stiff—awkward. As if the parts of me that move don’t coordinate anymore—instead they drag what they are joined to along.
The tiredness and cold are one and the same—I can’t tell them apart. I can’t heal myself. I’m lying still. Quiet. I can’t move or I’ll shatter.
Callie is back now, Xander with her. I vaguely feel him gather me up. He carries me out of the hall of death.
The night air is chill, and I shiver.
I blank out again, and when I come back to myself, I’m in my bed, alone with Callie. She is the one who comforts me now.
My thoughts are thick and slow, but sleep won’t come: too tired to sleep sounds ridiculous, but it’s exactly what I am.
Why didn’t I run away, refuse to try again? I never made a choice—it was thrust upon me.
Xander—he’s my father, but that feels remote and disconnected from who or what I am. He thinks this duty is mine. That it falls on me even as it is killing me.
Because death isn’t just when the last breath is taken and the heart stops beating, when the last synapses in the brain fire and then thought is gone. There are other ways to die—slowly, but just as sure.
When hope is gone, there is nothing left.
CHAPTER 5
CALLIE
I’M FLYING. An island spreads out below me—it’s dead and dark. Something has happened here, something bad.
But there is also something—someone—good: Kai, my brother, and Shay, my friend. They are both there below me, walking across the blackened landscape.
Shay’s mind touches mine, seeks me out—wants to know if I’m okay to do this. And I’m not, but somehow when we find the place, the burned-out barn, I know I have to do it anyway.
Still linked with Shay, I slip through the crack in the rock and travel down, down, down…into nightmare.
I force my eyes open to end the dream, but it’s still there. I’m both me, in this bed, and somebody else in another place—one that holds nothing but terror. Gradually it fades, but my heart is still beating fast, body tense, poised as if to run.
Another dream that is not a dream. She has a name, one I know now: Jenna.
I can’t stay still, and I sit up, get out of bed. I want Shay, but I can’t wake her. I can’t. Not after what she’s been through. But maybe if I can just see her, I’ll feel better.
I follow the walls in the darkness from my room to her bedroom door: it’s open? But I closed it last night. I peer inside, then go closer to confirm with my hands what my eyes strain to see. Her bed is empty.
I switch on a hall light and then quickly check the rest of our small house. She’s not here.
I’m worried. Where could she be? Just a few hours ago, she was too tired to even speak.
I open the front door to the chill and dark. It must be cloudy. I can’t see any stars. I can hardly make out the dark shapes of the trees beyond the house.
There is a thump next to me and, still freaked from my dream, I almost scream. But it’s only Chamberlain. Did he jump down from the roof? I bend to pet him.
“Do you know where Shay is?” I say. He turns his head, eyes glinting green—they seem to reflect the thin light from the door. And then he starts walking down the path.
I hesitate, goose bumps on my back and neck. Did he actually understand what I said? I follow him.
Shay sits alone in the dark by the pyres—the almost dark, as there are flickers and sparks from still-smoldering fire. Chamberlain is by her feet, giving me a look that seems to wonder how I ever doubted him.
“Shay?”
She is so still. I go closer, take her hand—it’s ice cold.
“It isn’t good to be here,” I say. “Come home with me.”
“I don’t understand,” she says, voice faint.
“What?”
“Why they died and I didn’t. I got sick, but I didn’t die.” Her voice is wistful, like she wishes she could join them.
“I didn’t even get sick.”
“Lucky. It’s not fun, before or after.” She turns to me, puts a cold hand on the side of my face. “Immune,” she says.
“Yes.”
She frowns. “Could that be an answer? So obvious to check, and yet…”
“Check? What?”
“Callie, is it okay if I look inside of you? I need someone who is immune to check how they are different from or the same as those who die and those who survive.” Her voice is stronger now.
“Then will you go to sleep?”
“Yes. At least, I’ll try.”
“All right, then. Go on.”
Shay’s mind joins with mine. I can feel even more strongly now how exhausted she is, and I’m worried.
Never mind, she whispers inside. This won’t take long.
But it does. When she is finally finished, she is even weaker, and I have to help her back to our house, and into her bed.
CHAPTER 6
SHAY
I KNOW THAT IF I DON’T SLEEP SOON, I’ll be no good to anybody.
But later that same morning, I’m still lying in my bed, eyes open. I can’t leave it alone: how does it all fit together?
I’d found a hidden darkness, deep inside me. I thought this shielded any antimatter hidden away, that this was why I survived.
But it’s not as simple as that.
Those who survive have repeating sections of junk DNA that those who die lack. I’ve confirmed this now with Aristotle, Jason, others. Though my group of survivors is limited, true: just Cepta and me.
And then I had to know, to see what is the case with the immune—like Callie. And she didn’t have those sections of junk DNA either. There didn’t seem to be anything different between her and those who get sick and die! I spent ages looking and found nothing—just the usual small variations you get between different people, the variations that make them different from each other. If one of them somehow made this difference between life and death, I have no way to know which it was.
What else can I do?
Maybe…I need to see someone who isn’t immune, isn’t sick, and doesn’t have the repeating DNA survivors have—and see what is different between them and someone who is sick? Or even better, how they change if they become ill.
But of course I could never do that: take a healthy person and expose them to the epidemic to see what happens.
Shay? It’s Xander again.
I consider ignoring him, but what is the point? He’ll know I’m awake.
Yes?
Not asleep?
I should be. I can’t. Things keep turning over and over in my mind.
A sign of genius.
I don’t think so; if I don’t sleep soon, I’ll cease to function completely.
Perhaps talking things through will make it come easier.
Maybe.
I’ll come to you.
He cuts off then, not leaving me a chance to say yes or no. I sigh. I’m not sure I’m up to verbal sparring with Xander right now, keeping things hidden that should stay hidden. Maybe he knows that, and that is why he insists on now.
I haul myself out of bed, walk into the front room. Callie looks up from her book, and a disapproving look crosses her face.
I sigh. “I know, I know!” I sit next to her. “I can’t sleep. And Xander is coming over.” She holds my hand. I feel like we’ve reversed roles, big and little sister, and it makes me feel warm inside that she cares. I study her, aware suddenly that I’ve been neglecting her and forgetting why I’m here—to make her well. To take her home.
Another healing task where I’m failing.
We hear Xander approach.
“Shall I stay or go?” Callie says.
“Up to you.”
The door opens.
“I’ll go.”
CHAPTER 7
CALLIE
I CUP ONE HAND ON THE ROUGH BARK OF A TREE near the edge, stretch out my arm—use my body weight to swing forward. Weight and then momentum turn me in a spin toward the other side of the tree. My mind is blank; I’ve made it that way as much as I can. I have no purpose. No thought.
Chamberlain leans his head sideways, watching, whiskers twitching. He’s puzzled, I think, as to why when I spin from one side, I then stop
dead. As if I hit a wall—one that isn’t there in the usual sense, but I can’t move beyond it into the nothingness.
Defeated once again, I drop to the ground. Chamberlain rubs his head against my hand until I reach and pet him, scratch his head, behind his ears. He drops beside me, warm against my leg.
Before everyone started dying, Shay had told me that there were walls in my mind, that she’d taken them down as much as she could. I can’t ask her to check again now, to see if she’s missed anything, not with what she’s been through. Yet if they are all gone, then why can’t I move beyond the edge of the world?
I know the world doesn’t really end here. I know Chamberlain has stepped beyond and come back again, that other Community members have appeared from the nothing to come home again—to come home to die.
So it isn’t that I’m fooled—I truly believe there is a world beyond this place, that I should be able to step through to it.
But I still can’t do it. And I can’t see it either.
What is really stopping me? Why can’t I leave?
I sit on the ground, against the tree. Something still isn’t right with me; I know it isn’t. I’m so much better since Shay has been here, but something—someone—is still there, just out of my sight in much the same way that the rest of the real world is just out of my sight from this place.
Jenna.
She’s still with me, in the shadows, around my edges. I can feel her presence. Hear her whispering inside me. She’s been quiet, waiting for something. I don’t know what.
She comes in my dreams, content with that for now. But I can feel her impatience growing.
She wants out.
CHAPTER 8
SHAY
“SO, THERE ARE GENETIC DIFFERENCES between those who survive and everyone else—both the immune and those who die from the epidemic,” Xander says.
“Yes.”
“Interesting. Why do you think this is?”