by Shanon Hunt
He swung around. “Listen, Nyla—”
“Whatever you’re getting into here, you better be a whole lot more careful than this. Whoever smoked that cigarette is far more powerful than you or me.” She rolled onto her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. “And don’t involve me again. I have a family to consider.”
She closed the door before he could say thanks.
He couldn’t help scanning the parking lot as he hurried back to the Jeep. Some top-secret organization? Government? All these years, he’d figured he was looking for some underground group of scientists with no ethics, like a band of villains from a Marvel movie, or a bunch of young MIT dropouts, or—
“Jordan Jennings.” He swung himself into the driver’s seat. What had become of Jordan Jennings? He snickered at the memory of the guy: super-brainiac geneticist, nerdy as Bill Nye the Science Guy. Maybe he should look—
His phone rang. Darcy. He started the engine. As soon as he pulled onto the interstate, Darcy’s name flashed on the call screen again.
He hit the speakerphone. “Hey, I just got on the freeway, let me—”
“Don’t come back.” Darcy’s voice had a sense of urgency he hadn’t heard in a long time.
“What?”
“You’re all over the news, Nicky. Vitapura. They have pictures of your Jeep driving away from the explosion. There’s a manhunt.”
Shit. He glanced at the phone, grateful he maintained the account under Uncle Jay’s name. “Meet me at the locker.”
He disconnected and pulled into the parking lot of a vacant indoor Go-Kart center, bumping over the large cracks from years of heat and neglect, and parked. He hopped out and set his phone gently on the pavement under the wheel of the front left tire. Dammit, he felt like he was putting down a beloved pet. He pursed his lips as he slid back behind the wheel and rolled over the phone, flinching at the sharp crunch.
The breeze picked up, rolling an empty beer can and a tumbleweed in front of the idling Jeep. He crossed his arms over the steering wheel and lay his forehead against them.
The bad guys—EGNX, now that he had a name for them—had been chasing him away since he’d first taken an interest in the case. They didn’t put much of a scare into him in the early days; he was only a nuisance, touting a conspiracy no one of any consequence would believe. He’d received a handful of subtle warnings, including a harassing visit by the local yokels and a restraining order that he ignored.
If he hadn’t been so goddamn obsessed and stubborn, he might’ve realized how much power they really had. He might’ve quit years ago, when the warnings were still gentle. A statewide manhunt was a whole new level. Either they wanted to kill him in that explosion, or they wanted to put him behind bars, where his unfortunate demise would undoubtedly go unquestioned.
He was in over his head, plain and simple. No, he was on the ocean floor with an empty dive tank and sharks circling.
He pulled in a ragged breath and surveyed the area. Every direction seemed like the wrong one. Every road felt like he’d be driving straight off a cliff. It was like his world was compressing, the air around him being vacuum-sucked away, leaving him gasping.
He squeezed his eyes shut. What was he without the story? An unemployed dregs piece of shit. That’s what.
He gripped the wheel as his nerve coalesced again. Quitting wasn’t his M.O. And dying wasn’t in the cards for him. Not yet, anyway.
13
October 2022, Mexico
2:14 a.m. Layla’s watch glowed like an earthbound star under the night sky as she leaned against the back porch railing, inhaling the cool desert air. The full moon cast shadows against the rocky canyon walls behind her cabin, where the terrain made it impossible to continue the thirty-foot cement walls, the hallmark of the Colony, that made her feel safe and secure. The canyon was treacherous enough that no human could climb up or down. Or so they’d told her.
Distant howls seemed to drift on the moonlight itself. Could wolves and coyotes climb the canyon walls? Perhaps there were other areas along the perimeter where the wall didn’t exist. Maybe they weren’t as safe as she thought. A chill ran up her spine, and she backed into the cabin, locking the door behind her.
Would Allison Stevens be scared of wolves in the distance?
Her poisoned life was haunting her. She crawled back into bed, but she still didn’t feel ready to sleep. She flipped onto her side, the only comfortable position she could find these days, which faced her toward the console table with James’s home computer. She had her own laptop, of course, as well as the latest model tablet and a phone, all charging next to the bed. The Colony was filled with computers and devices colonists used to message their Colony friends and stay connected to the goings-on of the poisoned world. It wasn’t conducive to morale to force too much separation from the world. But the information flowed one direction, into the Colony, and all content was monitored and filtered by Eugenesis.
Layla’s GS-4 level, which now felt more insulting than edifying, meant she didn’t get access to the world outside the Colony.
But James did.
On James’s computer, one could, hypothetically, look up the name of a particular citizen and potentially discover details about said citizen. Of course, no one would do such a thing, least of all her. Reconnecting with one’s poisoned life was forbidden. She didn’t even know what the punishment was because she’d never seen it happen. It was impossible. The cultural indoctrination was deep. Poison was a powerful word, surgically selected to make colonists want to excise old urges. But even if that hadn’t been so, there was simply no technical way to send communications outside the walls.
Unless someone had access to a computer like James’s.
We grew up together in Madison.
She rolled over. No, she wouldn’t do this. She couldn’t do it. There were cameras everywhere. Everyone was watched at all times.
Even herself and James? In the privacy of their cabin?
She pushed up and looked around the room. James had assured her there were no hidden cameras, no recording devices.
No, it was a dumb idea. Even if no one was watching, she wouldn’t be able to get into his computer. She’d need a password to override facial recognition, and she didn’t know it.
And more importantly, it was forbidden.
She lay back down, but her overactive, cabin-fevered brain obsessed over the idea. When she became pure, she’d been dosed with the intelligence elixir, which was supposed to enable her to learn faster than impures. She hadn’t felt a noticeable change, but she sure did love puzzles. Could she crack James’s password?
In that breathless silence unique to two a.m., she rolled out of bed and powered on his computer. Most people chose passwords based on something personally significant: an anniversary or the middle name of a child. But other than his work, nothing was important to James except her and the fetus inside her. She covered the facial recognition scanner and waited for the read error followed by the password prompt. She tried several combinations of Layla with various numbers. Nothing.
Frustrated, she shuffled to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She leaned back against the counter, eyeing the cursor in the password box blinking brightly at her across the dark room. Taunting her.
Why was James such a mystery?
Didn’t you do anything fun besides stalking me in the poisoned world? She’d always been interested in his life before the Colony, but he was oddly tight-lipped about it.
Nope, he’d replied proudly. I followed you everywhere you went, hiding in the shadows in my overcoat and sunglasses.
That’s super creepy. She was flattered, even though she knew he was lying. But he had loved her, even then…
Then!
She fumbled her glass, spilling water all over herself.
She’d been a student, right? A graduate student. That would have been what, maybe 2010? ’11?
She set the glass in the sink and returned to the blinking cursor. It
only took three tries before the password was accepted.
Allison2012.
The system portal opened before her, and she stepped back as if she expected an alarm to engage or the screen to self-destruct. Neither happened. Instead, the logo Eugenesis spread across the screen, directly above a browser search box.
The fetus moved slightly, sending a ripple across her torso, reminding her that she was supposed to be lying down in bed. She left the computer browser open and lay back down on her side, her eyes locked on the blinking cursor.
It wasn’t fair that she didn’t have access. Mia had access, and now probably even Isaac had access. She was at least as deserving as Isaac—no, she was more deserving. This shutout was just an assertion of dominance from James. He was stifling her growth so she’d be dependent on him. It was unjust.
And so what if she typed “Allison Stevens” in the box? Would she be breaking the rules just by doing a small search? Being inquisitive about her poisoned life wasn’t the same as reconnecting with it. I don’t even know when my birthday is! It was her fallback argument whenever the topic came up. And James had his evasive fallback reply: Your life is here now, Layla. What does it matter? Don’t ask me who you were or why you came here. All it will do is upset you and distract you from your work. I promise you’re in a better place now than you ever were.
She could tell he meant it. And until now, she’d been content with the answer. But then Vanessa Sykes had breezed into the intake room and reignited her curiosity with details that had completely possessed her thoughts.
Guess you really are the bitch everyone said you became.
Was she a really bad person? Had she killed a police officer?
She had to know. If she’d killed someone, James shouldn’t have kept that from her.
She crawled out of bed again and sat down at the desk chair, regarding her fingers as if from a distance as they typed “Allison Stevens” into the search window. She sat back and stared with amazement as the results loaded onto the screen in front of her.
She scrolled through the results until she saw an image. She clicked. No surprise—it was herself looking back. She looked different: shorter hair, paler skin, but it was certainly her. Allison Stevens, the Layla of the poisoned world.
The image was included in a “Be on the Lookout” release from the Phoenix police department: “Allison Stevens, age 29, person of interest in the murder of DEA Agent Vincent Wang.”
Oh god. She recoiled from the computer screen. She had killed a police officer.
She should have shut down the computer right then. Looking into her poisoned life was bound to upset her, just as James had said. But instead, she found herself reaching for the mouse to scroll down. Opening Pandora’s box, was that the expression?
She landed on an obituary. “Madison mourns the loss of patient rights activist who took his own life by means of assisted suicide.” Her dad. She could remember brief moments from his funeral. “He is survived by his loving wife, Rachel Leigh Cassidy, and daughter Allison Cassidy Stevens.”
Layla clicked on the image. Even black-and-white and grainy when she enlarged it, she could see the trust on the face of the young girl looking up at a woman who held her hand. Her mother, Rachel Leigh Cassidy—her real mother. She traced a finger around her mother’s face. What had she been like? Was she still out there somewhere?
A message flashed onto the screen, and she flew backward. Her breath hitched. Only a notification. James’s flight from LIH to IAH has been delayed.
She stared at the message. IAH wasn’t the airport James usually flew into. She clicked on the message. The aircraft was arriving late to Kauai. Hawaii?
He’d lied. Why would tell her he was going to Iowa? What was in Hawaii?
She typed “Kauai” into a new browser window, which pulled up an image of a man and woman lounging in a tropical heaven, sipping champagne: “Kauai, the most romantic place on earth.”
Her stomach roiled. Was he with a woman? Someone beautiful and thin? Layla stared at the gorgeous woman holding the glass. Her perfectly flat stomach; her long, tanned legs. She pictured James sitting next to that woman, calling her his beautiful girl and meaning it, because she was so much more beautiful than—
Three loud knocks on her cabin door startled her. “Sister Layla? I’m sorry to disturb you. This is Eric from security.”
14
October 2022, Mexico
Oh dear god. They discovered her.
Layla flew from the chair and did the only thing she could think of: She turned off the power supply to the computer.
“Sister Layla?” the security guard called. “I don’t mean to intrude. Brother James wanted us to check up on you. Is everything okay? I’m letting myself in.”
She heard the click of the lock on her cabin door and dropped into bed.
The door opened in a whoosh, and the desert breeze swept a peculiar sewer stench right into the cabin, along with a tall, skinny security guard with eyebrows so thick they came together like one long caterpillar. She recognized him but couldn’t place from where.
She pressed her palm to her nose to block the smell. “What’s the problem?”
“I noticed your light was on so late.” He swung his eyes around the room. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep.”
He walked to the sliding glass door and looked out onto the patio. What did he want?
After a long moment, he took several steps back toward her. His caterpillar unibrow shortened with suspicion. “Are you certain everything in the house is secure?”
She nodded. Was this a test? Had she set off an alarm of some kind?
He kept his eyes on her as he unhooked his radio from his belt. “The cabin appears secure. Sister Layla is safely inside.”
He set the radio on James’s desk and took a seat at the foot of her bed, watching her intently.
Panic brewed inside her like a hurricane forming over the ocean, churning, gathering strength. A tremor spread through her body until she was visibly shaking. She pulled her blanket higher, clutching the edge with a death grip.
“Ma’am?” He lifted his hand to scratch the back of his head before leaning forward, bracing himself on the bed just inches from her leg. His breath smelled of garlic and alcohol, but also something truly rancid that reminded her of the pungent smell of James’s cold cuts after they’d gone bad.
She slid one hand to her throat as she was overtaken by the sensation that something here was different. It was as if she could hear the hurricane in her body, a rumbling in her chest, followed by a crackling and buzzing in her head like a downed power line.
She rolled out of bed and regarded it with wide eyes, certain she’d been shocked. Maybe the electrical system that reclined the bed?
“Are you okay?”
Her eyes landed on the name embroidered onto the right breast pocket of his jacket: E. Ortiz, EGNX Security.
That’s when her head exploded. Jabbing pain between her eyes, as if someone had stabbed her in the forehead, made her suck in air. Her muscles stiffened, causing her body to jerk with each attempt at movement. But before she could panic, the pain dissipated, and a tingling warmth washed through her. The room turned red and cloudy, and she squinted to peer at the darkening figure near her bed through tunnel vision.
And—she had to be imagining it—his caterpillar unibrow was morphing into slimy, squirming maggots. They crawled down his face, disappearing into the corners of his eyes, squirming up his nostrils and into his open mouth.
He is the plague.
A lifetime of anger cascaded into that single moment. With an inhuman, guttural cry she’d never heard before, she lunged. Her right hand seized him by the throat and rammed him against the wall.
“You.” Saliva flew from her lips, and her fingertips curled until her nails dug into the soft flesh of his neck. “Poison.” It was a growl, like an animal.
The guard stood motionless, his arms spl
ayed against the wall as though he was glued there. He stared back with wide eyes, his mouth open in a silent scream, frozen in sheer terror. She could smell the maggots feeding on his rotting flesh—but instead of sickening her, they fueled her.
“You aren’t one of us.” Blood burbled up between her fingers and she squeezed harder, digging deeper into the sinewy tissue. She wanted a tighter grip. She had an overwhelming urge to wrap her fist around his trachea and yank it from his throat. A chill of pleasure ran up her spine. The acrid smell of blood, the viscous texture—
like pancake syrup
—overpowered the stench of rot, and she wanted more. So much more.
The rotting flesh on his face was detaching from the bone. With her left hand, she shoved her thumb into his drooping eye socket to get a good grip on his cheek and yanked. It pulled off like slow-boiled chicken breast meat from the bone.
He is poison. He is the plague.
“Sister Layla? Are you okay?”
The face in front of her wavered. The maggots were gone.
She blinked several times, trying to clear her head. Pain shot down her rigid spine into her legs. Her hands were fisted so tightly she could barely straighten her fingers. Blood covered her palms, punctured by her fingernails—her blood, not his.
At once, her muscles relaxed and her knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of James’s desk, knocking over the pen holder. The pens hit the wood floor with a crash that for some reason sounded like the shrill cry of a wounded bird. The noise was torturous, and her hands flew up to cover her ears.
The guard knelt on one knee to pick up the pens. “It’s okay, ma’am. I didn’t want to alarm you, but I thought you should know…”
She gaped at the back of his shirt. There was movement underneath it, as if he were flexing some unnatural muscle group.
“…wolves or coyotes on the property.”
Not muscles. Maggots. His torso seemed fluid as they boiled up beneath his shirt, squirming to get free.
“…probably after our livestock, but just so you’re aware…”