Between Life and Death

by Ann Christy

  That’s not what Savannah’s talking about, of course. We just did our first autopsy and she had to do most of it. We are both so grossed out that I’m pretty sure we’ve done permanent damage to our mental states. Still, we have the samples we need and they are now cooling off in the deep hole we’ve dug to keep things from spoiling. I hate the idea of keeping those vials near our food, but we really don’t have much choice.

  “We’re going to have to do that with all of them,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m saying it to make myself face that fact or what, but Savannah throws the cloth she’s washing with into her bucket in disgust and gives a dramatic shiver.

  “I don’t know if I can,” she says.

  “Let’s just not think about it right now,” I offer. If she won’t do it, then that means Charlie and I will be left to do it and I hurled not once, but twice, during the procedure. This does not make me a good candidate for taking over the cutting position in future examinations.

  “I’m okay with doing it, except…” she says, then trails off while she focuses on cleaning her fingernails with a scrub-brush.

  “Except?”

  “It was pretty obvious that he was blocked up with scar tissue and his intestines couldn’t possibly have worked. He was doomed. Right?”

  Now it’s my turn to shiver. “Yeah,” I say, because I’m trying really hard not to get that picture back in my head.

  She doesn’t answer for so long that I look up. She’s still furiously scrubbing at her nails even though they look perfectly clean to me. Her brow is creased and her eyebrows are drawn together so tightly it must hurt.

  “What?” I ask.

  She drops her hands to her sides and pushes out a weary breath. I look away because I sort of feel uncomfortable this close to someone who’s undressed, or maybe it’s because we’re outside and not wearing clothes. Either way, I studiously keep my eyes on my own washcloth and bucket.

  She sighs again and says, “I think this means the percentage of in-betweeners we can really help is going to be much lower.”

  “Why?”

  “Think about it. Anyone who died that got gnawed on, gut shot, or anything like that is more than likely to have something similar messed up inside. I won’t know until I get the other one open anyway,” she says, bending to start scrubbing her toes with her scrub brush.

  She had boots on, so I’m not sure why she’s scrubbing her toes so harshly, but I guess we all deal with things in our own ways. I caught the important part of what she said, though. She may not realize it, but she just told me that she’s genuinely curious about the impact of the nanites on wounds. Tanner is definitely going to get the full Savannah treatment.

  That makes me feel better. I rinse out my washcloth again and then notice my own feet. Compared with Savannah’s now scrubbed ones, mine look positively grimy. I grab my little scrub brush and get to work.

  *****

  “He won’t wake up,” Charlie says as he pokes at Tanner again through the chain-link with a long piece of metal. He doesn’t respond at all, not even flinching at the sharp poke.

  “This sounds like what Princeton’s letter described happening to their in-betweeners,” I say. I can’t help but feel this is a major setback. I understand why Carson didn’t make it, but Tanner was getting good blood flow through his body and his organs seem to be working well. He got a crossbow bolt through the heart and one lung, as best we can tell, but he’s been strong since reviving.

  If this is happening to him, what’s going to happen to Emily?

  “We can’t risk Emily yet,” I say.

  Charlie shakes his head and puts down the metal bar he poked Tanner with. For one eternal second I wonder if he’s going to agree with me or try to convince me that we don’t have a choice, but then he glances over the barricade toward Emily’s cage and smiles at her. It’s a warm smile, full of affection and amusement at the way she’s grinning at us. From that, I know he’s still on my side.

  He waves at Emily and says, “No, we can’t risk her. Let’s give the cure to one of the others first.”

  It’s clear that Emily wants our attention, so we walk over to her cage and leave the others behind. “What’s up?” I ask her as Charlie starts unlocking her cage.

  “Hay dai soon,” she says. Her chains rattle as she pokes herself in the temple with one stiff finger. “Gant werk.”

  I have absolutely no idea what she just said, so I look to Charlie. We often do this and it’s a mystery to me how one of us always manages to figure out what she’s saying. He’s paused his unwinding of the chain and is staring at Emily with his lips parted. Clearly, he understood her.

  “How do you know that?” he asks her.

  I’d like to know what’s going on, so I nudge him with my elbow and say, “Feel like telling me what she said?”

  “She just said that he’ll die soon. When she pointed at her head, she said, “Can’t work.” I’m pretty sure she means his brain,” Charlie says, looking at Emily for confirmation.

  “Yah, yah. Messed up,” she answers, nodding her head emphatically. She demonstrates what she means by wobbling her head dramatically and reaching out with her arms as if she can’t see properly and is groping for something.

  This is new. She does seem to know what’s going on with them and the howl established that they’ve got some kind of bond, but how can she know what’s going on inside him? Does brain chemistry have a smell?

  Charlie finishes with the door and we enter, excited and eager, but still following our rules. He has the crossbow up and ready and I have a dog-catcher should the need arise. Emily sees me bring it in and sneers at it. I’m pretty sure I actually see her roll her eyes, which is great. She’s getting more coherent each and every day.

  Regular feedings, fine physical condition, and our therapy seem to be working well. But she’s still dangerous. Of that, there can be no doubt. A rat got into her cage a couple of nights ago and what I found the next morning is nothing to talk about in polite company. She used the carcass almost as an art object once she was done with it. I found bits of it all day long the next day. She’d do the same to me in a heartbeat if she got really hungry and I got stupid.

  I slide over a new bucket of fresh water and she squeals in delight, even remembering to use her big plastic cup to drink from instead of sticking her head in the bucket. While she drinks, I whisper to Charlie, “If she can tell he’s going to die, maybe she knows which one we should try the treatment on next.”

  He shrugs and says, “It’s worth a try.”

  Emily tosses down her almost-empty cup with a satisfied sound and grins at us, so I ask, “Emily, can you tell me about the others in the cage? Are any of them better than the others? Is there one that works better than the others?” I tap my head to try to make it clear what I mean.

  She seems confused for a moment, then the cobwebs clear. “Yah, yah. Hez gaht goot werks.”

  “Which he has good works?” Charlie asks.

  “Gant see. Need do see.”

  So, she needs to see them. That would be difficult, to say the least. She’s never unchained entirely and for each chain that’s removed, there is some other form of binding and the people to hold it. Charlie and I share a look, both of us considering how the others might respond to the idea of Emily being able to tell so much about the other in-betweeners and us taking her out of the cage. She’s not been out of the cage even once since she turned.

  “Should we?” I ask as the silence between us lengthens.

  “Let’s get Matt. We can’t do this alone. If anyone finds out we did, they won’t trust us anymore and who knows what will happen then,” Charlie says.

  Aside from us, Matt seems to be the one most invested in Emily’s well-being. Some sort of bond is growing between them that I hadn’t seen coming. He’s a good choice.

  “Okay, let’s do it. Let’s talk to Matt,” I say.

  *****

  Emily is the only one who doesn’t seem frightened and nervo
us as we lead her to the other cage. She seems excited, despite the fact that it’s only a ten foot walk. I suppose any change in scenery would be a thrill after months chained in a cage. I really feel bad about that, but there’s no other choice, so I push those thoughts to the back of my mind.

  Tanner is still out and unresponsive, but the other three in-betweeners have had the cloth that covers their faces removed and are now full of fury. The gags are still in place, but even with that, the squeals and grunts that come from their throats are loud and angry sounding. And hungry.

  As we shuffle Emily along, two dog catchers around her neck and her hands tied to her chest, the others stand well back, crossbows at the ready and sweating in the heat. Matt and Charlie have the handles of the dog catchers, while I lead her into the other cage. She’s grinning at me like we’re going to an amusement park.

  “Here they are, Emily,” I say as I urge her across the cage.

  She pauses near Tanner and bends her head to sniff at him. Her nostrils flare and a look of distaste momentarily creases her face, but her fingers waggle as if dismissing him and she hurries the last few feet toward the desktops where the others lay strapped.

  As if on cue, the three in-betweeners cease their noise as her face leans over them. I watch her carefully and I can feel the tight focus of Matt and Charlie as they do the same. Everything she does may be a clue and we can’t afford to miss even one.

  Just like dogs, they all start sniffing. None of the in-betweeners on the tables can move their heads so much as an inch, but the strain as they try to sniff at her is apparent in the cords standing out on their necks. Emily smiles at each of them, as if delighted to see old friends again, but there’s something else in that smile.

  I’m not sure, but in one way it reminds me of a mother smiling at her unruly children. Yet in another way, it’s something less loving, perhaps like an owner smiling down at her favorite chattel. It gives me shivers to see it.

  After the sniffing, the three in-betweeners follow Emily’s every move with their eyes as she steps from one table to the next, leaning over each one and sniffing. Aside from their loud breathing, they don’t make a sound.

  At the last in line, Emily bends enough so that one of her tied hands can reach far enough to stroke the in-betweener’s forehead with gentle fingers. Her smile grows as she looks at that one and she tilts her head so that they can see each other better. I jump when she starts to hum. It’s got a pattern, but it’s atonal and odd sounding to my ears. I glance up at Matt and his jaw is set in a hard line.

  I swear he looks jealous, which is weird because, well, Emily’s an in-betweener. That is not a condition conducive to romance. Of course, I could be imagining things. It might simply be that Matt has transferred all his hope for a cure to her and feels possessive for that reason alone. Plus, Matt is naturally a protector. He seems to thrive when he’s protecting someone else who needs it. Emily is a good candidate for bringing out that side of him.

  The in-betweener starts to return her humming, his voice set low and even. None of them have made a noise anything like that within my hearing before, so something new is going on.

  Emily jerks the dog catcher loops as she bends down further. Matt and Charlie give her enough slack to let her and she stoops to brush her cheek against the in-betweener’s forehead, a gentle gesture that reminds me of the way a cat will rub against a human as it twines around their leg, tail high and face blissful. Whatever is going on inside her head, it’s very primal. That’s for sure.

  I cough and her eyes open. She eyes me up from the side, her cheek still moving against the bound forehead and her eyes half-mast. Her face is utterly serene.

  “Is this one the best, Emily?” I ask, nodding toward the in-betweener.

  She nods a little and sighs, as if very satisfied. “Iz goot. Strahng.”

  “Yes, he looks very strong,” I answer. It’s true enough. He’s not the biggest or the smallest of the in-betweeners. He’s not the least or the most vocal. He’s been middle of the road in every way since he’s been here. I guess we have our next candidate.

  “Thank you, Emily,” I say, then nod toward the guys so they can start the process of maneuvering her back to her cage.

  She actually pulls against the dog catchers, a snarl escaping her throat as she does. Charlie stops pulling and says, “Emily, it’s time for you to eat. Let’s go.”

  At that, she seems to forget the in-betweeners and steps lightly around Tanner’s table, forging ahead of the ones holding the handles as if she’s in a hurry. Her tray is already waiting for her in her cage. Savannah slipped it inside when we took her out for just this reason. She must have smelled it before, but now that she’s been told of it, she’s very eager to get to her food.

  And after that display, I confess I’m eager to get away from her. She’s still Emily, but she’s becoming something else as well. And whatever it is, it’s not anything that will mix well with us regular humans. Of that, I’m becoming very sure.

  Eight Weeks Ago – Tall Grass

  I’m worried we might have to leave the warehouse complex. I’ve got my pallet up on the roof tonight, along with several of the others, and the thought of leaving is keeping me from falling asleep. The stars are incredibly bright tonight with no moon shining down to fade their brilliance, but not even that can keep my mind from churning at the concept of leaving this place.

  It’s not something I ever expected to happen. Most of the time when I think of this place, it’s to be irritated with the dust, the hard concrete floors, the lack of windows, or the flies that come from our latrine pit out back. I never expected it to feel like home. It’s only now that I might lose it that I feel so strongly about it. This place has kept me safe. That alone can make a girl love a warehouse.

  But most of all, it’s got the cages and this is the place where I can keep Emily in relative safety. What will happen to her if we have to leave? I know without asking that no one is going to want to bring her with us. That leaves just two options. We leave her here to starve into deader-hood in the cage or we kill her. No, they would have to kill her, and probably me too. I’m not sure I could let anyone hurt her without fighting.

  The birds are quiet, only the occasional rustle of feathers from another roof betraying their presence. Everyone else is asleep. I can hear the rhythmic sound of Tom’s soft snores, but nothing else from the others sleeping up here. When I sigh, it sounds loud.

  The rustling of blankets makes me roll over and look at the scattered pallets. I can’t tell who, but someone is getting up. It’s only when the stars highlight the outline of his body that I can tell it’s Charlie, his particular gait giving away who it is. It’s very weird, but just the way he walks can set my stomach to fluttering.

  He crouches beside my pallet and looks at me for a few seconds. His eyes are gleaming spots in the starlight, but I can tell he’s looking into my eyes and can see that I’m awake. After a moment, he puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. I reach up to hold his hand, pressing it into my shoulder harder. I think he understands.

  “Lie down,” I whisper as softly as I can.

  Honorable guy that he is, he actually looks around to see if anyone is watching. It’s almost enough to make me smile.

  “Don’t worry about anyone else. Just lie down,” I whisper and scoot over on my pallet.

  He does, but he does it with exaggerated care, staying at the edge of the pallet in a way that has to be uncomfortable given the gravelly roof. I finally give up and reach around his waist, giving him a good tug toward me. He lets out a tiny, startled noise when I do that almost sets me to laughing. Despite my worries, he’s managing to cheer me up even without trying.

  I lean my head close to his and whisper, “I’m scared.”

  “I know,” he whispers back. “If they do decide to leave, I have an idea. But it has to be just us, I think.”

  This sounds like a conspiracy in the making, which means I’d like to ensure it stays a secret
until I can decide if it is or not. “Roll over toward me. We need to be quiet.”

  Now we’re really close to each other and I can tell that he’s uncomfortable. I’m positive it’s not from being close to me, but rather because so many others are nearby while he’s close to me. I rub my hand down his cheek and whisper, “This is nice.”

  He nods and I can see the gleam of his teeth when he smiles. “Can you imagine how much crap they’d give us if anyone saw this?”

  “That’s just fine. I’d rather get teased about that than have them listening to whatever plan it is you’re cooking up.”

  He almost looks disappointed, like maybe he was thinking I really just wanted to get closer to him. Still, he’s not one to miss the opportunity our closeness provides for telling me whatever it is he’s got to say.

  Charlie leans so close that I can feel his breath on my cheek when he speaks. “If they’re right and there is a military group looking for us, then they’re not going to want to take Emily with us. You know that, right?”

  “Yes, I know. That’s what I was just thinking about,” I say.

  “I figured.” He pauses then and looks around, perhaps making sure no one else has gotten up and moved closer. No one has, so he puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “We should leave before them and take her with us. I’ve been thinking about where we can go and I have an idea or two.”

  I can’t imagine anyplace safer than right where we are, but if we have to leave and take Emily with us, the math changes. Maybe for the better or maybe for the worse. There’s no way to know.

  “Where?” I ask him.

  “Back to the one place they won’t go. The suburban enclave.”

  I rear back at those words. I can see his eyes, even in the dark, and it’s clear that he’s being serious. But he can’t be.

  “That’s suicide,” I say.