The Last Uprising (Defectors Trilogy)

by Tarah Benner

  I looked down the table to the man Godfrey was nodding at. His dark hair was turning gray around the temples, receding into his skull, and he wore round glasses that gave him a buggy, know-it-all look.

  There was something off about the way he was speaking across the table and eating — never gesturing or moving his mouth more than was necessary, as though he were listening and forming judgments rather than engaging.

  “He’s known for his carrier research — premigration and postmigration. But he’s also the resident doctor in his camp. It’s put Shriver’s nose a little out of joint.”

  I grinned in amusement at the thought of Shriver sharing her med tent with anyone, but I was more than a little curious about the doctor.

  “Godfrey says you do carrier research, Doctor Carson,” I said, drawing his attention from across the table.

  He turned, the corners of his mouth rising incrementally. “Indeed I do. I’ve got less to work with than before, and I’m afraid the facilities aren’t what they were before the Collapse.”

  “Well . . . we’ve got plenty of dead ones in the woods if you want to take a look.” I couldn’t quite keep the bite of challenge out of my voice. There was something off about this man.

  The doctor looked a little startled at this turn in the conversation, but his expression cleared smoothly.

  “It doesn’t help me much to study expired subjects,” he said, taking a tiny bite of his food. “I’ve been focusing my research on the amygdala and the temporal lobe of the carriers. We’ve seen this type of aggressive, antisocial behavior in psychopaths, though not to this extent.”

  “Really?” I asked, feeling a little sick.

  Dr. Carson nodded. “We’ve also been studying how the virus’s progression breaks down the body. We’re concerned that the stages don’t accurately reflect the . . . severity of the virus.”

  I glanced at Logan, who had stopped talking to Greyson and was listening with interest.

  “How do you mean?” I asked. “I don’t think anyone would argue the virus isn’t severe.”

  He laughed — a cold, hollow sound that made my insides curdle. “True. But once carriers reach stage four, there really isn’t anything we can do. Even if you could stop the virus from eating away at their brain, the nerve damage, decline in organ function, and the deterioration of their spinal cord would be irreparable. We have not seen any survive longer than twenty-four days once they reach this stage.”

  “And what about the stage-three carriers?”

  Doctor Carson grimaced. “That’s where we find the stages to be misleading. World Corp believes the virus can be completely cured as long as it is administered before stage three.”

  “And you disagree?” I said, my eyes darting to Logan.

  “Yes. Based on the data we’ve gathered, a stage-three carrier that receives the cure will live, but the effects of the virus are irreversible. In my opinion, it’s misleading to say the virus can be cured. Of course, I haven’t had the opportunity to study anyone who’s received the cure, but judging by the brain activity I’ve observed in earlier-stage individuals, a return to healthy brain function would never be possible.”

  “So what then?” snapped Logan from across the table. “What happens to them?”

  Doctor Carson regarded her with curiosity but did not seem put off by her poisonous tone.

  “Based on what I’ve seen . . . I would say any individuals who have been infected with the virus for any reasonable period of time would suffer permanently from violent, unpredictable, antisocial behavior. They would be, in essence, a sociopath.”

  Logan slammed her hand down on the table, causing the silverware to rattle. “A sociopath?”

  “Yes,” said the doctor. His expression was neutral. Clearly, he had no idea what he had just stepped in. The others sitting around them had lowered their voices to listen.

  “That’s enough,” said Greyson through gritted teeth, who was glaring down the table at Doctor Carson.

  “I’m sorry . . . I hope I have not caused offense. I myself have had many friends succumb to the virus —”

  “And have any of them lived?” snarled Logan. “Have they lived with this psychopathy?”

  “Not yet,” he said, his expression turning grim.

  “Well, I have. I was infected, and I’ve had the cure.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said the doctor. He didn’t look abashed. He was staring at Logan with a mixture of interest and amusement. “It is possible, I suppose, with the appropriate rehabilitation . . .”

  Logan’s mouth curled in disgust. “Rehabilitation?”

  “With your permission, I’d love to study your case to see how you progress in your transition back to functional behavior. With many convicted felons, we’ve seen great progress being made —”

  “Shut up,” growled Greyson. “She isn’t a convict. And you aren’t studying her. You know nothing about her or people like her who’ve survived. You said it yourself.”

  “I do apologize,” said the doctor. But his tone and expression did not match his words.

  Greyson wasn’t having it. “Maybe you should worry a little less about hypotheses and a little more about what’s going on in the real world,” he said nastily.

  Logan wasn’t glaring at the doctor anymore. She was looking at Greyson with a mixture of gratitude and adoration.

  Doctor Carson was studying Greyson with fresh interest. “You were in the prisons in Sector X, weren’t you?”

  “Oh, I suppose you’ve studied actual felons, too, then?”

  The doctor threw Greyson his empty smile. “No. I just noticed the way you keep glancing at the doors out of this room. Having this many people in such a small space makes you nervous. You’ve grown your hair out too long, which leads me to think you’re thumbing your nose at the PMC. You’re undocumented, but your HALLO burns say you’ve had a run-in with World Corp. Now, I can only think of one reason why you would have escaped undocumented.”

  Greyson opened his mouth to retort, but the rest of the rebels were getting up to leave. They would be bunking at the Hoopers’ farm and returning in the morning to discuss our strategy against the PMC.

  Doctor Carson shot us another cold smile and followed his companions back out into the hall.

  “I should go see if the others need help moving the dead carriers,” said Greyson, getting up to leave.

  I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was trying to rein in his temper and regain his dignity. I knew Greyson was ashamed of the time he’d spent in Chaddock — if for no other reason than the fact that he would be considered a felon for as long as World Corp was in power.

  Logan followed him out into the hallway and grabbed his arm — a bold move, considering he was trying to shrug off the fury the doctor had unleashed.

  Greyson turned to her, looking wounded and surprised. Logan’s face was as light as I’d seen it since I’d been rescued. She leaned in to Greyson, who looked momentarily speechless, and planted a soft kiss on his lips.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, reaching up on her tiptoes to touch her forehead to his.

  Greyson’s mouth fell open, and his eyes grew round and warm.

  Then, without another word, Logan pulled away and darted toward the stairs, leaving Greyson standing frozen in the hallway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  After a while, the chatter in the dining room died down, and the house was filled with the sleepy yawns of rebels from the west saying goodbye and heading out to the Hoopers’ farm.

  I trudged up the stairs, feeling the weight of my muscles with every step. My entire body ached, but with the rebels’ arrival, all I noticed was the relief I felt.

  Roman’s door was closed, and all the other rooms were silent. As tired as my body felt, I was too wired to sleep.

  Moving lightly so my feet would not disturb the squeaky floorboards, I crept up to the second landing, where I saw the light emanating from the bottom of Amory’s door. My heart
sped up a little, though I didn’t know why I was so anxious.

  I ran a shaky hand through my hair, conscious that I hadn’t really paid any attention to my appearance in the entire time Amory and I had known each other. Back in Columbia, I would have obsessed over my clothes and hair and makeup every time I saw him. My mind would have raced, always searching for the right thing to say, and I would have kicked myself any time my voice hitched in his presence.

  But it wasn’t like that with Amory. The words tumbled out of me before I could think, and I talked to him as easily as anyone I’d ever known. I might wish I looked cuter around him most of the time, but the attraction between us was deeper than that.

  Things that had felt so important then seemed insignificant now.

  I knocked softly, my skin tingling from the memory of our last encounter. The door opened immediately, but he looked surprised to see me. A huge grin spread over his face as he stepped back to let me in.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Was I imagining it, or did he look nervous, too?

  “Much better,” I said, trying to suppress the slight waver in my voice.

  “Good. I might have Shriver take a look at you when she’s done examining Roman.”

  “Not tonight,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I feel fine. Besides . . . I’m in good hands.”

  Amory swallowed, a light flush creeping up the back of his cheeks. “I don’t know . . .” He flashed a grin. “I think I’ve got a blind spot when it comes to you.”

  He sank down on his bed, which seemed so small for someone his size. He watched my every move as I paced around his room. I was finding it difficult to breathe normally.

  “Come over here,” he murmured. It wasn’t a command. It was a request that left him exposed.

  I crossed the room and sank onto the soft red blanket, remembering how I had awoken here, in this room, when I had first arrived at the farm and passed out from hunger and blood loss.

  Amory’s arms came around me, one behind my back and one under my knees. With surprising ease, he pulled me onto his lap and leaned back against the wall. I let my weight fall against his chest, savoring the warmth and strength of his arms.

  He was staring at me through half-lidded eyes, his contentment barely masking the intensity simmering beneath the surface.

  There was so much going on behind those bright gray eyes it made me nervous: hunger and longing, but also fear. My gut ached remembering how I had rejected him just a few weeks ago when I had not remembered who I was.

  “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  “What?”

  “Everything that’s happened since I first brought you up here.”

  I nodded. “I remember. You trusted me when no one else did. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

  “Neither would I,” he reminded me, fingers absently brushing the back of his neck, where he had a scar identical to mine.

  I shivered. I didn’t want to think about those horrible three weeks he’d been World Corp’s prisoner any more than I wanted to remember my own imprisonment.

  “I’m so glad I met you,” he said.

  The swell of emotion this simple statement triggered surprised me. Amory wasn’t talking about me saving him anymore, at least not in that way.

  “Me, too.”

  “These last few weeks have nearly killed me, Haven.” He shook his head. “The way you looked at me like I was the enemy . . . It made me feel like I didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

  His words were painful, but there was no accusation in his tone. He was just sharing the burden, something we’d done since the beginning.

  “I didn’t know who I was either.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand.” He took a deep breath. “Before I met you . . . I hated myself sometimes. I hated that I was a coward, and I hated what I had almost become . . . with the PMC.”

  My chest hurt, and I longed to throw my arms around him and kiss him until he forgot.

  Amory smiled absently. “You changed all that. You made me feel strong . . . like I finally had something to fight for.”

  A muscle was working in his jaw, and he was avoiding my gaze now. “When you were taken, I didn’t just feel empty because I love you . . . I felt empty because the one person in the world who thought I was worth something was gone.”

  The wind was knocked out of me so fast it felt as though I’d fallen flat on my back.

  He’d said he loved me. He’d said it once before, when we’d been traveling north to steal the cure, but it had been in a rush of anger and passion. This felt different.

  Amory seemed to realize the weight of what he’d said, too. He looked up at me, his eyes burning, deadly serious. “I love you, Haven.”

  Those words — I could listen to them on repeat all day long.

  “Amory . . . I’ve always loved you. Even when I didn’t remember, it was in there. I never stopped.”

  That was it. That was all he had to hear. Suddenly he was two Amorys: the Amory I only saw when we were alone together — raw and exposed — and the fighter who attacked everything with ferocity.

  His hand came around my neck, lifting my hair off my back and cupping my head gently. His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me against him.

  His lips were burning with hunger when they found mine, and I returned the kiss just as fervently.

  He groaned softly — almost too low to hear — and brought me closer. Even in his eagerness, his hands were gentle and moved expertly around my injuries as though he’d memorized every cut and bruise.

  Amory’s long, dexterous fingers tangled in my hair, and I felt the roughness of his calluses graze my ear. Before I knew what I had done, I had swung my legs over to straddle his hips.

  He wasn’t resting against the wall anymore. He was leaning into me — urgent and alert — his hands gripping my hips. I tried to savor the taste of him on my tongue, but it made me too hungry.

  I wanted more of this, and it felt as though he was going to be yanked away. Who knew how much time we had?

  I pulled in to close the paper-thin breath of air between us, nearly sending us both crashing off the edge of the bed.

  Amory steadied me, his hands trailing dangerously high up my waist, feeling every inch of me and sending a shiver down my spine. I bit his lip, wanting more, and his fingers slipped beneath my shirt, caressing the bare skin at the small of my back.

  I reached down to the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head, and looked down. For a second, Amory looked genuinely nervous, but the look faded as quickly as it had come, melting into adoration as he studied me.

  I raised an eyebrow. He took the hint and yanked off his own shirt. My mouth fell open a little as I took in his perfectly sculpted torso. His skin held traces of a tan, his smooth chest narrowing at his hips and fading into cut abdominals. Not for the first time, I noticed that the muscles of his shoulders and arms were lean and feral, formed from lifting and building and fighting.

  I let my fingers ghost over his bare shoulders, pulling him closer so I could study him. His arms wrapped around me, eyes locked on mine.

  He didn’t break eye contact, but his fingers drifted to the clasp of my bra. He was breathing a little faster than normal. I felt every rise and fall of his chest through my whole body. The clasp released, and he pulled it away, his eyes blazing.

  I touched his jaw, feeling the barely-there stubble beneath my finger.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  Then his arms came around me. He rested his forehead against mine, pressing our chests together, and for five whole seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

  Gently, he lowered me onto his pillow, and I had the opportunity to study the subtle lines where his abs trailed into the hem of his pants — teasing me.

  “Is this okay?” he asked, brushing my hair to the side.

  I nodded, trying to find my voice. “Yes.”
<
br />   It wasn’t okay. It was perfect.

  His lips met mine again, and I gave into it fully. He returned my energy with everything he had, and my fingers fumbled at his belt, hands shaking. A small chuckle rumbled through him.

  “Never thought you’d be ripping my clothes off,” he whispered.

  I let out a low growl that surprised me and finally managed to undo the belt and the top button of his pants. Now that I had, my heart was pounding. There was no going back now — and I didn’t want to — but I was a little scared. I wondered if things would change between us.

  Then Amory’s lips teased my collarbone, leaving a light trail of hot kisses down my chest and my stomach. His lips grazed my waistband, and my nerves evaporated.

  The rest of our clothes seemed to disappear, though I had no recollection of how it happened, and I could finally run my hands over all of him. The rest of his body was even more wonderful than I could have imagined — all hard lines and soft touches. I caught him staring at me with the same reverence.

  “You’re incredible,” he breathed, his hand trailing up my leg.

  I couldn’t wait any longer — couldn’t breathe.

  “Amory. I want you.”

  That did it. He dove in for another kiss so fierce, I physically ached. Our hands were everywhere.

  When we came together, I felt the warmth of him in every part of my body. It trailed up from my abdomen and spread from my arms to my cheeks. My blood ran hot, pounding in my veins.

  It was slow and tender at first, and then it shifted into something deeper — a desperate, passionate need.

  When it was over, he collapsed against my chest. I matched his breaths until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began, running my fingers through his dark hair.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Three days later, the sound of breaking glass made me topple out of Amory’s bed in a panic.

  I was foggy and disoriented from sleep, and it took me a moment to remember where I was. Amory was gone.

  Then a strangled yell drifted up through the walls — the unmistakable sound of pain. I ran into the hallway and down to the main landing toward the source of the noise.