The Variables (Virulent Book 3)

by Wescott, Shelbi

  Then she groaned and slapped her palm against her forehead.

  Her bag.

  She had left it at Cass’s apartment.

  Her letter from Grant—the one she was supposed to read her first night away from him—was stranded. She put her sandals back on and walked back out into the loft, past her parents.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” her mother asked, moving between Lucy and the staircase.

  “To Cass’s. I left my stuff there.”

  “Get it in the morning,” Maxine told her and she pointed back toward Lucy’s new room.

  “No,” Lucy said. Her voice shook and she was worried that she would burst into tears at any moment. “Grant gave me a letter to read my first night. I have to read it. I can’t leave it until the morning. I promised I would read it.”

  Her mother rolled her eyes, but she stepped to the side. “Goodness, Lucy Larkspur. Please be quick.”

  “Curfew is at eleven,” Scott told her.

  “Curfew?” Lucy stopped with her hand on the railing. “There’s a curfew?”

  “Yes, the lights will dim to conserve energy. A patrol will bring you home. So, hurry,” Scott said and he motioned her along.

  Lucy trotted out into the hall. She walked up the stairs and back through the sky bridge, and down the other sky bridge; it was a laborious jaunt—nothing seemed easily accessible from anything else. It hadn’t felt like such a long walk before, but now she realized it had to be nearly a half a mile away. Feeling tired and sluggish, Lucy opened the sea level door to Cass’s hallway, but then she froze. Her hand still on the knob, the door ajar, Lucy watched as her brother walked down the same hall with his back to her. Lucy slipped into the hallway and shut the door soundlessly, and she ducked into the first alcove and watched him as he knocked twice on Cass’s door.

  Had he looked in her direction, surely he would have seen her peeking out beyond the doorframe of the first apartment on the floor, but he didn’t look. Her heart beat wildly. Why hadn’t she just called out to him? Why was she hiding? But what was he doing down here?

  Cass opened her door and Ethan mumbled a hello.

  “Well, well,” she said.

  “Nice sweatpants,” Ethan answered, a smile in his voice.

  “What?” Cass smiled. “You didn’t get your own pair?”

  Ethan leaned against her doorframe. “My parents are ridiculous. They actually think Teddy and Blair is a good idea. They essentially told me to back off...”

  “We knew that would happen,” Cass cooed in a sympathetic voice. “I’m sorry though. I am.”

  “I owe it to Teddy to fight for him. Darla wouldn’t want this…I know that. He deserves better than this,” Ethan lamented. “And it’s not like I don’t know that it will be hard to get him away from Blair...it’s just...how could they possibly think that he’s better with her than with me? With my mom? My mom’s a child whisperer, you know. She could raise a million Teddys.”

  “Shhhh,” Cass shushed him. “Nothing can be solved tonight.”

  “I’ll kidnap him,” Ethan proclaimed. “Right?”

  “Kidnapping someone in an enclosed building?” Cass laughed. “Ethan...”

  Lucy stuck her head out further. She could still only see Ethan; Cass was hidden in her own doorway. Her friend mumbled something incoherent and Ethan muttered a reply. He was now leaning with one arm against the frame.

  “I’m not going back there tonight,” he said.

  “I don’t have a spare room,” Cass replied, but her tone was warm.

  “I’ll sleep on your floor.”

  “But what will my neighbors think?” Cass teased. “First day on Kymberlin and you’ll be the first to have a walk of shame...”

  “I won’t be the first,” Ethan replied. “You saw the champagne flowing freely at the welcome party...”

  “Well.” Cass leaned out of her door, shortening the distance between them. “You’d be my first overnight visitor in a long time...”

  Lucy shook her head, reeling. The intimacy, the flirting; their voices carrying all the way down to her—she was sick as she followed the conversation.

  Ethan laughed. It was the first time Lucy had heard him laugh since he was brought back from Oregon. She thought of him a few minutes ago glaring at her on the stairs, spewing forth his accusations with such disgust. And now, he laughed.

  “Oh really?” Ethan replied. “Look, Cassandra, here’s the deal. My last girlfriend is dead. And the last girl I thought I could love ended up shot and burned to a crisp inside of my own house. But you knew all that.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand to avoid from gasping audibly. She slumped back against the door. Her breathing became ragged and quick. What had he said? Burned up in their house? She reeled and tried to understand. Burned? The last girl he thought he could love? Who? And what? Confusion flooded her.

  “So,” Ethan continued, “maybe I’m not really the best guy in the world to align yourself with right now. My track record with women is pretty poor.”

  Cass laughed her trademark laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ethan King,” she replied. “Now come sleep on my floor so we can make everyone think you’re much more charming than you actually are.”

  She helped him inside and shut her door.

  The hallway was silent.

  Lucy stumbled out into the vacant hall and let out all her breath in a hot gush. The hallway spun and she put her hands on the wall to steady herself. Their house had burned? And there had been a girl. There had been a fire. Someone had been shot. But you knew all that, he had said to Cass. She knew all that?

  She knew all that.

  Lucy’s face burned and her stomach knotted as she realized the worst betrayal of all: Cass and Ethan were friends. And they had kept it a secret from her.

  They were conspiring together, sharing plans, telling stories, and they had excluded her completely.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The visitors came back to the house along the river on two other occasions. The second time there was an argument with raised voices and determined shouts before the car sped away with a peal of squealing tires. Still, their identities and stories were a mystery that Lou and his family kept closely guarded. Beyond the walls of the Hales’ fortified shelter was a thriving community of survivors. And deep in the dark belly of the basement, they hid a great secret: three humans kept against their will who held secrets of their own.

  Lindsey had talked to them once more about an escape. But her ideas were ever-evolving, hindered by unknown entities. She kept their hope afloat by sending small promises as she passed them their meals or took them to the bathroom. Tiny nuggets of hope; shards of promises carried in the darkness.

  Darla was done.

  Done hoping that they could slip out into the night.

  Done waiting for Lindsey to come up with a plan.

  Done being pushed around.

  Done feeling useless and trapped.

  Anti-Stockholm Syndrome had reared its ugly head. She looked on Lindsey with disgust and rage as she realized that Lou’s daughter’s desire to align herself with the captives had cost them precious days. She had let a waifish girl with big eyes and choppy hair convince her that the best plan was waiting for the right time to escape. That had been a poor decision; regret settled in her gut like a rock. She couldn’t think for too long about the time they had wasted or the guilt was unbearable. She wanted to blame the drugs and the fear, but she knew there was no excuse that would get her to Nebraska faster.

  Darla was done. And Darla was leaving.

  She plotted their escape by the light of their camping lantern, closing her eyes and imagining a series of events that would end their torture. Ainsley had relegated herself to lying supine with her feet on the rocking horse. She would push it back and forth, the old springs squeaking and crying out in a measured tempo.

  Darla slept, curled up a
gainst the carpet without a blanket or discarded shirt to cover her, but her eyes snapped open when she heard slow, steady footsteps on the stairs. Expecting Lindsey, she pushed herself off the ground and walked over to the door and pounded on it with her fist.

  “I don’t want to talk to you unless you’re here to free me,” she whispered through the wood.

  A flashlight beam scanned under the door. Darla watched the light create small shadows in the floor beneath her.

  But it wasn’t Lindsey on the other side, it was Lou. He spoke to her and his voice was rich and deep, and he spoke barely above a whisper. “You think I’m a monster,” he said.

  Darla pushed her ear against the wood to hear. She didn’t answer.

  “You have a bargaining chip to get out of this basement…you know what you need to tell me…and you won’t.” He seemed genuinely hurt and confused. “You have to explain it to me, Darla,” Lou continued. “We’ve reached the point of no return. Your presence here is costing me allies…”

  “The people I hear,” she said. “Who are they?”

  Ainsley stirred. The rocking horse creaked.

  “I have people to protect, too,” he answered. “What do you know about the Sweepers? Where are you going and what do I need to do to protect myself from them?” The flashlight disappeared for a second and then reappeared under the door. “Darla?”

  She lowered her head and scratched her nails into the wood. Just so he would know she was there; just so he would know she was listening. Then she cleared her throat, “I don’t trust you. You’ve given me no reason to believe that you will keep your word. I’m a bargainer, Lou, but I don’t have anything to give you. When you let me out of this basement of your own free will and not because I’ve given you anything in return, only then do you get to know what I know.”

  Lou sighed.

  “But…” he started and stopped. “If you are one of them…”

  “I’m not conning you,” she replied.

  “It’s not personal,” Lou continued. He was practically begging. “It’s survival. I know that someone tried to kill us and failed. I know that they will continue to kill every last survivor until they have accomplished their goal...and yet you continue to protect them. Protect their whereabouts. That’s suspicious. Highly suspicious. Explain it to me, Darla. Explain to me why I’m supposed to think of you as my ally. I’m begging you…I’m here, I can’t sleep, I can’t think.”

  Darla pounded a weak fist into the door as her answer.

  “I’m waiting,” Lou said with an air of calm that crept underneath Darla’s skin. She shivered.

  “You can’t drug me, and separate me from my friends, and keep me as your prisoner, and expect me to want to cooperate with you…” Darla croaked to the flashlight beam. “You attacked us first. Unprovoked.”

  “I thought you were Sweepers.” He sounded so apologetic. So sad. Darla hated him for it. He had the power to do the right thing and still he refused. She wanted to make him pay for his blind allegiance to a non-existent standard. She didn’t doubt that Lou thought he was doing the right thing, and in many ways that made her even angrier.

  “We’re not the enemy. Why are you trying so hard to make us one?”

  “You can’t blame me for wanting to protect my family.”

  “This new world can’t be built on mistrust,” she seethed and she pounded her hand into the door a little harder. “You didn’t even wait to see if we were good people before you decided we were bad.”

  He had no response to that.

  “I won’t jeopardize my own needs just so you can have some answers,” she continued. “My reasons for refusing to cooperate outweigh your needless desire for answers that don’t affect you.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Darla,” Lou said.

  She hated the way he said her name.

  She heard him turn and the flashlight disappeared; his heavy steps traveled back up the stairs and the basement door slammed shut.

  Squeak, squeak, squeak went the rocking horse. Ainsley sighed in her sleep. Or maybe she was awake. Darla didn’t know and she didn’t feel like needlessly waking her up just to see if she had been awake to start with. A second later, she heard Dean knocking. She crawled her way over to the vent and pressed her body against the floor. Her cheeks were wet, but she didn’t bother wiping them.

  “This is a lost cause,” she whispered into the grate.

  “I heard,” Dean said. He sounded like he was right beside her. She wished she could reach through the vent and hold his hand. “Jesus. Darla...we have to do something,” he continued. “We can’t stay here like this.”

  “I know. I’m thinking.”

  She didn’t move. She just stayed still against the ground, her ear to the floor.

  “We’re going to find him, Darla. Teddy is still out there and we’re going to get to him. He’s safe and he’s waiting for us. Okay?”

  “I’m not okay,” she answered. “I’ve never felt so weak. So stupid and weak. This is the one time I should be strong…and I failed. I misjudged this entire situation. How could I have failed my own child?”

  “You’ll regain your strength...”

  “Not just physically weak, Dean. Mentally. Emotionally. I don’t know if I have what it takes to do this. I don’t think I can be the hero.” She paused. “Should I tell him? Should I tell him about Nebraska and the soldiers and my son?”

  “If you think it’s best,” he said quickly. His response was not what she had wanted to hear.

  “We don’t know who those other people are,” she replied. “What prevents them from getting the information from us and checking it out before they let us leave? And blowing our cover? Or…launching a surprise attack. With Teddy still there.”

  “Is that what you’re most afraid of?” Dean whispered.

  Darla didn’t answer.

  “Well,” Dean said after a pause, “Then it’s settled. They learn nothing from us. We hold our ground. We’ll find another way out.” They went silent. Then he whispered, “You think we’ll find my boy, Darla? It’s not fair, you know…it’s not fair that I just let him slip out of my life. I see that…I need to tell him that I should’ve fought for him. You think he’s okay?”

  “I do,” she answered. But she didn’t know. She thought of the items in the room; she inventoried them in her head. And she thought of Lindsey, her potential co-conspirator coming down with dinner in a few hours. All those things fluttered through her thoughts. Then she shifted against the carpet and said, “Tell me a good memory, Dean.” She could hear the hum of the house through the cracks beneath her.

  He went quiet and Darla pressed her ear down harder.

  “Dean?”

  “Christmas. When I was about ten. My dad took me out to cut down our own tree, just me and him, out in some u-cut farm in the mountains. We were out all day trying to find the perfect tree. He’d keep saying, ‘Your mom deserves the best tree, Dean. Just the best.’ Finally, we found one...cut it down, strapped it up, traveled all the way home. It was dusk when we pulled in the drive, and my mom was there, in the window, with two mugs of hot cocoa. Big old marshmallows floating in just pure chocolate. I can still taste it. And I remember my dad setting that tree up in the middle of our family room and helping my mom string the lights.” Dean paused.

  Darla couldn’t hear anything but her own steady breath against the floor.

  “We had this Elvis Christmas record playing. And my parents were dancing...my mom in this pink robe and my dad in these tight bell-bottomed pants. They were just so happy...you remember what it felt like to see your parents just happy like that? God, I can just see them still. Elvis. The tree. And my mom hands me the tinsel, right? These stringy pieces of silver and gold and I string them all over. And she kisses my head. And says to me, ‘You remember these moments, Dean, and hide them in your heart. Because life isn’t always pretty and you’ll need bright shiny tinsel moments to get through, o
kay?’ I should’ve remembered that sooner, I guess. How it felt. Maybe it would’ve made me a better man. A better dad or husband. I knew what good looked like and it didn’t matter. I didn’t remember the tinsel, I guess. What a piece of wasted advice.”

  “I said a good memory,” Darla said with a smile in her voice.

  “Well, then, how’s this for cliché. The day Grant was born,” he amended. “He was a pink, ugly mess. And God, I miss that kid.”

  “He’s a good egg,” Darla said. She picked at a loose carpet thread. “Good young man. From what I knew.” She knew him for a day, but qualifying it wasn’t important. It was what Dean needed to hear and she was happy to say it.

  “I did okay sometimes,” was Dean’s reply. “You know, they tell you that you’re supposed to tell your kid that you’re proud of them so that they know it when they’re older. I didn’t do that. Do you do that?”

  Darla hummed a yes. She did. She was a good mom. Not a perfect mom, but a good mom. She had never measured herself against the barrage of parenting barometers that modern society kept throwing her way. She was a good mom and she didn’t need a different mom sitting behind a computer to tell her that. Pressed against the floor, her ear to a vent, the rumblings of the house pounding in her ear, Darla knew that her current situation did not define her—she would reunite with her son. She would keep him safe.

  The duo stopped talking. There was nothing more to say. Darla could hear Dean’s thick and steady breathing from the other side of the grate, and the movement of the rabbits in their pen. Dean’s isolation had taken a toll on his sanity—he had named the rabbits after various former baseball players and lamented when the Hales picked a beloved one to eat. Without natural light, the rabbits were small and skittish, but Dean had seemed to form fast friendships. Poor Buster Posey had gone up the night before last, and Darla was certain she could hear Dean praying for the bunny’s soul.