“Sorry about the guys. They were just messing around,” JD said. “How’s your first day?”
Abby glanced up at his towering form. “Okay. People aren’t very friendly though.”
“Give them a day or two. They’re just intimidated. I mean”—JD raised his dark eyebrows—”you look like an actress or something with that hair and those boots.”
Abby glanced down. “What’s wrong with my boots?”
“Nothing. I love them.” He leaned closer. “It’s just—the girls around here might not be ready for the competition.”
She put her government book into her backpack. She shut the door, twisted the lock, then glanced past JD’s toned arm at a group of girls. They wore non-designer jeans, pleather shoes, and layered knit tops. Plain, comfortable, and not likely from anything close to a department store. Maybe JD wasn’t that far off. Tomorrow she’d choose more casual clothing.
She checked her schedule. Calculus. Room 204.
“I’ve got Volkman next too,” JD said, peering over her shoulder. “It’s upstairs. I’ll walk with you.”
Abby didn’t want to encourage him but saw no reason to be rude. “You’re in AP calculus?”
“Yeah. That surprise you?”
Absolutely, but Abby switched gears. “What’s the teacher like?”
JD started up the main staircase. “She’s cool. A stickler about homework. I have a feeling you’ll like her.”
Abby did like Mrs. Volkman. And, to her mild annoyance, JD was growing on her. He was the only student who’d gone out of his way to make conversation. Abby had never realized how lucky she’d been to have friends in DC.
Somehow she made it through the day, though she’d chewed her poor thumbnail down to the quick. She walked outside and the bitter cold blasted her face, forcing her to snuggle into her bomber jacket and step carefully over the icy pavement. As she crossed the lot, not only did she feel the stares of every person within eyesight, she realized her car was the only BMW in a lot filled with two-tone pickup trucks and run-down cars. There were a few exceptions. JD waved at her from a new cobalt-blue Ford F–150 with gun rack and snowboarding accessories.
Rich misfits? She squirmed at having so much in common with the likely-to-be-elected prom king. His type had never paid much attention to her before, and she had yet to figure out his intentions. In a town this small, it was probably just the thrill of the new girl.
Abby slid into the sanctuary of beige leather seats and tinted windows. Once she was inside, she started the car and turned up the heat. While the car warmed up, she pulled out her cell and texted Dad.
FEEL LKE SNOB N A HALF. NO 1 DRIVES BMW.
The trip home went much faster in daylight. As she pulled up the narrow driveway and parked the car outside the log cabin house, she found herself peering around the perimeter. So used to living in an apartment in the city, it creeped her out to be home alone surrounded by trees and the occasional bark-eating moose. Not that she’d admit it to Dad, of course. Still, she could barely see the lights of the neighbor’s house through the trees. Only 4:35 and the sky was growing dusky.
Abby locked the front door and turned on all the lights as she made her way into the living room. Einstein padded up to greet her, and she snuggled into his soft, white fur. “You love me, don’t you, Einstein?”
She checked the cat’s food and water, then tucked herself onto the living room couch with her homework. She read her government chapter first, then did her calculus problems, and finally curled up with Einstein to start reading The Great Gatsby.
Six chimes of the grandfather clock jolted her away from 1920s New York. She sat up. Six o’clock and pitch black outside. She walked to the huge wall of windows that stretched to the vaulted ceiling. All she could see was her reflection staring back. The image reminded her of the array of horror films she shouldn’t have watched over the years. Forest-dwelling weirdos could be spying on her right now, planning her murder, and she’d never know. How might the forensic scientists enter the scene? They’d take photos first, then analyze how the intruder might have broken in, estimate the time of death—
Abby shook her head. Not the best line of thoughts when one was home alone. This room needed drapes. She walked to the front door, flipped on the porch light, and peered out the narrow, full-length window that edged the front door. Empty driveway. She shouldn’t be surprised. Dad had never gotten home early before; why would Alaska be any different?
She contemplated making dinner, but why bother? Dad would likely wander in after she was asleep. She microwaved herself a potpie, gathered The Great Gatsby and Einstein, and climbed the stairs to her room, wondering where might be the best place to order drapes online.
She ate and read more of The Great Gatsby until she nodded off. After brushing her teeth, she twisted the mini-blinds closed on her bedroom window so she wouldn’t have to see the inky blackness, then crawled under her purple comforter and clicked off the lamp. The hallway light filtered through her cracked-open doorway, casting shadows across the bare, lavender walls and carpeting. See? Her dad wasn’t completely self-centered. He’d gone out of his way to make sure her room was purple. Tomorrow she’d put up some posters.
Einstein jumped up beside her and kneaded the comforter with his paws, purring like a distant lawnmower. She pulled the cat close and stroked his fur, missing her mom more than ever.
[CHAPTER THREE]
ROLO OPENED THE DOOR TO Dr. Elliot’s office and shoved Martyr forward. “In you go, boy.”
Martyr fought to keep his balance as he entered the chilled lab.
Dr. Elliot, the only doctor on the Farm who conducted health examinations, looked up from his desk, a wide smile stretching across his narrow face. His small, dark eyes glittered over a long, oily nose. He stood and glided to the counter.
Martyr couldn’t help but stare every time Dr. Elliot walked, amazed he was able to move at all. The man looked like the stick figures Baby drew in art class: tall and very thin.
“You know the drill. Clothes off. Then up on the table.” Dr. Elliot always sounded like he was pinching his nose when he spoke. He opened an upper cupboard, clinking glass vials together as he searched for something. “Fasten him tight today, Rolo.”
As he did each time he visited Dr. Elliot for a check-up, Martyr removed his shirt and pants, draped them over a chair sitting beside the door, then lay back on the paper-covered exam table. Within seconds Rolo strapped his wrist into the restraint, pulling the buckles until they pinched. Martyr barely noticed the pain as he watched Dr. Elliot. Bad vials were kept in that cupboard. Things that made Jasons sick. What was the doctor looking for? This was to be an exam, not marks.
Rolo hooked the last restraint on Martyr’s leg and left. Once the door clicked shut, an eerie silence blanketed the lab. Dr. Elliot still busied himself at the cupboard.
Martyr swallowed. He shifted slightly and the hairs on his right calf pulled. He looked down and adjusted his leg as much as was possible within Rolo’s handiwork. When he straightened, Dr. Elliot stood over him. Martyr jolted, heart thudding in his chest.
Dr. Elliot’s wide smile returned. “And how are we feeling today?”
“Fine.”
“Eighteen days now.”
Two-and-a-half weeks until expiration. Martyr stared at his feet, which hung off the end of the table. He, like most boys in Section Five, had long ago grown too tall to fit on it comfortably.
“I’ve been thinking.” Dr. Elliot held Martyr’s left eye open with his thumb and shined a light into it, then did the same to his right eye. “What will happen to Baby when you’re not here to protect him?”
Martyr squeezed his hands into fists.
Dr. Elliot patted Martyr’s head, his rubber glove scratching against the prickly stubs of hair that would be shaved off tomorrow during the J:3s weekly grooming. “Don’t you worry about Baby,” Dr. Elliot said. “I promise to take good care of him.”
A wave of heat flashed over Martyr, an
d he clenched every muscle to remain calm. Dr. Elliot liked to taunt; he would not get the satisfaction of a reaction today.
As if nothing had occurred, Dr. Elliot commenced with his tests, scribbling information onto his chart after each step. Martyr had been through it hundreds of times over the years: Blood pressure, temperature, then a look in Martyr’s eyes, ears, and throat. Blood drawn from his arm. Poking and prodding all over his body. Listening to his heart and lungs.
At the end of the exam, Dr. Elliot would call Rolo to escort Martyr to the bathroom, where Martyr would have to urinate in a cup. Dr. Elliot claimed it was all to make sure he stayed healthy, but Martyr wondered if there was another reason.
Someone spoke in a raised voice just outside the closed door. “You know I’m worth more than that.” Dr. Max’s voice. Muffled, but angry. “Why not give me top clearance?”
“I see no reason to change things.” Dr. Kane, cool and calm.
“I’ve sacrificed more than the others. I deserve to be involved at Camp Ragnar.”
Martyr looked at Dr. Elliot, who stood motionless, staring at the closed door. What had Dr. Max sacrificed? And why was he so upset?
“You’re welcome to work at Gunnolf full time, Dr. Jordan,” Dr. Kane said. “I don’t know why you refuse. Your bedside manner with the surrogates is matchless.”
Martyr held his breath, straining to hear Dr. Max’s response, hoping his favorite doctor would not leave Jason Farms to work at any other facility.
“We’ve been over this,” Dr. Max said. “Deborah and I deserve more—”
“Then we have nothing further to discuss.” The door handle lowered, and the door opened a crack, increasing the volume of Dr. Kane’s voice. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Dr. Elliot is waiting.”
Dr. Max’s voice lowered. “At least let me see the shared consciousness data. Some of the specimens are mine. I’ve got a right to—”
“Good day, Dr. Jordan.”
The door to Dr. Elliot’s office opened completely, and Dr. Kane swept in, quickly shutting the door behind him. He studied Martyr. “How is he?”
“Perfect, as usual,” Dr. Elliot said. He glanced at the lab’s entrance. “Is there a problem I should know about?”
Dr. Kane followed Dr. Elliot’s gaze. “Dr. Jordan wants top clearance.”
“Why not give it? His expertise would be an asset to the project.”
“He never offers expertise, only asks questions. Demands to see the data and the formulas. He’s too ambitious.” Dr. Kane turned his eyes back on Martyr. “We’re on schedule?”
“Of course.” Dr. Elliot lowered his gangly body into the chair behind his desk and read from Martyr’s chart. “Friday the twenty-eighth. We’ll put him under, transport him to Gunnolf that night, and you can meet us there in the morning.”
Put him under. Transport him. They spoke of Martyr’s death as if it was a mundane routine, like sweeping the floor or making a bed. Martyr supposed it was that way for them. For people who had approval to go outside. But why couldn’t they wait until he left to talk about it?
“And how are you feeling?” Dr. Elliot asked Dr. Kane.
“Nauseous. I haven’t eaten yet today.”
Martyr scrutinized Dr. Kane’s appearance. His tall and muscular body seemed as forbidding as ever, but his pale face and red eyes ringed with creases hinted all was not well.
“You need to eat,” Dr. Elliot said, “whether you’re hungry or not.”
“I will.” Dr. Kane slumped onto the chair by the door, sitting on Martyr’s clothes. “I need to hire a personal assistant, but the idea of screening someone …”
“Two-and-a-half weeks and you’ll be good as new. You won’t need an assistant.”
Dr. Kane rubbed his face, sighed, then stood and walked to Martyr’s side, his commanding presence returning with each step. “Well, J:3:3, are you ready to serve your purpose?”
Martyr looked away from Dr. Kane’s bloodshot eyes. “Yes.” But his voice cracked, betraying his cowardice.
Dr. Kane patted Martyr’s shoulder. “It will be painless, I assure you.” He walked to the door and pulled it open. “Dr. Elliot, let me know if there are any complications.”
“Of course.”
When the door closed behind Dr. Kane, Dr. Elliot stood and walked to the opposite side of his desk. He perched on the front edge, crossed his ankles and arms, and fixed his beady eyes on Martyr. “You remind me of my older brother.”
Martyr glanced away and swallowed. Now things would get weird, like they often did in Dr. Elliot’s lab once the testing was complete. Martyr usually distracted his thoughts from Dr. Elliot’s ranting, but all he could think of today were the conversations he’d just overheard.
“Eighteen days now.”
“You’re welcome to work at Gunnolf full time, Dr. Jordan.”
“Friday the twenty-eighth. We’ll put him under, transport him to Gunnolf that night—”
“Richard did everything right.” Dr. Elliot puffed out a short breath. “I don’t think he ever got in trouble once, not even a lecture. It wasn’t normal.”
“I get into trouble,” Martyr said.
Dr. Elliot tipped back his head and chuckled, an almost silent, wheezing sound. “Only because you play the hero. If you simply minded your own business, you’d never get marks at all.”
But Martyr didn’t mind marks if it meant keeping Baby and Hummer from getting hurt. He glanced away from Dr. Elliot’s penetrating gaze and noticed a small vial sitting on the counter. A chill washed over him—the vial hadn’t been there when Martyr first entered. Dr. Elliot must have removed it from the cupboard while Rolo hooked Martyr’s restraints.
A smile swelled under Dr. Elliot’s greasy nose. “Always so sharp, you are.” He strode to the counter and held up the vial, which was filled with yellow fluid. “This is for an LD:50 test. Do you know what that means?”
Martyr’s mouth went dry.
“A lethal dose-fifty test determines the amount of substance required to kill fifty percent of the test subjects used in a study. I’ve been documenting the side effects of EEZ for the provider.”
Martyr worked to keep his panic at bay. The doctors often tested different vials on the Jasons as a consequence of misbehavior and a way to conduct the research necessary to save the lives of those who lived outside. But exams were not meant for marks. Surely Dr. Elliot wouldn’t do testing on him now, especially when Dr. Kane was concerned about Martyr’s health.
Yet Dr. Elliot often did things that Martyr did not understand.
The doctor poked a needle into the vial and filled the syringe. As he stepped toward Martyr, he tapped the barrel of the syringe with his index finger. “One cc of EEZ has been enough to make some of the boys ill for a week. I’m sure you’ve seen them in the bathroom, puking violently into the toilets after marks with me. I’ve been saving a larger dose for someone special: Baby.”
Martyr pulled against the restraints.
“I want you to have a small taste of what your little friend will experience once you’re dead. My farewell gift to you.”
Dr. Elliot clamped a hand down on Martyr’s forearm. The needle stung as it pierced his skin, and Martyr looked away while the yellow liquid emptied into his veins. He waited for the pain, but nothing seemed to be happening.
Dr. Elliot tossed the syringe onto the counter and pulled off his rubber gloves, then threw them into the trash can and pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Send Rolo up. I’m all done in here.”
It wasn’t until Rolo steered Martyr out into the hall that Martyr felt his chest itch, then his arms. He scratched, but the sensation did not abate. Martyr slowed to scratch harder, leaving long red marks on his arms.
Rolo prodded him in the back with his stick. “Keep moving. Into Dr. Goyer’s office.”
Martyr’s head snapped around. “Dr. Goyer?”
“You still have two marks to serve with him.” Rolo smacked his stick against his palm.
Martyr moved on, not wanting to be struck. As he walked, his heart suddenly thudded irregularly. His chest burned. He tensed and willed himself to reach Dr. Goyer’s office.
This day continued to get stranger. Marks were usually done daily until completed, so when a week had passed from the necktie incident and he’d not been escorted to Dr. Goyer’s lab, Martyr had assumed the doctor had decided not to work at the Farm, and that his marks had been forgotten.
But Dr. Goyer was sitting behind his desk when Rolo steered Martyr inside and strapped him to the exam table.
As soon as Rolo left, another burning throb singed Martyr’s insides. He gasped and clenched his muscles against the pain. His clammy back stuck to the thin paper sheet that lined the exam table and he shivered, wishing he could itch or fold his arms to hold himself together.
Dr. Goyer’s chubby face rested in one hand, elbow propped on his desk. “Hello, Martyr. How are you today?”
“I …” Martyr winced, gritting his teeth at the burn that now radiated through him like pronged fire.
Dr. Goyer straightened. “Are you all right?”
Fluid rose in Martyr’s throat and he gagged, trying to hold it back. His body shook, rustling the paper sheet beneath him.
Dr. Goyer leapt to his feet and scurried to the exam table. He laid his hand on Martyr’s head and frowned.
Martyr vomited. He twisted his head to the side to get the stuff out of his mouth. Dr. Goyer jumped back, then lunged forward and fumbled with the restraint buckle on Martyr’s left wrist. Once he freed both arms and helped Martyr to a sitting position, Dr. Goyer ran to open the cupboard under the sink. He returned with a plastic tub and sat it on Martyr’s lap.
“I’m calling Dr. Elliot.”
Martyr shook his head and began to speak, but Dr. Goyer had already turned away.
The doctor spoke into the intercom. “I need Dr. Elliot in here right away. Martyr is sick.”
But Martyr felt somewhat better now. All but the burning itch and the taste in his mouth had vanished. He swiped his wrist across his mouth and scraped his tongue with his teeth. “Could I have some water?”
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