Outcasts

by Jill Williamson

  “It’s lovely,” Kendall said. “What’s this smoke?”

  “Jack’s Peak. It’s a village that used to be up on the mountain. Enforcers destroyed it too.”

  Kendall walked over to the stack of canvasses. “May I?”

  Omar swiped his hand through his hair. “Sure, I guess.”

  She flipped to the next one, a forest scene painted in dark greens and blacks.

  “That’s not done yet.” It always made him anxious when people saw his art. Part of his soul was bared in each creation. He felt vulnerable. Red must have known how much it would bother him to have a crowd wanting to look, and that’s why she’d made that flyer. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t just move on.

  Kendall flipped to a close-up of a pink flower, then to one of a couple kissing in a street.

  “That’s inspired from an Old photograph I had at home. Papa Eli said they were celebrating the end of a world war.”

  Kendall turned her wide eyes to his. “The whole world was at war?”

  “A long time ago, yes. Before the Great Pandemic.”

  The next was a painting of Jemma.

  “You like to paint people, don’t you?”

  “I like finding each person’s unique beauty, to make others experience something when they look at the painting. It might not be joyful, but it’s real. People need to see beauty in each other and have empathy for how we’re unique. It’s wrong to try to be something we’re not.”

  His words stirred something within him. He’d changed. He used to strive to be just like Levi, but that was a hollow dream. He needed to be himself. Maybe he was finally starting to do that.

  “I bet you love mimics, don’t you?”

  Omar chuckled and looked away. Saying those things had made him feel even more vulnerable. He suddenly wanted Kendall to leave, and she hadn’t even said what she’d come to say yet.

  She pulled the painting of Jemma forward to reveal an owl, then a deer, then another painting of Sophie, then … “Belbeline Combs?”

  Omar flushed, as well he should. He had painted Bel nude, draped in a green sheet. He’d painted two canvases like that. Otley had taken the one he’d given to Bel.

  He tugged at the painting, wanting to hide it, but Kendall hung on. “You know Bel?”

  Her eyes studied him, wary now, and let go of the painting. “Not as well as you, I suspect.”

  “I thought I’d taken it out.” He set the canvas against the second stack, backside out, relieved to give Bel her privacy from people who didn’t understand. “How do you know her?”

  “I had dinner with her once shortly after I’d arrived in the Safe Lands. She and General Otley were together, and Lawten Renzor had invited me.”

  Wow. “You had dinner with the task director general, the enforcer general, and Belbeline? That’s mad wild.” But that made sense when he recalled how the Safe Lands had bought Kendall from Wyoming. The vulture would have treated her well until his use for her had run out, same as he had Omar.

  Kendall flipped to another painting, one of Zane that showed the side where his ear was missing. “Once I became pregnant, Belbeline was assigned as my mentor in the harem.”

  Omar almost choked. “Bel was pregnant?”

  “She lost the child when I was about four months in. So she left, and I was on my own.” Kendall flipped to the painting Omar had done of his mom.

  Belbeline had been pregnant. Probably every woman in the Safe Lands had been. This place was so strange. And now Shay was pregnant too. But Shay wasn’t infected, and that would keep her babies from dying, right? Please, God, let her babies live.

  Kendall continued to look through Omar’s paintings. He’d done City Hall, the park, Lake Joie, a crowd of people wearing different colors of Roller Paint, and one of a very pregnant Naomi, about which he said to Kendall, “Don’t tell Jordan. He wouldn’t understand.”

  “Some are more realistic than others. Do you have different methods?”

  “Well, some aren’t finished. And I do better when someone poses. When I paint from memory, it’s hard to get everything just right, especially the lighting.”

  Kendall flipped all the paintings back against the wall and turned to face him. “I need your help.”

  Finally. He looked at her, waiting.

  “I got a summons from the task director general’s office. It didn’t say why he summoned me. I’ve been ignoring it for weeks. Well, my appointment was for this morning, and I didn’t go. He wants something from me. It’s … his way.”

  The task director general was like that with everyone, but Kendall looked terrified.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every time I meet with him, he asks me to do something. Usually it’s something I don’t want to do. And something I can’t refuse.”

  Sounded about right. “You have no idea what he might be asking now?”

  She wrung her hands below her chin, like she was praying hard. “I don’t know. But I want to disappear, like Jemma and Shaylinn.”

  Well, she couldn’t live in the cabin. The fact that he thought Kendall was pretty would ruin things with Shay. He’d do something dumb. “I can ask Zane to help with that.”

  “And there’s one other thing. I know you’re planning to free your children from the nursery. So I wondered … if you were already going there … Could you get baby Elyot too?”

  “Your son.” Walls! Omar had forgotten she had a kid too. “Of course. I mean, once we figure out how. We’re still not sure how to get into the nursery.”

  “I can take you, if you let me come along,” Kendall said. “After Lawten changed his mind about letting me hold Elyot — I think he felt bad — he let me visit the nursery. So I know the layout of the rooms, and I know where it’s located in the MC and everything.”

  Levi would be relieved to have someone’s help with the nursery, but would he accept help from Kendall? She’d dined with Otley and Renzor. What if she was working for them? He didn’t think she was, but what if? “I’ll tell Levi you’re willing to help.”

  “Thank you, Omar.”

  She hugged him then. He stiffened and held his breath, trying not to smell her perfume, but her hug lasted so long he had to breathe. Her scent filled him with a longing for physical contact, so he pulled back, putting a few inches of space between them. “Kendall, you don’t want to be friends with me. I’ll just mess it up. I always do.”

  “I’d rather decide that for myself.” She grabbed his face and crushed her lips against his. Whoa. He shouldn’t do this, but he gave in to his feelings and walked her backward, slowly, continuing to kiss her, until they reached the sofa. He pushed her down and fell on top. When he kissed her again, she went stiff underneath him.

  He moved his weight to his forearms, thinking he’d squished her. “What’s wrong?”

  She had her hands against his chest, pushing against him. Her eyes were somehow angry and terrified at the same time. “What are you doing? Why did you …?”

  He flushed and sat up on the edge of the couch, Kendall’s feet behind him. “I thought … You don’t want to?”

  She shook her head, eyes glazed with tears now. Great. He’d made her cry.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry, I … I just assumed.” He was an idiot. He wished she’d leave so he wouldn’t feel so stupid.

  Kendall sat up as well, on the opposite end of the couch, and pulled her feet up until her knees were to her chest. She hugged them to herself, as if putting as much distance between Omar and her as possible without making it obvious. “I’m not rejecting you, Omar. I just don’t know.”

  “No, it’s okay.” It was good, really. Very good that she’d stopped him. Pairing up was an addiction for him — as strong as his craving for his PV. And Kendall was an outsider. How could he have treated her so poorly? He needed … something. Help, maybe.

  “And what about Shaylinn?” Kendall asked. “She told me she loves you.”

  “She did?” His voice
had squeaked the words, and his chest felt like it might explode. Why would any girl love him? Shay especially? He was a mess. And he’d hurt her. He’d been angry and said mean things even when she said she hadn’t told Jemma that he was the Owl.

  Something occurred to him then. Kendall had been there that night too. “Kendall, do you ever talk to Jemma?”

  “On the Wyndo,” Kendall said. “We talked about you, actually. She was asking about that girl, Red.”

  Was that why Jemma had attacked him in regards to Red? Kendall must have told her what Red said at the train station. His eyes narrowed. “Did you tell her I was the Owl?”

  The way Kendall’s eyes shifted to the floor was answer enough. “I’m sorry. I know you told Shaylinn not to say anything, but … It just sort of came out. Are you mad?”

  At himself. So disgusted with himself. He’d yelled at Shaylinn, accused her of lying. Insulted her letter writing, the one thing that made her feel good. And then he’d made out with Kendall as if Shay didn’t even exist. How could he have forgotten that Kendall had been there when Shay had guessed his secret identity?

  God, I’m sorry. Again!

  Shaylinn of Zachary wasn’t manipulative like other girls. She was different. He never should have doubted her. So, what was he going to do about her? She deserved better than him. He leaned back against the couch and sank into the cushions.

  “I really like you, Omar,” Kendall said. “I just need to move slow.”

  “Slow is good.” But he was ashamed. He didn’t dislike Kendall, but he didn’t know anything about her. Getting into a relationship with her would be no different than what he’d had with Red. It would be physical; nothing more. He should never have let Belbeline talk him into doing the things they had. If he’d been stronger, he might never have given in. Then he wouldn’t have the thin plague now. And he wouldn’t be a depraved animal when women were around.

  He smiled at Kendall, tried to make it look sincere. But his hands shook, and he got up in search of his PV. He needed a fix of something, and it wasn’t going to be physical.

  When Kendall left, Omar went out to fill his PV and to shop for Shay. It was an effort to do penance, he knew, but he couldn’t help the way he felt. His credits were blood credits anyway. They may as well be used for someone good. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to buy her forgiveness, though. Shay was tough, and she wasn’t stupid.

  When he went to the nest that night he found a pile of messages from Shay that Jordan had brought to Zane. Shay wasn’t giving up on her plans, and she was too stubborn to let a bully like Omar stop her. He rummaged through the messages, his stomach twisted in anticipation, hoping. Sure enough, he found one addressed to Omar of Elias in Shay’s loopy handwriting. He opened it.

  Only those who try to resist temptation know its strength. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. You’re stronger than your flesh. Remember, suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. Remain steadfast.

  It was like she could read his mind. How did she know the very words that would so affect him? He’d have to ask next time he saw her. If he could muster the guts to face her after what he’d done.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Tuesday morning, Mason went to the boarding school, hoping to get a reply from Penelope about the escape plans for Saturday, but the class never came out. What did that mean? He’d gotten there in plenty of time, so he couldn’t have missed them. Had a teacher found the note Mason had given her last week? Or was it merely a coincidence?

  He walked back to his apartment and text-tapped Levi on his new off-grid Wyndo.

  Levi text-tapped back: What are we supposed to do now?

  Mason replied: Don’t know. I’ll get back to you.

  This afternoon Ciddah would take Mason to meet her donors. Perhaps she would help him now. Her confession had broken down a wall between them, but he still wasn’t sure how much to tell her. Without Penelope, though, he’d need Ciddah’s help to get into the boarding school. He just didn’t know how to broach the topic.

  “Next stop, Lake Joie Drive, Midlands Central.” The train driver’s voice came muted and soft over the speakers in the ceiling as the train started to slow.

  Mason sat on the train beside Ciddah, who’d taken the window seat. The train looked to be about half full. They were going to meet her donors, to prove to Mason that love and commitment did exist in this place. But Mason had come up with dozens more questions since their dinner the other night, and he hadn’t stopped asking them since he’d met Ciddah at her apartment.

  The train stopped fully, the doors slid open, and Mason watched as passengers exited the train and new ones stepped on. “Why don’t you use a vaporizer?”

  “I don’t like PVs.” Ciddah was practically whispering, her eyes darting from passenger to passenger as if they all might be enforcers in disguise. “There’s too big a temptation to supplement your meds, so I take my doses in pill form.”

  Mason wished Omar would try that approach. “Do you have a medic who gives you a prescription?”

  “I used to. But that was before I found out there are stimulants in the ACT treatment.”

  Stimulants in medication? “What kind? How did you find out?”

  The train doors slid shut, and the train rolled forward again. “I overheard something when I testified before the Safe Lands Guild. But I haven’t been able to figure out what it meant. Lawten won’t give me access to the medical files in the History Center. But since I started compounding my own meds, I’ve been healthier, though I did experience some withdrawal symptoms. That confirmed that there had been something unnecessary in my meds. So I wanted to make clean meds for Droe and Losira too. I hoped it would help them get stronger after whatever it was Lawten had slipped them. I wanted to compound them myself, but I needed supplies from the pharmacy.”

  “And you would have had to file a request with Mr. Brock for those.”

  “Next stop, Verapon Street, Midlands West.” The train slowed, softly jerking Mason and Ciddah back in their seats.

  “Exactly.” She winced, her nose wrinkling. “He would have known if I’d been asking for more than my own personal share. And a lower-level medic is only permitted to compound her own meds, not anyone else’s.”

  The train stopped fully, and passengers came and went. Mason could imagine Mr. Brock’s steadfast adherence to pharmacy protocol. “He would have denied your request.”

  Ciddah’s gaze followed a young woman who slipped through the doors at the last second, barely getting inside before they closed. “Not only that, he would have reported me. He’s required by law to report anything out of the ordinary.”

  Which was why she’d framed Mason. The train pulled forward again. “What does ACT stand for?”

  “Antiretroviral Combination Treatment. But there’s no reason it should contain stimulants.”

  Mason agreed, but for the sake of argument … “Perhaps researchers discovered a need. According to Old medical textbooks, physicians used natural plant drugs like coca and cannabis for thousands of years.”

  “There are safer ways to achieve the same results.”

  It did seem careless to risk addicting an entire population. “How many doses do people take each day? Of their meds?”

  “It varies per patient. There are different stages of the virus, different strains. And meds are prescribed based on diagnosis and age, gender, resistance, and possible side-effects.”

  “If the meds are not a cure, what good are they?”

  “When taken correctly, ACT meds suppress the virus, keep it from mutating, and keep its levels in the blood low enough that they don’t cause illness. Basically, they buy us time. But not if they contain stimulants.”

  Because stimulants weakened the immune system, just as Mason had declared to Ciddah in regard to pregnant women. But she’d already known. She knew so much more than he did about the thin plague. He’d been foolish to think he could discover a cur
e. He barely understood the virus. The fact that it mutated … He felt so inadequate. It was impossible to think he could do anything to help Omar and Mia. He’d been arrogant to even consider such a possibility.

  The driver’s voice interrupted his morose thoughts. “Next stop, Washington Gulch and Meridian Road, Midlands West.”

  “This is it,” Ciddah said, taking Mason’s hand and nudging his side. “Come on.”

  She led him off the train and out onto the street. The trains in the Safe Lands ran above ground on platforms, and Ciddah and Mason had to walk under the track to cross the street. The train rumbled away overhead.

  A bustling shopping area filled the corner of Washington Gulch and Meridian. In the dozens of stores surrounding the intersection, Mason recognized only a G.I.N., a Lift, and a Cinnamonster ice cream shop. But as they walked up Meridian Road, the traffic and people thinned out until everything seemed still. The street was now lined with tiny houses on both sides. They were so odd looking, narrow and squashed together, painted colors like bright orange, magenta, or blue-and-green pinstripes. He saw only one lawn of natural green grass, though it had a bright metal sculpture in the middle of the yard that spun in the wind. One house slowly changed colors, morphing from red to orange to yellow to green to blue to purple and back to red.

  “Can people use SimArt technology on their houses?” Mason asked.

  “Yes,” Ciddah said. “It’s very expensive, though.”

  The trill of a motor overhead pulled Mason’s gaze to the sky. Another plane headed north to Wyoming, perhaps?

  Droe and Losira lived at 423 West Meridian Road in a bright pink box that looked like a giant BabyKakes carton turned on its end. Their lawn was neon-green faux grass with puffs of little plastic flowers in a half dozen shades of pink.

  Ciddah rang the bell, which sounded a medley on the other side of the pink walls. Pink. Mason couldn’t stop staring at the intense color.

  A slender woman opened the door. She was pale and had thin brown hair and violet, electric eyes — definitely contacts. She squealed, as if she knew the very best secret in the entire world. “Hay-o, hay-o, my pearly girl. Come in, come in!” She squealed again and pulled Ciddah inside, giving her a quick kiss on each cheek.