Outbreak

by Tarah Benner

  Harper and I exchange a puzzled look. I’m not sure why Owen would have dragged us all the way out here, but I suppose it’s as good a landmark as any. I’m just about to move out when Harper grabs my arm.

  At first I don’t understand why she stopped me, but then I hear voices. Two husky drifters stride into view. They’re moving toward the church at a brisk pace, and we watch them cross the parking lot and go inside.

  What the hell?

  I glance at my interface. It’s five ’til noon. Why would Owen tell us to come here if the place was crawling with drifters?

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Harper murmurs.

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Do you think there are more inside?”

  “No idea.”

  She doesn’t say it, but we’re both thinking it: This feels like a trap.

  Harper doesn’t take her eyes off the courtyard in front of the church. Minutes pass in tense silence, but we don’t see any more drifters. I check my interface. It’s five after.

  “You think he meant another church?” she asks.

  I raise my eyebrows and swivel my head toward the enormous cross. “I think it’s safe to say he was talking about this one.”

  “Then why —”

  “I have no idea. Let’s just check it out. If the drifters are inside, we’ll turn around and head back to the cliff for the night.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  I sigh. “I know it looks bad, but Owen wouldn’t set us up. If we stay out of sight, we can go up to the church and just see if he’s there.”

  Harper still looks wary, but she nods and draws her weapon. I know she’s only going along with it to humor me, and I love her for that.

  Stepping over the low stone wall, we leave the shelter of Cactus Ridge and jog across the empty four-lane road. As our feet slap against the reddish flagstone, I can’t help but feel as though the cross is throwing an extra-large shadow over me.

  The entryway is all glass, but from our angle of approach, we can see directly into the lobby without showing ourselves. There’s no one inside, but that deep feeling of unease is still weighing on my chest.

  I reach for the handle, but Harper nudges me in the shoulder.

  “Are we really doing this?” she whispers.

  I hesitate. This situation smells like ten miles of bad road, but Owen is expecting us. And as dangerous as this meet-up seems, it was his one condition for going along with our plan.

  I sigh and grip my gun tighter. “We don’t really have a choice.”

  Judging by the look of dread in Harper’s eyes, I can tell she thinks this is a trap. But Owen is my brother, and that has to mean something.

  “Let’s go.”

  The glass door slides open without a sound, and Harper and I slip into the lobby.

  Every muscle in my body is poised for an attack, and Harper seems just as tense. Our footsteps echo in the vast empty space, bouncing off the high ceiling and the shiny tile floor.

  Then I hear a low buzz coming from the sanctuary. The heavy oak doors are closed, but there’s no way I’m imagining the hum of a crowd.

  I signal Harper to stay behind me and approach the doors slowly. My hand closes over the thick handle, but before I open the door, I hear a muffled thud and a slight scuffle behind me.

  I wheel around — prepared to shoot whomever I see — and nearly have a heart attack.

  Harper is engaged in a struggle with a man I can’t identify. He’s doubled over from a nasty elbow to the face, and Harper just back-kicked him in the groin.

  She winds up to strike him over the head with her gun but stops short when she catches sight of his face. It’s Owen.

  “What the hell?” she hisses, turning bright red.

  “I was about — to say — the same — thing,” Owen moans quietly, trying to hide the pained expression on his face.

  “That’s why you don’t sneak up on people,” Harper growls, fixing Owen with the defiant look she usually reserves for training.

  I can’t help it. I grin.

  “Christ,” Owen spits through his teeth.

  “Watch it,” I say, glancing around at all the crosses adorning the doors and walls.

  Just then, the hubbub behind the door grows louder, and I remember why we’re here.

  “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” I ask, jerking my head toward the doors. “You asked us to come knowing there would be Desperados here. So what’s the deal?”

  Owen shakes his head, still recovering from Harper’s defense maneuvers. “It’ll be easier to just show you.”

  He straightens up with a grimace and starts walking stiffly toward a smaller side door I didn’t see when we walked in. I still have a bad feeling about this, but now that we’re here, I have to admit I’m curious.

  This no longer feels like a trap; it feels like some sort of initiation. And as distrustful as Owen is, his inviting us here is a big deal.

  The door swings open, and the wave of sound intensifies. Owen leads us up a narrow flight of stairs and turns to face us.

  “Stay out of sight,” he breathes.

  Then he pushes the door open, and the wave of sound almost bowls me over.

  Owen disappears around the corner, and I move a little closer to Harper before following him through.

  We emerge onto a balcony with enough extra seating to accommodate everyone in Recon. There’s no one on this level, but Owen finds a seat in the shadows so he can observe the congregation without being seen.

  The room more closely resembles a stadium or amphitheater than a church. The seats are staggered the way a movie theater’s would be, arranged in a sloped semicircle around a stage. Another enormous cross takes up half of the far wall, and judging by its pearly finish, I’d guess the entire thing lights up.

  The lower level of the sanctuary is half full of drifters, who look very out of place. I’m sure the residents of Cactus Ridge never wore tank tops, bandanas, or cutoff shorts to church, but those seem to be the only pieces of clothing the Desperados own.

  Some of the drifters are chatting happily like old friends, but others are arguing in clusters of five or six.

  Then I hear the large doors open again down below, and a hush spreads over the disorderly group. Owen yanks on my arm, and I move into the shadows on the other side of Harper.

  A tall, wiry man strides toward the stage, and the drifters scramble to find their seats.

  When the newcomer turns to face the crowd, my heart thuds loudly against my ribcage. I’d recognize that pointed, ratlike face anywhere: It’s Malcolm Martinez.

  The chatter dissipates quickly, and Malcolm raises his arms out to his sides like the damn Messiah.

  “Welcome, everyone. Thank you for coming.”

  There’s a soft rush of murmurs in the crowd.

  “It’s so good to see you all here.” Malcolm pauses dramatically, surveying the group like a proud father. “Today is a day for celebration. We have disenfranchised American citizens gathered here from as far east as Kansas . . . as far west as California . . .

  “I want to thank you for your bravery . . . your determination . . . and your commitment to our family.”

  I want to puke and roll my eyes at the same time. This feels like some sort of drifter brainwashing summit, and Malcolm is clearly the puppet master.

  Leave it to Owen to throw in his luck with these people rather than trusting his real family. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to convert me or just demonstrate the drifters’ strength, but either way, he brought me here for a reason: He doesn’t plan on holding up his end of the bargain.

  In that instant, everything becomes extremely clear. Owen might not want to cooperate with my plan, but I don’t need him — not really. Jayden would be equally happy with another dead drifter — the man standing less than a hundred yards away.

  I glance over at Owen, who’s watching Malcolm with a sort of grudging respect. I wonder if Jackson is somewhere in the mix or if it would
be too dangerous for him to show his face in the crowd of Desperados.

  I’m leaning against a square pillar, which provides just enough of a barrier to block me from Owen’s view.

  Slowly, I draw my gun and point it at Malcolm’s head.

  I am so going to hell for this. I probably won’t make it ten yards before I’m struck by lightning for shooting a drifter in a church. But at least Malcolm will be dead, and Harper will have a chance of escaping Constance’s threats.

  One shot — one shot is all I have to take out Malcolm, grab Harper, and get the fuck out of here.

  If Owen doesn’t want my help, he’s on his own. He’ll probably be blamed for the shooting, which means he’ll have to disappear whether he wants to or not.

  This solves all our problems.

  But then a sharp shock reverberates up my arm. Two strong hands redirect my gun, and before I can react, Owen is shoving me against the wall. I grunt as we struggle for control of the weapon, but he twists my hand painfully until the gun clatters to the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What I should have done the first time I met him!”

  “Are you insane?” Owen hisses. “We’d never make it out of here alive if you shot Malcolm.”

  “Well, Harper and I won’t be alive for long if we go back empty-handed,” I snarl, throwing him off me.

  “That’s why I brought you here!”

  I don’t listen. I don’t pause to consider my next move. I just lunge for the gun.

  Unfortunately, Owen has always been stronger and just a little bit faster. I don’t get within a foot of the gun before I feel the scrape of a boot against my face.

  He didn’t kick me that hard, but the force is enough to make me lose my balance and slam face-first into the baseboard.

  Harper gasps, and I shake my head to clear the sudden fuzziness.

  Everything is upside down.

  Owen snatches my gun off the floor, empties the chamber, and pockets the bullets.

  “Calm the fuck down!” he growls. “You’re going to get us caught. Everything will explain itself. Just sit tight for a second.”

  My cheek is inflamed where he kicked me, and my jaw feels as though I’ve been curb stomped. But I’m too pissed to show Owen I’m hurt, so I just stagger to my feet and lean back against the pillar.

  I try to focus on Malcolm’s speech, but I’m so furious I can hardly breathe. I can feel Harper’s eyes on me, but I have no idea what she’s thinking.

  “We’ve come a long way in the last six months,” says Malcolm. “We’ve salvaged the best technology . . . fuel . . . medicine. We’ve built the strongest civilian army this country has seen since the Revolutionary War. And someday very soon, we’ll no longer have to live in fear.”

  The crowd erupts into applause, and my stomach clenches. Malcolm makes a humble-looking gesture that fills me with hate, imploring the crowd to hold its applause.

  “I just confirmed myself that we successfully exterminated compound 119.”

  Then the crowd goes wild. People get to their feet, stomp, clap, and cheer. They’re hugging and smiling, but it feels as though I left my stomach back at Cactus Ridge.

  He can’t have said what I thought he said. It isn’t possible.

  “You killed all those people at 119?” Harper breathes.

  I glance over at her. Her face has gone stark white, and she’s staring at Owen in utter disgust.

  I can’t believe it. This has to be some kind of sick joke. All the drifters down below — they’re celebrating the deaths of thousands of innocent people.

  “Why would you bring us here?” I spit in Owen’s direction.

  I don’t look at him. I don’t want to see him smiling along with the others as though they’ve made some big accomplishment.

  “Just wait.”

  After several minutes, the crowd’s cheers die down enough for Malcolm to make himself heard again. “Someday very soon, we’ll no longer have to fear their soldiers who come out to kill. We’ll be able to raise our families without the need to run and hide. We’ll have access to clean water . . . a steady source of power.

  “The plan is in motion. Soon, 112, the largest and most militant compound in the country, will be wiped — off — the map!”

  My breath catches in my throat. There’s a very good chance I’m going to puke all over the church’s plush blue carpeting.

  I knew the drifters were working to bring down the compound, but I never imagined they’d be successful. That was before I knew they were responsible for 119 — before I’d seen hundreds of them gathered together celebrating our impending death.

  I can’t take it anymore. Throwing Owen one last bitter look, I stand up and grab Harper’s hand. She murmurs something I can’t quite make out, but I’m already pulling her down the stairs toward the lobby.

  I hear Owen following us, and once we’re enclosed in the stairwell, he yells at us to wait.

  I quicken my pace. I can’t even look at him right now.

  “Hey!”

  I feel the hand on my shoulder and react without thinking. I wheel around and swing at him with a wild overhand punch.

  Any amateur could have dodged it easily, but I catch Owen by surprise, and my fist crashes into his face with devastating force.

  “Fuck! What the hell was that for?”

  “Are you serious? Were you in the same room just now?”

  “Yes!” he snaps in a nasally voice, mopping the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. “I was trying to show you why you don’t need to fake my death. It’s time for you to leave all that shit. Soon there’s going to be nothing left of that place.”

  “You think I’m just going to stick around here and wait for you to murder an entire compound full of people?” I splutter. “I have friends back there, Owen! People I care about! Or is that just such a foreign concept to you that you can’t imagine why I’d have a problem?”

  I shove him hard in the shoulder, but he grabs me by the collar and gives me a look Dad used to have when he was really, really pissed.

  I don’t have enough distance for a good jab, so I throw a hook into Owen’s stomach. He makes a pained gurgling sound in his throat and slaps me — actually slaps me — upside the head.

  Harper is watching our exchange with a frantic look in her eyes, and I know she’s got to be sick with worry over Celdon and Sawyer.

  I’m stunned that our little scuffle hasn’t brought a dozen members of Malcolm’s congregation running to see what all the commotion is about, but I don’t care. Right now, I feel as though I could take on an entire army of drifters.

  Somehow, Owen gets me in a headlock, and it’s as if I’m ten years old all over again. He drags me down the stairs and through the lobby as if I weigh nothing.

  Harper is trailing behind him, whispering a nasty stream of threats, but he manages to shove me into a small chapel and trap me in one of the short pews. There’s a miniature altar directly in front of me and a stained-glass cross less than two yards away, but Owen is looking at me in a way that says he wouldn’t hesitate to deck me in a place of worship.

  “Listen!” he splutters. “I knew this would be hard for you to handle, but it’s happening! There’s nothing you can do to stop it. The plan is already in motion. I just wanted to show you so you’d understand why you don’t need to fake my death . . . and give you a chance to escape.”

  “What plan?” asks Harper.

  “You don’t need to know the details,” he says, rounding on her with a cold look in his eyes. “All you need to know is to stay away.”

  “Why should we trust you?”

  “Because you don’t have another choice. Hell, I don’t have a choice. This thing is happening.”

  By Owen’s tone, I can tell he’s done talking to Harper. He turns to me with that stern older-brother look, but I can detect hesitation in his gaze that makes him look years younger.

  “There’s always a choice,” I mutter. �
�You’ve just made all the wrong ones.”

  “Eli —”

  “What the hell did you do?” I ask, feeling my voice running a little higher than normal. “How did you introduce a virus that killed all those people?”

  Owen sighs. He doesn’t want to tell me, but he seems to be torn between giving away the drifters’ plan and keeping me under control.

  Finally, he caves.

  “The Centers for Disease Control had a repository before Death Storm. All the nasty diseases with the potential to wipe out the human race . . . they have a frickin’ library of them — well, had. The preserved viruses most likely died when the center shut down. You have to keep them frozen, or else . . .”

  “Is this relevant?” I snap.

  “Yes! It wasn’t just Atlanta that had the viruses. About a year ago, Malcolm met a guy who’d worked for the CDC branch in Fort Collins. He said that before Death Storm, the federal government bought one of the compounds in the Rocky Mountains and preserved a bunch of samples there in case the facility was compromised.”

  “And you found the samples.”

  Owen nods. “We sent a mole into the compound and stole one of the viruses the CDC was keeping under wraps. We weren’t sure if the samples would still be viable. But we were able to infiltrate 119, and it worked.”

  “You killed thousands of innocent people.”

  “They aren’t innocent,” Owen growls. “None of us are innocent in this, Eli, but the compounds make it damn near impossible for the rest of us to live.”

  “What you did was mass murder.”

  “No. They were just casualties of war. And this is a war, Eli. The question is . . . whose side are you gonna be on?”

  There’s a long, strained silence. I glance at Harper and then get to my feet. “Not yours.”

  “What are you gonna do?” Owen asks to my retreating back. He sounds a little desperate — so unlike his usual cocky self. “You can’t go back there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Going back there would be suicide.”

  In that moment, everything Owen has made me feel lately — the hope and betrayal and disappointment — bubble up inside me. I can’t take it anymore. I fly out of my seat.