The Plague Box Set [Books 1-4]

by Jones, Isla

  The smoke cleared and Leo was nowhere to be seen. The room was empty. A jolt of panic shot through me and I swerved my wide eyes to the stoic Castle beside me.

  Profile like stone, he gestured to the door. “Now you.”

  I gaped slightly as he led me to the glass box of vanishing peoples. My hesitation showed in the way I dragged my feet and clung to the IV stand as if it would somehow save me.

  Castle made an impatient sound and ushered me through the door. As he followed me inside, the woman’s voice snapped through the room; “One at a time, please.”

  Unfazed, Castle lowered Cleo to my feet and stayed crouched—he unlaced my boots, and the realisation struck me with the heat of a lightning bolt. He was going to undress me.

  “She’s injured,” said Castle; short, curt, and firm, leaving no room for argument.

  The urge to boot him away trickled through me, but an even stronger urge to melt against him clutched my bones. I swallowed and fixed my stare straight ahead. Not once did I glance at him—not as he slipped off my boots, unbuttoned my jeans, or peeled them off with my leggings. A grateful breath escaped me; he’d left my underwear on until last, saving me from a vulnerable humiliation that, even now, made me rather squeamish.

  Then, he stood and blocked my line of sight. The gleam of his sharp eyes captured my gaze, and I found that I couldn’t look away.

  Castle slid off the parka from me. “I’ve seen it all before.”

  Was that meant to make me feel better? It only cheapened every time he had seen me like that.

  My lip curled. “Those times, I let you see it all. This is different.”

  The difference was want. Back then, I’d wanted our shared gazes, our entwined bodies. But in that room, I had little choice, and it was far from intimate. It felt … violating.

  Castle held my stare as he ripped my sweater—his old sweater—down the middle, then tugged it off me. Beneath, a tank top revealed my dislike of bras. Cheeks hot, I set my jaw and prayed he didn’t look down.

  He read my mind.

  “I won’t look,” he promised, his voice a whisper.

  With every piece of clothing he removed from me, he stayed true to his word. The whole time, his gaze never faltered or drifted from mine.

  After, he stuffed all my clothes into the same chute Leo had put his, then emptied my bag into the trays. I noticed he touched his fingers to my diary a moment too long, then placed it in its own tray. Before he could leave, the woman spoke through the speaker again and had my blood running cold.

  “Remove the bandage as well.”

  At the compartment wall, Castle bowed his head and slumped his shoulders. He wasn’t enjoying this either, I realised.

  I bit my lip to silence a groan of pain and unhooked the clasp on my bandage. I tried to tug it away from my body, to unwrap it myself, but Castle stopped me.

  He marched over and put his hand on mine. Still, his gaze didn’t drift downwards. “You’ll just hurt yourself doing that.”

  Our gazes locked as he unwound the dressing with delicate fingers. More delicate than I’d thought him capable of.

  At the cabin, when he’d redressed my shoulder wound, he hadn’t been half as gentle as he was in that room.

  “Do you think they made Mac take off his bandages?” I asked, watching his stony face. “His legs might’ve fallen apart.”

  Castle cut a glare me, then pulled back to the chute.

  He finished up and handed me Cleo, who I used to shield my freckled chest. Without a backwards glance, he exited the room. The door was quick to lock behind him.

  Not a second after, a cold burst of vapour flooded the room. I coughed into Cleo’s trembling fur and shivered. The image of a steam room sprung to mind, if steam rooms were filled with ice mist.

  Smog still flooded the room from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, as the voice gave me my orders: “Follow the red blinking light to your left.” It paused a moment, then added, “Leave the crutch behind.”

  Reluctantly, I abandoned the IV stand and limped over to the light. It blinked faintly through the smoke, to the side of the compartments. The sound of something depressurising came from beneath the light, and as I got closer, I realised that it was a failsafe door opening for me.

  I slid through and hugged Cleo to my chest.

  Beyond the door stretched a narrow corridor. I limped down the long hall. Metal flanked me and made me think of the elevator trap, as if the elevator had been stretched like warm taffy.

  It was a long walk to the end of the corridor. So long that, when I glanced over my shoulder, I couldn’t see even a faint outline of the door I’d come through. But the door before me—I was beginning to suspect the CDC had a door fetish—opened to a small foyer, not unlike the one upstairs. Only, this one’s welcoming was on the sterile side. Clinical and cold.

  I limped inside and saw a dark-skinned, shaved-headed soldier standing against the wall. He didn’t spare me a glance. I was grateful for it, since I was only covered by my awkwardly crossed legs and Chihuahua.

  Beside the statue-soldier was a bench. And on top of it were two things; a fluffy robe and a pair of slippers.

  I was quick to slip into them. As I tugged on the robe, I glanced at the soldier. His eyes had shifted down to the freckled area around my collarbone.

  “Eyes up,” I snapped.

  He jerked back into his statue-stance, cheeks dancing with the flames of shame. Once I was wrapped up and had Cleo back in my arms, the soldier stepped forward, turned his back to me and said, “Follow me, ma’am.”

  I made a face. Ma’am?

  A snort caught in the back of my throat.

  Spine as stiff as Castle’s sense of humour, he marched out of the room where another soldier waited for us to leave before he dipped into the lobby, holding a robe and slippers. I presumed that they were for Castle.

  My soldier led me through corridors—a lot of them. A labyrinth of hallways and doors and glass rooms. It was only when we reached a narrow corridor lined with numbered doors on both sides that he stopped. Two soldiers stood guard at each end of the hallway and both spared a swift look at us.

  My escort-soldier stopped at Room 12. As he pulled out keys, I read his nametag—Mason—then watched as he unlocked the door. But he didn’t open it, not just yet.

  “Once we contact Dr Miles, she will be notified of your arrival” he said. “In the meantime, you should find all that you require through this door. Clothes are in the closet, toiletries in the attached bathroom, and a meal will be brought to you shortly.” He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. “Your personal belongings will be returned after they pass clearance.”

  I stared inside the room—white walls, white-tiled floors, and an open white door ahead that gave a glimpse of a glass screen that I assumed to be the shower.

  My heart flipped at the sight of privacy, of running water, of my own room. Still, I couldn’t help but speak on my only source of privacy that I’d had since I first joined the defected deltas.

  “I didn’t have much, other than my diary.” I turned my gaze to his indifferent one. “That’s personal.”

  Mason hesitated a beat. Then, he inclined his head and assured, “I will relay the message to our chief of staff.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Mason let a flicker of surprise light up his cocoa eyes. Poor man was yet to learn just how nosy I am.

  He cleared his throat and raised his chin, not arrogantly, but to slip back into his soldier-costume. “Doctor Miles will be notified as soon as possible.”

  I lowered my lashes at him before I stepped into the room. The door closed behind me and—it locked.

  It might’ve been a room, but I found myself thinking of the lobby upstairs, the elevator, the glass box and the narrow corridor. All had been locked. All had been enclosed.

  And all had been masked cages.

  12.

  The first thing I did was race to the bathroom through the white door opposite. I
nside, a small shower stood behind a glass screen, a metal toilet so cold that it froze my bum was tucked in the corner, and a steel sink with one of those warped mirrors.

  As much as I wanted to, I didn’t shower. There was nothing to protect my unbandaged wound from the water. Still, I was tempted enough to step behind the glass screen and sniff the shampoos and soaps. Not unlike those at motels, I’d thought. They would do their job, but not very well.

  I washed my face in the sink, brushed my teeth a few times—I even scrubbed Cleo’s with the spare toothbrush—and inspected every inch of the room.

  In a huff with me for cleaning her teeth, Cleo curled up on the foot of the narrow bed. But her exhaustion overtook her grouchiness, and she was soon snoring. The bed was firm, layered with a flannelette blanket, a duvet and one pillow. But it was a bed—just for me.

  I was on Cloud Nine … or somewhere between clouds four and five.

  The furniture at the cabin had been comfier.

  I tried to shove those thoughts out of my mind and let some appreciation settle within me.

  The cupboard was as generous as expected. Plain sweatpants were folded at the bottom, some tank tops, underwear—for women—socks and sweaters. Everything came in white, grey and black, and were all close enough to my size that I found no reason to complain.

  A cushioned chair was tucked in the corner beside a small desk, but there were no pens or notebooks to write on, no magazines or books to read.

  Eventually, I lay with Cleo on the bed and drifted into boredom.

  The CDC was … sterile.

  There was nothing welcoming about the place. I mean, I don’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it. There was nothing to do but let my mind wander and my eyes shut.

  Sometime into a half-trance of dazed thoughts, there came a knock at the door. Barely a pause passed before I heard it unlock from the outside. I sat up on the bed, my eyes suddenly alert and wide.

  The door creaked open.

  Wedges of bright light crept into the room from the gap. The door stopped a few inches open, then a mocha-skinned hand pushed through.

  Mason.

  Silent, I watched his hand place a metal box on the floor, the size of a tray. Then, his hand pulled back into the corridor, and the door locked again.

  I dragged myself to the door and slowly—teeth bared in a pained grimace—crouched beside the box. I flipped it open.

  Tucked inside were some supplies. A roll of cling-film (for my wound), a tin of spam, a sandwich—!!!—filled with lettuce, tomato, cheese and ham. There was a cold carton of milk, too, and a bottle of water.

  Cleo and I devoured the food. She scoffed down the spam and I gorged myself on the rest. Not a crumb was left by the time I leaned back against the wall and pulled the box between my spread legs.

  I picked through the rest of the contents until I saw it buried at the bottom.

  My diary.

  A smile came to my lips.

  Despite my itch to snatch out the diary, I plucked out the cling-film instead. Fed, hydrated and exhausted, I peeled myself off the floor and washed away the gruelling day—or months—under the steamy waterfall in the shower. Cleo licked the water at my feet a while before I scrubbed her clean, too.

  Not even the cabin’s lake gave me a sense of cleanliness like this. It was as though every grain of dirt had been scraped from my pores and my skin was replaced by new, fresh layers that hadn’t seen a speck of mud in its entire existence. My hair was smooth to the touch; no longer greasy and limp, it found its old sleekness again.

  Only when the water ran clean down the drain—with no dirt, blood or soap suds—did I turn off the tap. I’d barely dressed into sweatpants and a jumper when a thump came from the wall.

  Frozen, I stared at the wall opposite me, the one that separated my room from another’s. It thumped again, louder this time.

  Someone from my group was there, knocking.

  I knocked back.

  The coil of tension unravelled some within me.

  Even if I was alone in that room, I wasn’t alone in my sense of unease.

  13.

  Sleep called to me, but I kept my drooped eyes trained on the ghastly stapled wound on my stomach. I’d been too afraid to peel off the wrap after my shower.

  Perched on the foot of the bed, I eyed the wound as a knock thudded at the door. I frowned and let my sweater fall back into place. It had to be late, sometime past midnight. But then, I thought, it could have been Summer.

  I lurched for the door—but it wouldn’t budge. It was still locked.

  The voice on the other side seeped through the cracks. “Ms Miles?” It was the same from the speaker. “Might I come in?”

  My face fell and I stepped back. “Yeah, come in.”

  The door opened and an older woman with a tight bun of grey hair and stern eyes stood in the threshold. Her smile wrinkled and was as unconvincing as the one I threw back at her. I was exhausted, hurt, and impatient to see Summer. I could barely muster up a ‘hello’ for the stranger.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms Miles. I’m the primary medical doctor of this facility,” she said. “You may call me Dr Wong. I’m here to assess your injuries.”

  She gestured to the corridor, where the soldier who escorted me earlier stood, a gun strapped over his torso. Mason.

  “Would you come with me, please?” said Dr Wong.

  In answer, I whistled to summon Cleo.

  Together, we slipped by the doctor and into the corridor. The same two soldier-guards from before still flanked the hallway. I wondered if we—the group—were all stuffed into the rooms around me.

  “This way.” Dr Wong strode down the way I’d entered earlier. I hurried after her, Cleo at my feet, Mason at the rear. “Dr Miles will be excited to hear of your arrival,” she said after we took a turn onto a door-less corridor. “She speaks of you sometimes. You lived in Los Angeles, yes? Were you there when the outbreak occurred?”

  “Yeah.” My voice was a muttered grunt. “Why hasn’t she come found me yet? I’ve been here a while already.”

  A few hours was hardly ‘a while’, but when it came to being reunited with a sister in the apocalypse where most were dead, it was too long.

  Dr Wong tucked the corner of her lips into her cheeks and hummed shortly. “I am afraid Dr Miles is unreachable at the present. Since the outbreak, we have experienced some technical issues. Namely, our communications systems.”

  Confused, my lips bunched and I studied her out the corner of my eye. “So? What does that have to do with Winter?”

  Dr Wong did not like me one bit. The short glare she almost threw my way betrayed her. Spine stiffened, she veered us down another corridor—I would easily get lost in here, I thought—and spoke in a voice as clipped as her heels on the hard floor; “Dr Miles is on base, further underground. The lower levels operate under minimal power supply, given the failures we have suffered to some of our power sources.”

  Fleetingly, I thought of the solar panels on the roof of the brownstone. If those were connected to the CDC, they wouldn’t work too well with all the snow packed on top of them. Not to mention, winter was a sunless time of the year.

  Yes, I see the irony, thank you.

  Dr Wong took me to a surgical room.

  Not necessarily a surgery, but more like a doctor’s consulting room at a clinic. At her orders, I took off my sweater and lay flat on the examination chair. Cleo tried to stand on her hind legs to see me, earning a smile from my tightly set mouth.

  “This will sting.”

  I cut a glare to the doctor.

  She held a giant syringe in her hand, with a needle double the length of my middle finger. I winced, but she was faster than I’d thought.

  One moment, the syringe was upright and she was tugging back the hem of my tank top—the next, the syringe was in my stomach, jabbed into the bruising, and a hollow cry tore through me.

  “See?” She pulled out the syringe and set it on
her table of torture tools. “A mere sting. That should numb the area.”

  I could’ve killed her in that moment.

  Instead, I inhaled so deeply my chest rose, and I shut my eyes. If I’d watched her pick and pull at me, I knew I would’ve flown off the chair. I tried to clear my mind of what was happening down on my stomach—though, I didn’t feel a thing.

  Ironic, isn’t it, that the pain of a needle must come before numbness, and even still, I hear everything she does. I hear the tug of the pliers, the snap of the staples. There was a wet, mushy sound that I guessed was Dr Wong cleaning out my wound (the inside).

  I needed a distraction.

  Through clenched teeth, I asked, “The low power supply—how does that stop you from contacting Summer?”

  Whatever she paused to do, was on her tools table. The clang of metal against metal rattled my bones. It’s an awful sound, like nails on a chalkboard.

  “Only Dr Miles can decide when to divert power to internal communications,” she explained. “Until she deems it necessary to contact us in the higher levels, she and her assistants will remain quiet.”

  Dr Wong pulled my tank top back down, then slid the shoulder strap to the side. The bullet wound there had healed over. It ached most of the time, especially in the colder of days, but it was manageable. She seemed to agree, and I heard the wheels of her stool roll away from me.

  Wong slipped off my sock and assessed my twisted ankle. “This is healing nicely,” she said, prodding her fingers from my heel to the start of my calf. “Swelling is minimal, bruising faded. How long ago did you sprain it?”

  “A while back,” I said, eyes still shut. “I think … Maybe a month and a bit?”

  Even with a diary, time was hard to track. Days slipped into nights, night melted into days, and soon, a week had passed and I’d lost track. The weather helped with keeping time. Underground, I wouldn’t have that to fall back on.

  “Corporal Hill implied a more severe state.”

  My eyes snapped open and I looked down my body at her. “Castle? You’ve seen him?”

  In response, she offered me a tight smile and wrangled my sock back on. “Corporal Hill interrupted his debriefing to alert me to your injuries.”