Jack fought against the leather straps, kicking his legs and rattling the gurney.
“It’s no use,” Eastman said. He tapped the IV bag, which was now three-quarters empty. “You’ve been given a mild sedative so you won’t hurt yourself. Or us.”
He attached a second and third wire to Jack’s temples, and a fourth to the side of his neck.
Another two medics came in from the hallway. One began removing Jack’s shoes and the other used a pair of shears to cut away Jack’s shirt.
“Don’t I have to consent to this?” Jack said, panicked. “You can’t just do this to me.”
Eastman looked down into Jack’s eyes. “In the event that you actually have already manifested a symptom, but have been hiding it from me, now would be the time to say it.”
“I swear I haven’t,” Jack said. The medics were applying the wires all over Jack’s body now. “But there has to be some other way. This is crazy.”
Dr. Eastman tapped himself on the head. “I almost forgot something.” He gestured around at the room and then pointed at the ceiling. “This room is specially designed for this kind of testing, by which I mean that the room is designed to kill you if you should decide to attack someone. Above the acoustical tiles are high pressure valves that will drown you in seconds, and at any time we can use any one of these wires to deliver a strong enough shock to stop your heart.” He smiled. “So, let’s not have any trouble, okay?”
User: SusieMusie
Mood: Mellow
Holy hell, get ready for a landmark piece of information: Sara doesn’t think I’m pretty. She even repeated it about a hundred times today. Erica seems to agree (duh). I often wonder why I even hang out with them. I often wonder about a lot of the stupid things I do.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THERE WERE MEN IN THE storage room. They were trying to be quiet, but Aubrey could hear the rattle of gear, the light squeak of a boot on linoleum.
She couldn’t see anything besides a sliver of light. Every muscle in her body felt heavy, like she was wearing one of those lead blankets at the dentist’s office. She tried to disappear and was immediately overcome with a panic attack—she felt like she couldn’t breathe, like her chest was sinking in on itself.
What was she thinking coming here? How was she supposed to save Jack? She couldn’t smuggle him out with her—she could barely hide herself.
She heard a box being pushed away, scraping against the floor. She heard a cupboard open, then another.
She concentrated on staying invisible. It took all her effort.
Her cupboard flew open and she was staring down the muzzle of a rifle. She let out a yelp and closed her eyes to stop herself from crying. This was so stupid.
But the soldier didn’t see her. He closed her cupboard and moved on.
She reappeared, and a small wave of relaxation moved over her.
Tears came, but she didn’t let herself make a sound.
She would go back—sneak into her tent the way that she’d come. With any luck, she hadn’t slept through evening roll call. She had no idea how long she’d been in the cupboard, but with the pain in her back it felt like days.
“All clear in room 118,” a voice said. “Over.”
A radio sparked back with the command, “Leave a man there and move to the next room. She has to be nearby.”
Aubrey’s stomach dropped.
She’d been invisible from the moment she’d left the tents to the moment she’d climbed into the cupboard. No one could have seen her. It was impossible.
Unless—was she slipping? Could she not control it when she’d been so exhausted outside?
This was so stupid. She thought she could just do whatever she wanted, go wherever she wanted. And she couldn’t. Someone had seen her. The alarm had been for her.
Had the helicopter been searching for her?
She swallowed the remaining water from the shampoo bottle, and quickly ate the last two granola bars, trying to cram as much energy into her body as possible. Then she disappeared.
Aubrey didn’t worry about being quiet now. She was only concerned with speed. She pushed the cupboard door open and immediately saw the two soldiers. One was standing by a shelf, absently looking at some of the documents. The other was in the doorway, looking out. She’d have to squeeze past him.
She took a deep, painful breath, and stood. She wanted to run, but knew she was too unsteady on her feet. She moved past the first man easily, and then had to press her back against the wall to slide past the second man and out of the room.
The radio crackled to life. “Private Hickman, she’s in the hallway. Over.”
Aubrey froze. Someone could see her.
The soldier in the doorway yanked his radio to his mouth. “Where? I don’t see anyone. Over.”
“She’s right in front of you, Private.”
Aubrey ran, and the radio squawked behind her, shouting orders.
“Turn left. She’s running toward Corridor Two. Over.”
The sound of boots on the hard linoleum clattered behind her.
How was this happening? She sucked at the air, trying to get a full breath but her body was fighting her.
She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here, or how she was supposed to get out. The two soldiers were barreling toward her from one direction, but the other way looked to be a blank hall, with no doors on either side.
The alarm turned on, buzzing and shaking her brain. Her vision instantly went blurry again.
She stopped, her back against the wall, as the soldiers approached. They were running, charging after an unseen enemy, and it was easy for her to reach out one foot and trip the first man. He tumbled to the floor, and the second soldier collided with him, falling in a jumble.
“That was her!” the radio screamed. “She’s right there.”
Aubrey turned and ran back the other direction. Her feet were unsteady beneath her, and she wasn’t running nearly as fast as she could normally.
A door opened ahead of her, and three men stepped out. They were plainly army, but weren’t dressed in the full combat gear of the other soldiers. They looked administrative. Aubrey ran past them without giving them a second look.
She turned another corner. This hall was long, lined with doors on each side. At the far end was a large round disc, but also an “exit” sign.
Aubrey didn’t wait, didn’t think. She was going to get outside where she could find a place to hide. She needed to be back with the thousands of teenagers in the tents and to blend in where she’d be just another face in the crowd.
And then she remembered where she’d seen the giant black disc. They’d been in the guard towers when she’d been designated a Negative. Four towers, four discs, all pointed at the small steel cage.
And now this one was pointed at her.
Aubrey was knocked to her knees by a sudden blast of sound. It hit her like a massive weight—louder than dancing in front of the speakers at the homecoming dance, louder than when she and Nicole had gone to that concert in Salt Lake. This noise seemed to shake her bones, to rattle and bruise every organ in her body, and to sap the energy out of her.
She clapped her hands over her ears, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t do anything but try to shield her head with her arms.
Her vision was going, fading into darkness, and a splitting headache made her want to puke.
She reappeared. It was the only thing she could do to relieve her pain. It didn’t help. She was flattened to the floor by a beam of sound.
When it finally stopped, she was huddled on the linoleum, completely blind.
The sound of running boots echoed in the hallway.
TWENTY-EIGHT
DR. EASTMAN’S VOICE CAME OVER a speaker. “We will begin the procedure in thirty seconds.”
Jack wanted to scream for help, but the medics had put a rubber mouth guard between Jack’s teeth and he could hardly make a sound.
“Ten seconds,” Eastma
n said. His voice was calm, even pleasant.
Jack kicked against his restraints, shook his head in the brace, but nothing was going to work.
“Five, four, three, two—”
Electricity shot through Jack’s body, pulsing with a pain that was both an acute burning and a dull ache, sharply stinging but throbbing slowly and heavily. The pain rested in his joints, and he felt overwhelming nausea, not in his stomach but in his limbs—like if he moved anything he’d throw up. He jammed his eyes shut, clenched his teeth on the mouth guard.
He couldn’t feel his legs or his hands, and his chest heaved as though his lungs were being ripped upward. His ribs were on fire—it felt like they would burn through his flesh.
And suddenly his legs were back with an overpowering prickling, itching sensation as though he were covered in biting ants. He struggled madly against the leather straps, desperate to brush the insects from his legs. He writhed on the table, his back arching against the gurney and his muscles so tense he knew they’d tear.
The electricity now moved to his face and head, needles of pain digging under his teeth and scraping down his ear canal. The ants were on the back of his neck, their sharp teeth burrowing into his skull and spine. Jack tried to scream but the mouth guard felt enormous and oppressive, and he knew it was cutting off his air, pushing down into his throat.
Then the electricity stopped. Pain still crushed in his head and limbs, but the ants were gone and the sharpness faded into a blunt, slow throbbing.
The room was filled with light, bright enough that Jack didn’t dare open his eyes. The door must have opened—he could hear the voices of several men and women. They were all talking too loudly and his brain felt too muddled; he couldn’t figure out what they were talking about.
“All done,” Dr. Eastman said, the loudspeaker thundering as though the volume itself could knock down the cinder-block walls.
As if on cue, there was a tremendous shaking. Jack winced, expecting the ceiling to come crashing down. But the vibration stopped, replaced by an intense combination of body odor, cologne, and shampoo. Jack could just barely stop himself from throwing up.
“So,” Dr. Eastman shouted, no longer on the loudspeaker but in the room. “How do you feel?” His footsteps thumped on the ground like an elephant’s as he moved to the gurney and removed Jack’s mouth guard.
“Can you turn down the lights?” Jack said.
There was more thumping, and then the brilliant flood lights were dimmed. Jack opened his eyes a tiny crack.
“That better?”
Jack nodded as much as the head brace would let him. The lights overhead were completely off, but the room still seemed to glow. He could see through the mirror now: at least ten people sat at computers, and as he watched them he noticed that it was them he could hear talking. “Tell me how you feel,” Eastman said, once again pulling up the folding chair and sitting beside the gurney. There was still so much noise in the room that Eastman was bellowing to be heard above it.
“How do you think?” Jack said. His own words echoed in his head.
“Just tell me,” Eastman said. “The sooner we’re done here the sooner you can go get cleaned up.”
Jack tried to pinpoint any symptoms, but he still felt completely overwhelmed with pain, with noise, with the irritation of the leather restraints, with the rubber taste in his mouth. He couldn’t concentrate.
“I feel like crap,” Jack said.
“Be more specific.”
“My head is killing me.”
“Where does it hurt?” Eastman said. He removed the brace around Jack’s neck.
“All over,” Jack said. “My head and face mostly. And I think I’m going to be sick.”
“That’s fine,” Eastman said with a smile. “We have a mop.”
“I don’t have the virus,” Jack said, closing his eyes again. “I’m hurting because you almost electrocuted me. But I don’t feel like I can do anything else.”
“Oh, you’ve got it,” Eastman said. “They’re tracking it in the other room. You’re manifesting all right.”
“Can you turn off the microphone?” Jack said. “And stop shouting? Seriously, my head is killing me.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?” Jack snapped. “You just fried my brain and now you’re yelling at me. Can’t we just have it a little quieter?”
Eastman frowned and then stepped out the door. Jack didn’t see him go into the room behind the mirror, and no one turned off the loudspeaker. Jack could hear the people inside talking about him—something about his brain activity.
Dr. Eastman returned to Jack’s gurney with a book. He opened it, seemingly at random, and held it up.
“Can you read this?” Eastman said. “Army Field Manual. Just start at the top.”
Jack looked at the page for a moment and then began reading. His mouth felt dry and swollen. “An emphasis on asymmetric means to offset United States military capability has emerged as a significant trend among potential threats and become an integral part of—”
Eastman stopped him and then moved across the room, his back against the wall. He turned to a new page. “Now read.”
Jack squinted. “Stability operations in an urban environment require offensive, defensive, and support operations, combined with other tasks unique to each stability operation. Army forces conduct—”
“Extraordinary,” Eastman said, closing the book. “Hold on.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Where else am I going to go?”
A moment later the chatter in the other room stopped and Jack peered over to see Dr. Eastman standing on the other side of the mirror.
“You can see me?” Eastman said.
“Yes.”
“Repeat what I say.” He held up the book and read from the table of contents. “Urban Outlook. Urban Environment. Urban Threat. Contemplating Urban Operations.”
Jack closed his eyes. It was all he could do now to not vomit. “Urban Outlook. Urban Environment. Urban Threat. Contemplating Urban Operations.”
“Jack?”
Jack cracked one eye open and looked at the doctor, who was grinning broadly.
“You think you don’t have the virus?” Eastman said. “The room you’re in is dark. I can barely see your silhouette. And you’re hearing me through soundproof glass. I’m not using a microphone.”
“What?”
“Your brain,” he said. “These readings—they’re off the charts. It’s incredible.”
TWENTY-NINE
“I’M GOING TO ASK YOU some questions,” the soldier said to Laura. He had a large yellow legal pad on the table in front of him, and was scribbling in handwriting she couldn’t read.
“Sure,” Laura said, keeping her voice calm. She didn’t want to appear overeager. The medicine helped with that—it mellowed her out, but it also dulled her senses. She needed to be on her A-game.
He set down his pen and then looked into her eyes. There was a coldness to him, and it made her want to behave even more warmly. But she held back. Stay calm. Don’t act so quick to please.
“We haven’t been able to contact your parents,” he said.
Of course not, she thought. Her parents had their own jobs to do.
She paused, trying to think of how to respond. They weren’t even her parents. They were more like her caretakers. Her trainers. Her teachers. She’d grown to respect them, but it was never a loving relationship.
“I’m sure they’re okay,” she finally said, doing her best impression of a stiff upper lip.
“Aren’t you concerned?” he asked.
“Sure, I’m concerned,” Laura answered, now going for indignant. “They’re my parents. But my dad is good at hunting, and my mom is from Montana. They probably went north.”
“Without you?”
“I got out of Denver to escape the attacks,” she said. “When I left—well, when I left we sort of knew it might be a long time before we saw one another aga
in.”
She wasn’t sounding sympathetic enough. She was too uncaring. Too detached.
“They would just send their daughter off with her friends?”
“I—” she started, and then stopped, trying to bring tears to her eyes. They didn’t come. “I wasn’t the best daughter.”
He picked up his pen, but didn’t write anything—just twirled it slowly in his fingers. “So you left against their permission?”
“It wasn’t like that,” she said, and attempted a weak smile. “I didn’t run away. We . . . Well, we had gotten to the point where they knew that I was going to do what I was going to do.”
This interview wasn’t going how it was supposed to. She was coming across as too hard. Too rebellious. That wasn’t going to help her, and she needed to fix it. She wished she could cry.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him.
“What’s happened to Denver? Is it safe?”
“You have friends there you’re worried about?”
“Of course I do.”
“Are you enrolled in school?”
“UC–Denver,” Laura said. “First semester. I was only there a week before the attacks started and the campus shut down.”
He tapped the pen on the pad now, but still didn’t write anything. She couldn’t read him. Was this an interrogation? Did they suspect her? Or were they interviewing all the Lambdas?
“Is there any way you can find out if my friends are okay?” she pressed, trying to look hopeful—even desperate. She’d been part of the team that had taken down Mile High Stadium, and she hoped the city was burning. But that couldn’t show on her face. She wasn’t as good as Alec, but she knew how to lie.
“I’ll try to have someone find out for you,” he replied.
“Thank you.”
“Now, on to another subject,” he said, and leaned back in his chair. “How long have you been aware of your strength?”
She felt a sense of relief. She was ready for this question.
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