by Kyla Stone
Her empty stomach cramped. Her mouth watered. Grateful tears filled her eyes. “I—thank you.”
She took a bite of chicken, sinking her teeth into the juicy, spiced meat. It was the best thing she could remember eating. Ever. After several hurried bites, she forced herself to remember her etiquette training and set down her fork. “You said my father is here.”
President Sloane nodded. “Yes. And with any luck, he’ll be able to formulate a cure from the antibodies in your blood. How extraordinary that you, of all people, are the only survivor of the Hydra virus, considering who your father is.” President Sloane’s eyes were bright and intelligent, her gaze gentle but with a sharpness around the edges as she studied Amelia. “Simply extraordinary.”
“But—how did he get here? He was kidnapped on the Grand Voyager by the Southeast Asian terrorists.” Amelia cringed, remembering Cheng and the thick, purple scar slicing across his face, the way he’d offered her to Kane like a prize, a spoil of war. Be my guest, he’d said, the last words she’d heard before Kane dragged her from the bridge by her hair. Before he’d—
Her gaze flickered to Bale again, those beady, viper eyes. She swallowed. She had killed Kane. She wasn’t back there, trapped on the Grand Voyager, terrified for her life. She had saved herself, then. This time, she would do everything in her power to save everyone else.
She forced herself to focus on President Sloane, on the here and now. To consider the facts dispassionately, clinically. Her father had been their target, but Cheng and his soldiers had planted explosives on the Grand Voyager, attempting to destroy everyone on board: elite men, women, and children, ship staff, New Patriots, even his own men.
Gabriel had said Cheng was the one in direct contact with the mastermind behind the Hydra virus. The person or persons who had crossed Declan Black, taking care of loose ends while simultaneously using the New Patriots’ attack on the Grand Voyager as a ruse, blaming the bioweapon’s release on the New Patriots.
They were still out there, whoever they were. Nameless, faceless shadows. A shiver of dread ran through Amelia. Maybe she was staring at one of them right now. Sloane had become president because of the Hydra virus, after it infected and killed President Morgan.
It could be her. It could be anyone.
Senator Steelman was watching her intently. General Daugherty bent and whispered something to Selma Perez, their gazes flickering toward Amelia before darting away. The back of Amelia’s neck prickled.
President Sloane wiped her mouth primly with her linen napkin. “This country could not allow terrorists to torture and murder such a valuable leader as the chairman of the Unity Coalition.”
“Once we realized the gravity of the situation, we sent our elite Delta Force unit to rescue Declan,” General Daugherty said, his voice like gravel. He was a solid, thickly built man in his early sixties, his face craggy, his close-cropped beard streaked with gray. He was a four-star general, his uniform decorated with medals, pins, and badges.
“It was a delicate mission, especially with tensions so high, populations all over the world succumbing to the virus, governments destabilizing; chaos, confusion, and blame running rampant—but our brave troops got it done.
“We rescued your father and brought him here,” President Sloane finished. “He’s been working with our scientists on finding a cure for the virus ever since.”
Amelia nodded around the lump in her throat. There were too many competing emotions swirling inside her. She couldn’t even begin to untangle them all.
Senator Steelman leaned forward in her seat. Her dinner was nearly untouched. “I assume you came here because you realized the immunological properties of your blood may be our best chance at synthesizing a cure.”
Amelia nodded. “Once we realized no one but myself had survived, yes.”
“You are correct,” Senator Steelman said. “Others have claimed to be survivors of the virus in an attempt to gain admittance to the Sanctuary, but upon examination, their blood proved to be as useless as everyone else’s. Please forgive Dr. Ichpujani for his skepticism.”
“Of course.” Amelia took a bite of zucchini fritter, forcing herself to chew slowly when she longed to inhale the whole thing.
President Sloane turned to her Chief of Staff. “How soon before Declan will be ready for her?”
Perez glanced up from her holopad. “First thing in the morning, you’ll report to the lab. Our virologists can tell you more regarding the specifics tomorrow.”
“Oh,” President Sloane said, as if disappointed. “Tomorrow I’ll be overseeing a food drop for some of the Outerland survivors in the northern suburbs of Atlanta. In the afternoon, I promise to drop by to check in on you.”
Amelia frowned at the mention of Atlanta. She pushed back the memories of the rats, the fires, Tobias Moruga and the Pyros. Jericho’s death. If she could help it, she’d never set foot in Atlanta again. “What about the rest of the country? What are things like?”
Sloane took a sip of wine. Her expression turned grave. “General Daugherty, you want to take this one?”
General Daugherty coughed and cleared his throat. “There are pockets of survivors all over America. Cheyenne Mountain Complex in Colorado is still functional, along with a few other government and military outposts. There are other countries with functioning governments. Australia and New Zealand were the first to cut off domestic and international travel, so they survived, though they’ve taken losses in the hundreds of millions. Russia survived, of course. Some parts of Canada are still functioning, albeit barely. Pockets of Africa. They know how to survive. Europe has fallen. Mexico and South America. And Asia. The populations were simply too dense. There was nowhere to run.”
Amelia wasn’t surprised. Not after what they’d learned from the survivors at Sweet Creek Farm. Still, the words sent a cold, slithering dread through her. The zucchini turned to mush in her mouth.
“I’m with a group of survivors,” she said. “Two of them are in the containment center outside the Sanctuary. The others are…somewhere else. It’s beautiful and safe here. May they come here as well?”
President Sloane smiled. There was something oily about it, like it might slide off her face. She rubbed her eyes. It was then that Amelia noticed the bags under the President’s eyes, the unhealthy pallor of her skin. She looked weary—exhausted.
And why wouldn’t she be? She was busy protecting the Sanctuary, doing everything she could to keep the surviving government afloat.
Or maybe there were other, more sinister reasons.
“I’m so sorry, Amelia,” Perez said, a glass of wine nearly at her lips, “but that is unlikely.”
“Why? There are still survivors out there—women and children. Why aren’t you looking for them? Why aren’t you bringing them here? You seem to have plenty of space—and food.”
The other Coalition members seemed to be staring at her so hard she felt their gazes like heat on her skin. Their expressions were pinched, grim, hard to read.
President Sloane leaned forward, pushed her plate aside, and folded her hands on the table. Her eyes softened. “I would love to do that, Amelia. I can’t tell you how difficult it has been to close our gates to survivors. But ninety-nine percent of the people outside these walls are contaminated—essentially, they’re reservoir hosts.”
It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “What do you mean?”
“Reservoir hosts may not be symptomatic—they may not get sick themselves—but the virus has already infiltrated their cells. And if they contact other humans, they’ll spread the virus. If we let them inside, we would kill thousands of innocent people and destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to protect.
“We very carefully screen for any potential candidates we can allow inside our gates, but my most important job is to keep my people—the people already inside—safe, first and foremost. That’s one of the reasons every citizen volunteers to receive the monthly antiviral shots our scientists have developed. We�
��re hopeful that over time, the antivirals will strengthen our citizens’ immune system in case of accidental exposure—which we do our utmost to prevent, of course.”
“We’re a fairly well-oiled machine by this point,” Senator Steelman said with a prim smile.
Amelia felt light-headed. She couldn’t make sense of it all. “But how can—”
“Of course, we do everything we possibly can for those poor souls suffering outside our walls.” President Sloane made a flicking motion with her wrist. “Activate wall-screen. Show last week’s outreach efforts.”
A holoscreen flickered to life on the west-facing wall, in a space between a gilt painting of President Morgan and one of the last-century presidents, President Reagan.
The holo showed a vidclip of President Sloane, Senator Steelman, and General Daugherty on a hoverchopper with several soldiers and figures in hazmat suits. They lowered a huge crate of bottled water and boxed, canned, and powdered food into a clearing. Thirty to forty survivors, mostly families with children, converged on it. The vidclip zoomed in on a young girl of six or seven clutching a bottled water and waving giddily at the camera.
“Screen off.” President Sloane turned to Amelia, her expression strained, her eyes full of compassion. “I assure you, as soon as we’re able, I’ll be the first one on that chopper distributing a vaccine or a cure. But for now, this is all we can do. I have twelve thousand civilians and eleven hundred soldiers I’m responsible for. Do you understand?”
Everything President Sloane said made sense. Were the New Patriots wrong? Had they made a mistake? Or maybe they had their own motives. A benevolent Sanctuary didn’t fit into the agenda Cleo and General Reaver wanted to push.
Maybe everything the New Patriots had told them were lies. It wouldn’t be the first time. Anyone could be lying for their own sinister reasons. She would have to be at her best to untangle the truth from deception.
“I want to do everything I can to help,” Amelia said. “I want to help everyone inside and outside the Sanctuary.”
“I would expect nothing less of my daughter,” came a deep, rumbling voice from behind her.
19
Willow
The air was sharp and brittle. Every sound was crisp. The crunch of their boots over snow. The crack of a twig. The soft thud of powdered snow falling from a tree branch.
It was so cold even Willow’s blood felt frozen. She stamped her feet on the snowy ground, her boots crunching a layer of frosted pine needles.
The first several miles, they’d jumped at every sound, but now they were used to the rhythm of the woods, the creak of the bare branches against each other, the soft patter of creatures moving in the snow, the dense trees and the shadows that seemed to dog their every step.
“We’ve been wandering around in the woods for two days now,” Finn said. He’d been complaining all afternoon—good-naturedly, but still. He winced, pressing his good hand to his side. “I prefer a more leisurely pace.”
“And I’d prefer to sip mai-tais on a Caribbean beach,” Willow snapped, “but alas, here we are.”
“You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit,” Benjie chimed in behind them.
“Listen to the kid,” she said with more patience than she felt. They were just now far enough south of the Patriots’ compound that her shoulders were relaxed a bit, the tension in her gut beginning to unwind.
She checked the Smartflex she’d borrowed from the Patriots’ storage room before they’d left; both the GPS and the compass still worked. It was top of the line, plated in smoky platinum and crusted with rubies. In her old life, she could’ve paid for four years of college with this. Or maybe a house with more than one bathroom.
But the old world was long gone. Now she’d be thrilled to have an outhouse.
They’d traveled about twenty miles in two days, which was a lot for an eight-year-old kid and Finn, who was still recovering from his gunshot wound.
They were all exhausted. Willow’s thighs ached. Her eyes were red and gritty.
Last night, she’d barely slept. Between watch shifts, with the eerily disconcerting forest noises and Finn’s giant body nearly squeezing her out of the too-small tent, sleeping was pretty much a lost cause.
She had stayed awake, staring into the living darkness of the woods, wishing the yellow eyes of Raven’s wolf would appear, and thinking of Silas, of their last conversation before they’d parted ways.
They had been sparring outside near the compound’s training center. Willow had managed to land a particularly nasty punch. Silas stumbled back, clutching his nose. Blood gushed between his fingers. “Damn, princess.”
“Are you okay? Let me see.” She went to him, gripped by guilt, and tried to pry his fingers away. He flinched from her touch like she’d burned him.
Irritated, she spoke without thinking. “You can have friends, you know. It’s not a weakness.”
He spat blood on the ground. “To my father, everything was a weakness.”
She hid her surprise at his response. It was real—with feeling behind it. He’d never brought up his father before. “He’s not here anymore. You are. Believe it or not, there are people who actually care about you.”
He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his shirtsleeve and half-turned toward the tree line, staring off into nothing, his whole body tensed like he was ready to run, to flee.
The conversation had suddenly gotten too serious. She had no idea how to handle it, so she just shrugged in mock indifference. “Not me, of course. Other people. Someone. Somewhere.”
He was silent for so long she wondered if she’d said something wrong, if her sarcasm had been a mistake. She was terrible at this sort of thing. Where was Amelia or Micah when you needed them? They were both the sensitive sort.
“I didn’t mean that,” she muttered. “It was a joke. You know, a lame attempt at…something.”
He smirked. But it seemed like an automatic reaction, not something he really meant. He scrubbed more blood from his face. Only a trickle dripped from his nose. He stared down at his bloody hands as he flexed his fingers, popping his knuckles one by one. “I’m aware of the definition of a joke.”
“I just—” She scrambled for words that would mean something to him. “You’re a good teacher.”
The corner of his lip twitched. “I know.”
“Humble, too.”
“Not to mention extremely good-looking.”
Willow laughed.
The tension leaked from Silas’s shoulders. He gave her a lazy half-smile.
“You aren’t alone,” she said. “You don’t have to keep pretending that you are.”
She expected him to go all sullen and sarcastic, spit out some nasty barb, but he didn’t. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides. But there was something thawing inside him, a softness in his eyes she didn’t remember seeing before. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“In the Sanctuary…don’t get yourself killed, okay?”
“You either.” He touched his nose gingerly. “I know a particularly fine sucker punch I’m looking forward to flattening you with. You’ll be in a world of hurt.”
“It’s a date.”
They had grinned at each other. Real smiles. Like real friends.
She missed his smirks and snark already. She missed deflecting knife thrusts and eye gouging, breaking choke-holds, and practicing the fine art of throat-punching. She didn’t have Silas to spar with, and she didn’t want to accidentally hurt Finn’s arm, but she still needed to train. She couldn’t let herself go soft, not even for a moment.
Out here in the wilderness, she was responsible for both Benjie and Finn. She was Ate. She couldn’t let anything happen to either of them.
That night, after they made camp and enjoyed a self-heating dinner of spaghetti and faux-meatballs that tasted vaguely of sawdust, she found a small clearing between a grouping of trees and practiced.
She slid into her fighting stance. Legs sli
ghtly bent at the knees, left fist up and back to protect her face, right fist up and leading, elbows tucked in. Springy on her feet, muscles tensed. Strike. Block. Punch. Feint. Spin, drop into a lunge. Kick. Repeat.
She punched and kicked and lunged, again and again, knife out, stabbing invisible enemies until her heart was pounding, her muscles warm and loose, and her breath coming in ragged, steaming puffs.
“Nice ninja moves,” Finn said when she returned to the campfire. She felt his eyes tracking her.
She tossed more sticks on the fire, then leaned against a nearby tree, half-facing the darkness that swirled and thickened just outside their ring of flickering light.
He still wanted to say something to her. She felt it in the way he studied her, his jaw working, hesitant and unsure in a way he normally never was. He had started a conversation back at the compound on Christmas Eve, when he’d stolen the box of brownie mix and made her an unbaked cake. But she hadn’t been ready for it.
Deep down, she was terrified of things changing between them. He was Finn, her best friend. Her family, her person. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
In some ways, she was still a coward.
20
Amelia
Amelia leapt out of her seat, shoving back her chair and nearly spilling her goblet of wine. General Daugherty watched her impassively. Senator Steelman gave a tiny frown of disapproval. Selma Perez didn’t bother to look up from her holopad.
Amelia straightened, smoothed her gown, and pasted a brittle smile on her face. She forced herself to turn around. “Father.”
Her father’s presence was just as regal and commanding as she remembered, if not more so. He drew all the energy in the room. He was tall and broad-shouldered, finely dressed in a dark wool peacoat, a black designer suit, and diamond cuff-links. His brown hair and spade-shaped beard were threaded with silver. But it was his eyes, iron-gray and hard as stone, eyes both cunning and cruel, that undid her.