Torn

by Avery Hastings

  There in front of them, no farther than ten yards away, was the crumpled and bloodied form of a woman. Just past her, a man darted away, making a sharp left turn down an alley.

  Cole and Worsley ran over to crouch next to the woman, who was screaming after the Imp. “Thief,” she called out. “Come back!”

  Cole recognized something in that tone. His voice caught in his throat. He turned the woman gently toward him, and she didn’t bother to resist; she was clearly weakened from the attack. When she rolled over to face him, his eyes widened in recognition.

  “It’s you,” she whispered through cracked and dirtied lips. Her eyes were wide with terror. “They said … you were supposed to have died. You’re dead.” She recoiled, trying to move away from him, her face ashen. She seemed confused and disoriented.

  “Vera,” he said gently. “Don’t be scared. It was all a mistake. The news got it wrong. I’m okay.” He reached for her hand, and she looked at it for a long minute before accepting it. He squeezed it gently, feeling his soul move for the poor, panicked girl. He lifted her up, tucking her torn and dirtied dress—once, from the look of it, a delicate shade of pink silk—under her knees. He turned to Worsley. “We’ve got to get her back inside, now.”

  “You know this girl?” Worsley’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “We can’t take her! You’re already in enough trouble.”

  “No one’s looking for me,” Vera muttered into Cole’s chest. “They left me here. They don’t want anything to do with me.”

  The men exchanged glances; it took less than a minute for Thomas to nod his assent and the three to move quickly in the direction of Cole’s hideout. Once there, Cole laid Vera gently on the thin pallet he’d been using as a makeshift bed. He brought her a glass of water. Vera eyed it warily.

  “It’s been filtered,” Worsley assured her. Then, less sensitively: “Besides, you have no choice.” She nodded and drank quickly, taking it down in enormous gulps, not bothering to look up until the entire glass was drained. Cole waited as long as he could—which turned out to be about two minutes.

  “Have you…,” he paused, racking his brain for a delicate way to phrase it. “Do you know anything about Davis?” he asked, flushing at his own callousness.

  “Cole! Let her rest.”

  “I’m sorry.” Cole took a breath, moving to the sink to wet a towel for Vera. Her face was covered in sweat and dried blood from being scraped when she’d fallen. He glanced back, taking her in. In such a short time, she’d fallen so far from the gorgeous friend of Davis’s he’d first seen at a rooftop party only a few weeks ago. She’d been laughing and whispering with her boyfriend—some uptight Prior named Oscar—and she’d seemed as untouchable and perfect as Davis had to him then.

  Now her blonde curls formed a chaotic halo around her shoulders. It was obvious Vera was still beautiful—still a Prior—even at the height of her exhaustion and fear. She wore a pink silk sundress that nipped in at the waist and fastened demurely at her chest with a row of opalescent buttons. She’d been dressed conservatively when they kicked her out. He wondered where’d she’d last been—at a cello recital? Davis had said she was brilliant with the cello. How could they have thrown her out like she was nothing? Fury ran through his veins; he had to take several breaths to compose himself before turning back to her. He ran cold water over the towel and moved back toward Vera, patting her face where he spotted the largest clots. She winced when the towel hit her forehead, and pulled away slightly.

  “We’re going to need to ice that,” Cole told her. “I don’t have ice here, but Worsley can bring some soon. Are you hungry?”

  Vera nodded. “I’ve been here for two days,” she said. “They threw me out with the credit card that guy just took, and a little food, but it was barely enough to last through yesterday.”

  “Who did?”

  Vera stifled a sob. “My parents,” she said.

  Cole swallowed a hard lump of anger in his throat. “I don’t have much,” he told her, moving toward the small stash of provisions he kept in a garbage bag in the corner, just in case. He was never sure exactly when Worsley would or wouldn’t show up. He tried to temper his impatience—to focus on helping Vera—but his whole body burned with the desire to know where Davis had been taken and if she was okay.

  He brought her a few crackers, some peanut butter, and a bruised apple.

  “It’s all I have,” he said, a note of apology in his voice.

  “Thank you, Cole.” Vera looked up at him, meeting his eyes. He could tell she was touched. Only a couple of months ago she would have shuddered at the idea of eating Imp food.

  “Can you tell us what you know about Davis?” Worsley spoke up. Cole startled; Worsley had been so silent the whole time that Cole had half forgotten he was there, sitting on the bench in the shadows. Vera shook her head, her mouth smudged with peanut butter. She was shoveling it in by the spoonful, ravenous.

  “I only know that she was taken to TOR-N. I haven’t heard anything from her.”

  “TOR-N?” Cole looked at Worsley for clarification, but Worsley’s eyebrows were knitted.

  “TOR is the Territories’ Operational Research facility,” he said. “But what’s the N? Oh.…” It dawned on them all at once.

  “Narxis.” Worsley answered his own question before Vera could reply.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “Columbus has been sending Narxis victims to TOR-N every day. They go by ship. It’s supposed to be an incredible facility. I went to Davis’s house, spoke to her father. He said it’s a large, island campus—almost like a luxurious resort, with state-of-the art technology. He said it’s the best place for her, that there’s a world-renowned chef, a studio for her to dance in—every luxury she could want, in addition to top-notch medical care. But I haven’t heard a word from her since they took her.”

  Cole felt relief to know where Davis was, at least. Relief to know she wasn’t dead. Probably. Not yet, anyway. They were studying her. But why hadn’t Davis gotten in touch? Surely if the facility was that advanced, staying in touch would be easy, and Vera was her best friend.

  “Have any survivors come back? Anyone who was cured?” he asked.

  Vera hesitated, then frowned. “No,” she told him finally. “None that I can think of. But it’s not really talked about. Nobody wants to think about it. It’s too scary. People just—” She stopped, choking back a sob. “People can’t believe it’s happening.”

  “How are you?” Cole asked, softening his tone and reaching for her hand. “What happened? Why did you … end up here?”

  Vera hesitated before responding.

  Cole glanced up at Worsley, who had been oddly quiet the whole time, observing their interactions from where he sat. Now the two exchanged a look of concern. Cole turned to Vera, who met his eyes, tears welling in her own.

  “I blew the Olympiads,” she whispered finally. “Oscar wouldn’t have me.”

  “Your parents dumped you in the Slants because you blew the Olympiads?” Cole’s mind raced. None of it made sense. The Olympiads were crucial, sure. And he remembered Davis telling him Vera had been a shoo-in. But to disown their daughter over this failure? He’d had no idea the kind of stakes they were up against. No wonder Davis had been so worried, so tense. Always under so much pressure. But what did she mean, Oscar wouldn’t have her?

  “No,” Vera broke in, her voice hesitant. “Not just that.”

  “It’s okay,” Worsley reassured her. “You can tell us.”

  Vera inhaled deeply. “I blew the Olympiads,” she said, her voice quavering, “because I was … distracted. Oscar and my parents sent me here for a different reason.”

  Cole waited, steeling himself against what she was about to say. What could have been so horrible that they’d dump her in a place widely considered to be untouchable?

  “I’m pregnant,” she said.

  Cole felt his eyes widen. He opened his mouth to say something—anything to let her know everything would be okay—
but Vera held up a hand to quiet him.

  “I’m pregnant with Oscar’s child,” she continued, “and I screwed up the Olympiads.” Her voice was trembling, and she let out a choked sob. “Oscar might have married me if I’d only passed the Olympiads. After that, I was a disgrace. He didn’t want me. He didn’t want the baby. My parents were humiliated.”

  Cole felt his hands clench in anger. He was shocked, horrified that any parent—any boyfriend–would do what they’d done. He moved toward Vera and wrapped an arm around her. “It’ll be okay,” he said, drawing her head to his shoulder. “We’ll help you figure it out.” Cole vowed to keep his promise. Vera was Davis’s best friend. Davis would be heartsick at this news. He had to keep Vera safe.

  “I can see why she was so crazy about you,” Vera whispered, her body sinking against his with relief.

  He let her cry and sniffle into his shirt, and eventually her breathing slowed. When she finally fell asleep, Cole stared hard at Worsley. “What are we going to do with her?” he whispered.

  Worsley smiled for the first time that night. “Don’t you get it? It’s perfect. It’s like the solution fell right into our laps.”

  Cole looked down to where Vera was lying against his lap, and smiled a little at Tom’s joke. Then the significance of the word solution dawned on him.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “Cole. Yes,” said Worsley. “We’ve been given a chance, don’t you see? It’ll help her. It could change everything.” He leaned past Cole and shook Vera’s shoulder gently. Her eyes stirred as she began to wake up.

  “Time to get up,” Worsley told her. “We’ve got to move you.”

  She sat up, stretching and rubbing her eyes. “Where are we going?” she asked groggily.

  “To my work space,” Worsley said. “You’ll be safe there for now.”

  Cole tried to catch Worsley’s eye. It was all so much upheaval for Vera to handle in such a short time. She was fragile, and he worried that Worsley was too fixated on the end goal.

  “Can I talk to you?” he motioned to Worsley, who nodded and followed him to the opposite corner of the room.

  “She’s never been in the Slants,” he whispered. “She’s terrified. You can see it in her eyes. Please be careful with her. She’s Davis’s best friend.”

  Worsley put a hand on his shoulder. “Her well-being comes first,” he told him. “The rest is secondary. I swear to you.”

  Cole nodded, though he wasn’t completely sure he believed his friend. Worsley didn’t know Davis like he did, so he couldn’t know Davis’s love for Vera or feel the responsibility he felt. Still, there were few options. He’d just have to check in on Vera as much as possible.

  Worsley turned back to Vera, then crossed the room and knelt by her side. “I care very much about keeping you safe,” he said. “You can trust me. My clinic is very comfortable, and Cole will check in on you, too. Do you feel comfortable with that?”

  Cole saw the crease in her brow softening. Worsley did have a good bedside manner; his voice was calm, compassionate. Vera nodded in acquiescence, allowing Worsley to help her to her feet. “One more thing,” Worsley said, as he wrapped a supporting arm around her waist. “How would you like to give birth to the cure?”

  3

  DAVIS

  The hardest part about the island was that there was no escape. The second-hardest part was being strong among the weak. Davis could take the stiff mattresses, the scratchy sheets, the chores they were forced to do every day to keep the place in running order. It was nothing like the gleaming medical facility her father thought it was. It had once been luxurious; that much was obvious. Davis had heard rumors that it had been an old beachside resort, and some of that glamour still remained—gilded windows, a sweeping staircase that led to the dormitories. Big computer rooms for patients, now empty and pillaged, with loose wires dangling from the walls. Large dorm rooms stripped bare and outfitted with far too many beds and boarded windows. Little shared cabins that probably once had been storage sheds. None of it had been maintained, and Davis could imagine why not. After all, how could the government have anticipated a need for TOR-N until recently?

  Still, she couldn’t forgive the fact that they could have done more and didn’t. Nothing was clean. It was as if they hadn’t inspected it before throwing people in. You could see the beauty under the surface, but just barely. Her dad would never have sent her to a place like this—squalid and gloomy, with poor-quality food for all the patients—if he did know. She assumed he’d been sent information containing old pictures from its times of former glory. Part of it was humbling—it was what she imagined Cole’s life had been like. But people died every day here, and that was the part she would never get used to.

  She felt overwhelming fear, deep in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know if or when she herself was going to die, only that she seemed stronger than most of the rest. And that gave her the faintest bit of hope.

  Before TOR-N, she’d never seen so many people suffering from illness. It just hadn’t happened in Columbus … until Narxis came along. And even then it was somehow possible to pretend it was all a bad dream. She’d still been surrounded by the healthy and the beautiful. She’d still had her comfortable bedroom, with her down bedding and her loving family. She could still, to some degree, feel untouched. It was the memories of her family that kept her going, that made her believe they’d find a cure and she could go home. She had to believe.

  Davis made her way to the hut of Margaret, a woman who had held her while she cried, the first night of their arrival. Only, since then, Margaret’s sickness had progressed far more rapidly than Davis’s.

  “Margaret,” she whispered, knocking on the door of the shared cabin. “It’s Davis.” The shades were drawn in the cabin, and the other occupants had cleared out. The smell of sweat and waste assaulted Davis’s nostrils. Her stomach turned over. But she took a deep breath and entered the room. Sunlight streamed through the open door, illuminating Margaret’s face. It was easy to see that Margaret had been beautiful once, with high cheekbones and violet eyes. She was probably only a few years older than Davis—midtwenties, if Davis had to guess. But now her skin was dry and patchy, cracks already beginning to form. She’d aged years in the past few days. Davis was afraid to move closer, even though she had been assured that, once you contracted Narxis, your strain couldn’t worsen with exposure to another strain. It just was what it was. She wouldn’t get sicker from being near Margaret.

  Davis pushed herself forward into the room and sat down beside Margaret’s bed.

  “Here,” she said, digging into her pocket, from which she produced four seashells she’d collected from the shore. “I know you like them.”

  Margaret’s lips cracked into some semblance of a smile and she weakly held out her hands. They shook as Davis carefully placed the shells into her palms.

  “Beautiful,” Margaret whispered.

  “Here, let me help you arrange them,” Davis offered, too uncomfortable to remain seated. Margaret handed back the shells and Davis placed them in a row on a nearby windowsill, drawing back the shades a little.

  “Thank you,” Margaret whispered. The sound of true gratitude in her voice made Davis want to cry. The thought of being reduced to such a state, and still finding beauty in the small things, reminded her that there was hope in even the gravest of circumstances.

  A few minutes later, Margaret was drifting to sleep, so Davis snuck back out of the cabin, closing the door carefully, and heaved a huge sigh, grateful to be back in the fresh air again.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse,” Davis muttered without thinking. She jerked her head up to find herself eye to eye with the boy from the boat.

  “Mercer,” he told her. “The other one who’s semihealthy around here.”

  “For now,” Davis told him.

  “Well, aren’t you just the picture of hope?” he said. “What’s your name, Ms. Positivity?”

  “Davi
s.” She sighed and leaned back on her heels. Who did this guy think he was? He had no idea what she’d been through.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking who the hell am I to talk about being positive, am I right?”

  Davis shrugged. “Kind of.”

  “Well, I’m the guy who’s Narxis positive,” he said. “About as positive as they come.”

  Davis met his eyes, which were sparkling just a little, even as his face remained serious. She wiped her forehead with the back of her gloved hand, and for the first time in days—or maybe weeks—she smiled.

  Davis stretched across the windowsill, pulling her body all the way into the sterile, sparsely adorned facility. A funky smell assaulted her nostrils—some sort of mix of cleaning fluids and whatever putrid scent the fluids were meant to extinguish. The windows to the facility were never locked—they were high enough off the ground to deter most intruders, and nearly everyone at TOR-N was too weak to do much anyway. Davis trembled from the exertion of creating a makeshift platform from discarded lumber and hoisting herself into the building. She was sick of being left in the dark.

  Once there, she hardly had time to recover; an alarm sounded before her feet hit the ground. Fingers trembling from weakness, she coded in the password she’d seen Dr. Grady enter to deactivate the alarm during their most recent morning appointment. Davis had shown up early on purpose, trailing him into the building as he unlocked the doors. Always watching, searing everything he did into her brain. Smiling and nodding while he talked about the weather and the supposedly great new changes to the dining facility—changes that included the addition of “fresh” vegetables—the semirotten produce that couldn’t be sold in stores.

  The alarm silenced, Davis edged into the office, squinting against the dark. The only illumination was a narrow beam of moonlight that filtered through the vaulted window. Davis leaned against the wall of the office, trying to catch her breath. The facility was tiny; Dr. Grady didn’t need much more than a treatment office, a surgical area, and a storage room, she guessed. Still, where was all the money she was certain her father was paying for her to be there? The space was clean but devoid of any trimmings, and even some of the equipment looked a little dated.