Torn

by Avery Hastings

  She pushed Dr. Grady back with one hand, hard, and his face darkened.

  “If I’m not contagious,” she said to him, her voice cold, “I can go home. Right?”

  “That’s impossible,” Dr. Grady told her stiffly, turning his back. “You still need professional supervision. We have more tests to run. You could regress. Your symptoms could reappear at any time. They can’t offer you what we can offer you here. You’ll need to stay at least several more months. In fact, your father mandated it.” He was speaking quickly, stumbling over his words. He looked nervous.

  Davis looked at his gold watch, which offered a startling contrast against the white of his medical jacket, and she knew. Mercer had been right. They were being held there not out of concern for their health but for their parents’ money.

  Seraphina knocked on the door to the examination room, a moment too late. They had a deal to bust in on each other’s appointments if they didn’t end within twenty minutes. They had each other’s backs; no one wanted to be alone with Dr. Grady for too long. Seraphina ought to have come sooner, but her lapse had given Davis this important gift.

  “’Scuse me,” Seraphina called, poking her blonde head into the room. “Davis is needed at the canteen. It’s her week for dishes.”

  “No problem,” Dr. Grady said, eyeing Seraphina. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sera.”

  “Seraphina,” she said in a cold tone, and Davis stifled a smile. The woman had no patience for Dr. Grady’s attentions.

  “See you next week, Davis,” Dr. Grady called after her, as she moved from the room.

  “See you next week.” Her voice sounded flat, even to her.

  “God,” Seraphina said. “He’s such a creep. What’d he do this time? Details.”

  “Nothing too weird,” Davis replied, her palms sweating at the lie. She and Seraphina had bonded primarily over the fact that they were both Neithers, but other than that, they didn’t have a lot in common. She still didn’t feel all that comfortable opening up. Especially not over a secret this huge. Seraphina had never even heard of Cole. Davis couldn’t imagine how she’d react if she knew Davis was contemplating escape. She was a good girl—had faith in the system, played by the rules. She was a little timid, too. She trusted her treatment, mostly because she had to. The terror in her eyes every time Davis mentioned an alternative to the island was evident. She took joy in the small things, like the screening room that had been set up for the entertainment of the sick patients and that was still intact. She almost seemed to enjoy the sense of safety the island provided—there, she wasn’t judged. She felt she was protected. If her only form of entertainment was interaction with other patients and a pseudo movie theater, so be it—that was her attitude. The two didn’t connect on this point; Davis was convinced there was something better out there that could cure them and release them to their former, much richer lives. She would never give up on getting out.

  Still, it was nice to have an ally. “Just, you know. The usual looks,” she said in response to Seraphina’s question.

  “Such a letch.” She rolled her eyes. “Wanna go to the screening room or hang out in my dorm room or something?”

  “What about the dishes?”

  “Davis. Please. Your naïveté is losing its charm.”

  “I’m actually going to go lie down inside,” Davis lied. “Let’s catch up at dinner.”

  “Okay. Wonder what it’ll be?” she joked. It was almost always protein shakes, vitamin shakes, and—very rarely—actual milkshakes, along with the very occasional produce. Davis had pretty much forgotten what it felt like to chew. Seraphina waved and walked off in the direction of her dorm. She was still a little weak, and as a result she hadn’t earned enough merit points—amassed by cooking and chores. Merit points and burgeoning strength gave the patients more freedom to explore the grounds.

  “Thanks for the save,” Davis called after her, and the other girl smiled in response. Seraphina often acted like she wanted to enjoy the “resort” she pretended TOR-N still was. Davis knew it was all just a big game that helped her cope, but it seemed like, at some point, Sera had started believing the game. And maybe it was better that way. No one knew how long they’d be at TOR-N. They didn’t know if they’d die there.

  Davis walked down a narrow dirt trail in the opposite direction from where Sera had gone, keeping to the innermost side of the forest so no one in the upper clinic could see her. She kept going, jogging now, about half a mile, until she was out of breath from the exertion and excitement. She was getting stronger; she could feel it. All of a sudden, the world looked brighter and more hopeful. She liked pushing herself, feeling the ache in her muscles after a day of exertion. The rush she felt as she accomplished little things—like running a full mile straight—was unlike any physical joy she’d ever experienced before. There was something about succeeding when you were down that offered an incredible boost. She’d never been down, not until she got Narxis. She’d always been ahead. She’d never known what it was like to truly crave something and work for it, knowing the odds were stacked against you. She wondered if it was how Cole had felt. The thought made her heart surge with admiration.

  She was tired of lying in bed, of “resting up” and obeying doctor’s orders. She’d started sneaking out during the late evenings—when the doctors and staff turned in their badges—about a week ago. Since then, she’d gotten bolder, sneaking out every chance she got. It was how she’d found the laboratory.

  She moved faster, knowing she was closing in on the clearing. When she was moving like this, with the smells of the tropical forest and the damp soil sticking to her shoes and the green blurring past her, it was almost possible to see this place the way Seraphina tried to. It was almost possible to feel free. Then, heart pounding, she broke through the trees into the clearing. This was how she’d found it last time: running, delirious with the feeling of freedom and returning strength. She’d literally burst upon the abandoned building and into the patch of overgrown grass and weeds, totally by accident.

  The structure was ancient, crumbling. It didn’t look like it had ever belonged to the TOR-N program. Maybe it had been devoted to the research on some other disease the government had covered up—who knew? Or maybe it was left over from the golden days, the days before genetic mutation. Its crumbling cement surface and cracked windows spoke of neglect and a million hidden histories. It gave Davis chills every time she saw it.

  At first, she’d been afraid to go inside. She’d feared it would crumble in on her, or that she’d catch some other, even worse disease by exposing herself to its musty air. But then curiosity had seized her and she’d first peeked into the windows and later ventured through the door—its bolt had snapped easily, practically rusted through. And then she’d seen the space.

  To someone else, maybe it would have seemed like a surgical wasteland: rotting mattresses atop rusty cots, old metal instruments discarded and half covered in dust and cobwebs. But to Davis, it was a studio.

  It had taken her several hours—snatched here and there between appointments and lights out and mealtimes—but she’d managed to sneak away a broom and use it to clear the place of most of its dust and cobwebs. Then she’d moved the operating tables against one wall and shifted the rest of the clutter to a series of built-in shelving units … and she’d danced.

  She’d been dancing ever since, every chance she got. When she did, she felt light and airy, even though she knew she was only a shadow of what she used to be, physically. The way she felt, though, running through her old warm-ups—it was the kind of happiness a starving child might have felt at the sight of his first warm meal. It was a joy that made her feel like she was flying, even though her muscles were limited, her body softer. Davis could do it all day, every day. But she made herself stop after only twenty minutes each time. Twenty minutes was the perfect amount of time, to not arouse suspicion. Anything more would be dangerous, and the thought of this little freedom being stolen away from her was enou
gh to leave Davis breathless.

  Now she opened the creaking door and smiled. Light filtered into the room through the panes that she’d wiped clean with an old kitchen rag. She stripped off her regulation booties and placed her bare feet against the floor, standing and flexing her toes and calf muscles. It was hard, leaping around on cement without ballet slippers. It hurt a lot. But she barely noticed the pain or the subsequent bruising.

  Davis hummed a little, some basic Mahler, as she began her warm-up. She started with the basic positions: écarté, effacé. She did this for a few minutes—an abbreviated version of a warm-up—until she felt her time waning and couldn’t stand it any longer. She moved right into a bourrée, then a déboule, her body spinning so fast she felt like she was flying. Her movements felt soft and free and joyful, despite the harsh surface of the floor impacting her bare feet. She was about to move into an entrechat, when she heard it: the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the underbrush outside.

  Davis stopped so fast she nearly toppled over, her heart pounding. The footsteps drew nearer to the door. She scanned the room but there was no other way out, short of the ancient, jagged windows. Seeing a broken test tube, she grabbed it, hoping its broken edges would act as defense if it came to that. She dropped beneath one of the surgical tables, her pulse beating faster than it should have after a simple workout. She touched her face and felt its dampness. She was flushed, nervous. She closed her eyes and waited, trying to keep her breath as silent as possible. Then the door opened and a figure stepped through. Davis leapt out from under the table, letting loose a high-pitched shriek, ready to hurl the beaker at the intruder.

  “Holy crap,” the figure shouted. “Wait a second!”

  Davis lowered her arm, her whole body trembling. It was just Mercer.

  “Don’t do that!” she yelled, swatting him playfully as he laughed. “Jesus. You scared the crap out of me.”

  “You’re just an easy target,” Mercer teased. Davis couldn’t help grinning up at him.

  “A new shipment’s arriving tomorrow,” he told her now, grinning wide. “Are you ready?” He said it every week. And every week, she told him it was impossible. They had to wait until they weren’t contagious. And now she wasn’t.

  “I was born ready,” she told him, hands on her hips. “This was my plan, after all.”

  She laughed as his face went white.

  “Wait—you’re serious?” He was so used to her telling him no.

  “Mercer,” she told him, running to him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I’m not contagious anymore. If I’m not, surely you’re not, either. Our health has improved at the same rate. They give both of us free rein at the facility. He said I haven’t been contagious for weeks. Let’s do this. I’m ready.” She pulled back and walked over to the air vent in the corner of the room and pulled out the map they’d been crafting for weeks.

  “Everything’s set,” Mercer said, eyeing the map. “It’s foolproof.”

  “Is it?” Davis asked, standing up to stretch her legs. She knew from experience the dangers of assuming anything was foolproof. She moved across the tiny room, doing a series of stretches, and finally, a running leap. When she landed, Mercer was in front of her; he lifted her up, using the momentum of her leap to hold her over his head briefly. She giggled and squirmed out of his grasp.

  “Looks like you’ve got some ballerina in you,” she said to Mercer, laughing. He smiled, but it was solemn.

  “You look beautiful when you dance,” he told her. “You’re perfect.”

  Davis felt the full weight of the word, and it was like a cloud descending over them, illuminating instead of obscuring her current physical state—weakened from Narxis, a shell of what she used to be.

  “People like us can never be ‘perfect,’” she told him, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. They were both Neithers. It was the one thing he should understand. Perfect was the one word he should have avoided.

  “You know what I meant,” he told her. “You’re perfect to me.”

  Davis smiled, turning away awkwardly. She knew he was waiting for a response, but she didn’t know what to give him. Sometimes when he made those comments … it was like he was pushing for something. But she was still dealing with Cole’s death and trying to shake the feeling of inadequacy she had only just begun to grow used to. She couldn’t consider it. She wanted his friendship, that was all. At least for right now.

  There was so much else to think about. She still couldn’t believe there were so many Neithers out there. The fact that Priors and Imps had relationships often enough for an entire population of Neithers to exist blew her mind. It also gave her hope for a future in which her romance with Cole wouldn’t have been doomed.

  The thought of Cole caused her heart to quake.

  But she had her family to think of now. Her father and Fia and Vera to be strong for.

  “Let’s go over the maps once more,” she suggested. Mercer nodded, and they pored over the maps for the millionth time, firming up their plan. Davis would escape, and when she did, she’d be prepared. She’d bring Dr. Hassman and the Durham scientists as much information about the disease as she could gather. She couldn’t save Cole. But while there was hope of helping the others she loved, she’d never stop trying.

  6

  COLE

  There was a loud explosion outside, and Cole startled, nearly dropping the portable radio he’d been holding. It came again—and this time it sounded like a series of guns firing. Were the Slants under attack? Cole’s entire body tensed. When the third round of firing went off—this time much closer—he dashed out of his hideout before he could second-guess himself. Seeing a crowd amassing on the gravel path leading from Michelle’s father’s general store to the housing compounds, he ducked his head and stepped into a narrow alleyway between buildings. He felt suddenly terrified, exposed. The explosions fired again, and around him people gasped. There wasn’t fear in their voices, though. No one screamed and ran as they might have if they really were under attack.

  Finally, Cole got the courage to lift his head, exposing his face to the sky. There, above him, was a giant blimp. It was apparently the source of the sounds, which seemed designed to get their attention. But what got Cole’s attention were the gigantic words emblazoned across the fluttering banner it heralded. FIFTIETH ANNUAL OLYMPIADS, it read in neon green lettering. FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HISTORY, GEN COMPETITORS WELCOME!

  The crowd around him murmured, their voices rising in pitch. Gens had never been welcome in the Olympiads, and frankly, it seemed silly to think of Gens competing against Priors, who were engineered for peak performance.

  Still. Hope bloomed inside of him. If he could compete in the Olympiads—and win—his world might open up again. Once again, a different future—far away from Columbus, maybe with Davis—would be possible.

  Except it was impossible for a dead man to compete.

  He waited for the blimp to recede and the crowds to disperse before moving out of the alley and ducking back into his hideout. His thoughts were swirling. He was so distracted that he nearly missed the rattling sound of the door opening a few minutes later.

  He whirled, panic-stricken, certain he’d been caught. But it was only Worsley, holding a bag of something delicious-smelling. Cole had been famished a few hours ago, but now there was only one thing on his mind.

  “What do you know about the Olympiads?” he asked.

  “You saw.” Disapproval flashed through Worsley’s eyes. “You risked getting caught.”

  “I wasn’t thinking,” Cole said. “I thought we were under attack. What was I supposed to do, stay here and die? But Tom, is it true?”

  Worsley leaned toward Cole, his face serious. “It’s true. The city is reinstating the Olympiads. But this time, Gens can compete. It’s some publicity stunt,” Worsley added, but Cole was already sitting straighter.

  “Compete? Compete how? In which events?”

  “It’s just
their way of boosting morale after the Narxis outbreak,” Worsley told him. “You choose your individual event. If you win, you compete in the triathlon. The winner of the triathlon wins the whole thing. The prizes are huge.”

  “Money?”

  Thomas nodded. “More money than FEUDS. More than you can imagine.”

  Cole was at his feet before he realized what had happened. He fought a wave of dizziness that overcame him briefly. He’d been inside for too long. He should have been outside, training. Worsley saw him falter.

  “You’ll have to train again,” he said.

  “I’ll be able to travel,” Cole whispered. “I’ll be able to go to the Everglades.”

  “Cole,” Worsley cautioned. “We don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

  “I need to see for myself,” Cole said. “And my mother.…”

  “I saw her yesterday,” Worsley said. “She’s okay.”

  They both knew “okay” was a stretch. No longer able to pay for her tiny house, she’d been living in a home for destitutes along the far reaches of the Slants, not far from where dead bodies were still being discarded daily by Priors. Setting his mom up somewhere comfortable—where she’d never have to work or worry again—had been Cole’s dream for as long as he could remember.

  “It won’t take me long to get back in shape,” Cole told Worsley confidently. “Boxing has a lot to do with muscle memory. When’s the competition? A couple of weeks at the gym, yeah—and food. Protein, if you can get it. It won’t take me long to get strong again, like I was.”

  Worsley was shaking his head. “Boxing isn’t one of the events,” he said. “You’ll have to pick something new. I wasn’t even going to tell you. I didn’t want to get your hopes up. You’ll have to train in a new sport, disguise your DNA … disguise your appearance somehow. You’re notorious, even if everyone thinks you’re dead. Once they see you, they’ll know we faked the whole thing at the morgue. It’s next to impossible to pull off, you sneaking into the competition.”