by Kyla Stone
“These aren’t treatment facilities.” Gabriel’s eyes burned with fury.
“They’re waste disposal centers,” Silas said.
“We thought they were up to no good,” Gonzales stammered, “with them refusing to let anyone in or out. But this—I never imagined . . .”
“It’s brilliant, really,” Silas said woodenly. “Promise treatment to get the sick to come to you. They’re going to die anyway. This way, you’re able to properly dispose of hundreds of thousands—millions—of bodies that would otherwise be decomposing everywhere, making the job of clean-up and reconstruction that much easier.”
Beside Micah, Elise let out a moan deep in her throat. She stared down at the pits. She didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Jericho touched her shoulder. “We found what we came for. It’s time to go.”
Micah tore his gaze from the bodies. He felt a bone-deep weariness all the way down to his toes. He was sickened, revolted, and gripped with a desperate need to be anywhere but here.
He followed Jericho numbly, unaware of putting one foot in front of the other. How could they do such a thing? Promising treatment—promising hope—to sick and desperate people, only to trap them in a death camp. It sickened him. It enraged him.
Jericho halted on the landing to the third floor, raising his fist. The whine of the drone was close. Too close. Red laser beams crisscrossed the hallway, the drone’s sensors seeking heat, searching for a target.
A bullet pinged the wall above Micah, raining crumbs of drywall down on his head.
Jericho whirled and shot the drone. It screeched and careened into the wall. Silas added two more shots before the thing finally clattered to the carpeted floor. The metal disc shuddered, and the lights spinning over its metallic surface stilled.
Gabriel pushed Micah. “Go, go, go!”
They raced down the stairs, their feet pounding the metal grating. Micah leapt over the dead bodies in the foyer and burst out the front door into the blinding sunlight. The two perimeter patrol drones were zooming closer. Gun ports descended from their reflective bellies with a whirring sound, barrels swiveling toward them.
They bolted across the parking lot. A rain of bullets busted up the pavement inches from Micah’s feet. Pain jolted him as a chunk of asphalt struck his shin.
He looked for Elise to see if she needed help. She ran even with him, maybe even a little ahead, her expression steady and focused.
Silas took aim as he ran and took out the closest drone as it hovered eight feet in the air, recharging for another spray of bullets. It sputtered and fell to the ground with a metallic clanking sound.
They reached the last apartment building before the tree line. If they could reach the woods, they’d have a chance. Micah whirled, squeezed off a shot and missed.
A bullet whizzed past his head. He twisted, craning his neck, and glimpsed the soldier behind him, creeping in the tall grass between the buildings.
His glasses slid down his nose but there wasn’t time to fix them. He grabbed Elise’s arm and jerked her around the front corner as another bullet struck the wall and disintegrated a hunk of cement.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, breathing hard.
“I’ll cover you!” Jericho ducked behind an SUV, shot out the windows in a rain of glass, and pumped a hail of bullets at the soldier. The soldier flattened himself in the grass, taking cover. “Go, Elise! Now!”
Micah checked to make sure Elise was with him and ran into the trees, his heart slamming against his ribs, his side aching. He tripped over a root, branches slapping his face, and stumbled.
Elise leaned down, seized his arm, and yanked him up.
Russell and Gabriel sprinted past them. They dodged, weaving between tree trunks. No more shots followed them.
Still, they didn’t stop running until they reached the truck a mile and a half later.
Gonzales leaned against the trunk of a towering oak tree, gasping. “They don’t seem too interested in pursuing intruders.”
Gabriel reloaded his magazine and slapped the stock. He scanned the forest behind them. “We’d be dead if they did. We’re lucky as hell.”
“What about Amelia?” Elise wrung her hands in front of her chest. Her dark curls were pulled back in a tight bun. A few loose tendrils clung to her sharp cheekbones. She was a woman used to keeping it together, but the possibility of losing her daughter threatened to undue her.
Micah wished he could offer her some comfort. He understood the pain she must be feeling. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to love someone you couldn’t save. He shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “Amelia’s a fighter, Mrs. Black. She’s beaten worse things.”
Elise gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you.”
Gonzales glanced at Micah, his brows knit, his mouth working, but he didn’t say anything. Russell spat on the ground and stared vacantly at the trees. Silas sharpened his hunting knife against a rock, his expression stony.
Jericho jogged back through the trees, unharmed, his brown skin gleaming, the front of his shirt damp with sweat. He slapped the side of the truck. “Let’s roll.”
Micah climbed into the back of the truck with Silas. He didn’t stop shaking for hours. He prayed silently under his breath for Amelia, for all the dying people trapped in those white tent prisons. He would have nightmares for the rest of his life from the terrible images seared into his mind.
They hadn’t found what they’d hoped for, but at least they’d escaped. At least they were alive. More and more, survival was its own accomplishment.
26
Willow
Willow peered through the sights and aimed at the center target she’d scrawled on the paper tacked to the hay bale. She widened her stance the way Silas taught her, her fingers curled around the gun’s grip, her second hand clamped over the butt to steady her aim.
She breathed deeply, narrowing her focus until the red circle in the center filled her vision. She channeled all her worry and tension into executing the perfect shot. She squeezed the trigger.
The shot went wide, punching into the white right corner of the paper. “Damn it!” She resisted the urge to hurl the gun itself at the target.
“At least you hit the hay bale,” said a voice behind her. The girl who fed the chickens, Harmony’s granddaughter, Gracie, leaned against the fence. She had dark hair bound in braids and golden-brown skin. She was a serious, solemn little girl, not sweet and goofy like Benjie. Still, Willow liked her.
She holstered her gun with a sigh. “Maybe someday I’ll hit the target.”
“You will.” Gracie tugged on her overalls. “Gran says I don’t need to know about guns other than to stay away from ‘em.”
Willow cocked her eyebrows. “That’s good advice. What are you, ten?”
Gracie nodded. “I know how to milk a cow.”
“That’s a pretty awesome skill to have these days. Maybe you can teach Benjie after dinner.”
Benjie had been cleared from quarantine that morning. Willow had knelt and wrapped him in her arms, pressing her forehead against his for long, glorious minutes, relishing his warmth, his sweet smile, his little-boy smell, the way his beautiful dark hair stuck up all over his head.
He’d wriggled out of her grasp, giggling. Several dozen hugs and more than a few tears later, Willow finally let him out of her sight.
Now, Benjie and Finn lounged on a blanket on the grass outside the cafeteria while they practiced some new sleight of hand method. Even Harmony took a break to sit with them. Benjie proudly showed her every magic trick he knew.
But Amelia was still sick. So was Harmony’s great-nephew. She felt a twinge of guilt at her own joy when others were still suffering. But Benjie was alive. She refused to feel guilt over that. “I’m sorry about Carson.”
The girl bit her lower lip. “I didn’t see him much. He lived in Raleigh until a few weeks ago. He’s nice, though. He finds me Twizzlers on his sc
outing trips.”
Willow pushed her hair behind her ears. “I’m sorry. I heard one of the dogs got to him.”
“Yeah. They’re all mean, now. I’m supposed to whistle if I see one.” She pointed to a red whistle hanging from a string around her neck.
“That’s a smart idea. You ever see a wolf around here?”
“There’s a wildlife preserve ten miles that way.” Gracie pointed west. “Gran says a few crazy people let them all out. But they’re mostly modded, so they aren’t dangerous.”
Mostly, Willow thought wryly. “Thanks for your help.”
Gracie gave her a shy smile. “I’m glad you’re staying.”
“It’s not for long.” Willow was glad, too. Benjie was safe now, but Amelia wasn’t. And this little farm with goats and chickens, real food, and soft mattresses seemed like an oasis after the last several weeks—heck, after the last several years. She was happy—thrilled, elated—that Benjie was okay, but after Mrs. Lee had revealed the staggering casualties of the Hydra Virus, it was hard to feel anything but a numb, horrified shock.
When the group had returned from their recon trip late yesterday afternoon, they met in the cafeteria with their people and several of Sweet Creek’s leaders, including Harmony, Gonzales, and Russell.
The room fell deathly silent after the news about the FEMA center. FEMA’s promise of treatment was too good not to believe, at least a little. Every single person in the room had allowed themselves to hope. Now there was no possibility of a treatment. Not for Amelia, not for any of them.
Willow’s mouth had gone dry, her eyes gritty as Elise wept and Silas stared unblinking at the wall. They were the rich and powerful elites, and yet they were all in the same place now, desperate and grieving for loved ones they could do nothing to protect.
Harmony and her people rose respectfully. “We’ll give you some time,” she said quietly before she left the cafeteria. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you need.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. Micah slumped with his head in his hands. Finn’s face went ashen. Nadira’s lips moved in a silent prayer. Celeste’s eyes were wide and glassy as she picked despondently at her nails. Gabriel looked furious, a tic jumping in his cheek, his fists about to punch through the table.
Willow couldn’t sit. She stood against the wall, her arms wrapped around her ribs to keep herself from shaking.
“We should leave,” Jericho said. “It’s not safe.”
Elise’s hand fluttered to the hollow of her throat. “No. They’re taking care of Amelia.”
“It’s not going to matter. She’s going to—”
“You think I don’t know?” Elise’s expression filled with tension, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Give her a chance to rest in peace. That is all I ask.”
Jericho’s mouth hardened. “Elise—”
Horne pushed back from the table and smoothed his blonde hair. He’d found pomade from somewhere and styled it into tousled spikes. “While I appreciate the sentiment, we’ve got to get ourselves to a safe zone. A real one.”
Gabriel scowled. “For once, I agree with this asshole. We don’t know these people. They have no security, no defenses.”
“What he said.” Horne’s teeth gleamed. “We all care deeply for your daughter, Elise, but it’s not like they can even cure her here. She has a better chance at a military base or civilian safe zone with a hospital.”
“She’ll die before we get there,” Willow said.
Gabriel’s hard gaze settled on her. “It isn’t safe here.”
“Nowhere is safe!” Willow said, her anger rising. They could leave today and get ambushed on the road by those Headhunters or some other gang tomorrow. Here, at least, they could feel somewhat normal. They could eat their fill every meal and have time to practice and train. Every night they stayed here, they grew stronger. “What does a few days matter?”
“Willow is right,” Micah said. “We can’t drag Amelia or Benjie on the road with us. And we’re not leaving Amelia. This place is safe. These people are good people. We need to stay here until . . .” He let his words trail off, unable to say it aloud.
Elise seized Jericho’s hand. “I’m begging you.”
Jericho looked at Elise for a long moment, his gaze drifting down to their entwined hands. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t pull his hand away, either. “Fine. We will stay . . . as long as we need to. But no longer.”
Elise let out her breath. Willow did the same.
“This is the right thing,” Micah had said. “We need this.”
The thing Willow had needed more than anything was Benjie. And she’d gotten him back.
A cool breeze blew her bangs into her eyes. She shoved them behind her ears and turned to Gracie. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us. We really do appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. It’s good to have another kid here.” Gracie grinned, her nose wrinkling—just like Zia used to do.
Fresh pain speared Willow’s heart. Before she could stop herself, tears sprang into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Gracie. I’m—I have to go.” She spun away from the hay bales and Gracie’s confused expression and walked hurriedly down the gravel path toward the greenhouses and the woods beyond.
She sucked in a breath, blinking rapidly. She needed to keep it together. She felt like the seams of her soul were stretching, threatening to burst. Her mom was gone. She’d lost Zia. She’d give anything to bring her back, to right her wrong.
But she couldn’t. Zia would forever be dead, and it would forever be Willow’s fault. If she ever lost Benjie, too . . . she couldn’t think like that. She’d fall apart with no way to put herself back together again.
But Benjie was safe. He was okay. She would keep him that way.
She pulled her jacket tighter around herself and turned sharply, heading back toward the residence halls. She would find Silas or Jericho and get them to train her harder. She wouldn’t stop until she could hit the bull’s eye, bring down an assailant, and fling a blade at a target and strike its beating heart.
This was a tough world, so she just had to be tougher. If it took a warrior to protect Benjie, then she’d become one.
27
Amelia
Amelia’s brain was on fire. Her body throbbed with heat. Fever dreams gripped her, jerking her beneath the surface of liquid fire.
She was drowning, drowning, drowning in the nightmare that always came for her, owning her, destroying her again and again. In her white-hot delirium, she couldn’t distinguish between dream and reality.
She was trapped in that awful place, Kane leering over her with his stinking tobacco-breath, his meaty fingers clawing at the straps of her dress, those vicious snake eyes that wanted to hurt her, that relished hurting her.
She tossed and turned, crying out, but the dream wouldn’t release her. Kane rose above the bed, his fingers closing around her neck, his image stretching, leering, a grotesque shadow shrieking her name.
The shadows of Gabriel and Declan Black writhed beside him, their eyes demon-red, boring into her. Their teeth gleaming like flames, cackling in maniacal laughter. They were hurting her, killing her, agony streaking through her head, cracking her skull open, splitting her into pieces—
“Amelia!”
She woke with a gasp. The demon still leered over her, filling her vision—
“Amelia!” Hands seized her shoulders and shook her. “Wake up. It’s me!”
She shut her bleary eyes and forced them open again. Her mother leaned over her. Her mother, not Kane, not some nightmare demon. Her mother wore a bulky personal protection suit. A full respirator mask covered her head, a square of glass revealing her anxious face.
“Amelia.” Her voice sounded tinny through the mask. “It was a nightmare. You’re awake now.”
She smiled weakly, the terror draining from her veins. It was a dream. Just a dream. But this—the unbearable heat, the disease plowing through her body, liquefying her f
rom the inside out—this was horrifically real.
Her mother pulled up a chair and sat hunched next to the bed, Amelia’s limp hand clutched between her gloved ones. “How is the pain?”
Everything hurt. Everything burned. Her eyes felt like they were being pierced with needles. A war raged inside her body, a war she appeared to be losing. She drifted in and out of consciousness, carried on a river of molten lava. “How long have I been here?” she croaked.
“Three days.”
Her mother could have said weeks or months, and Amelia would have believed it. Pain had a way of stretching time. Each ticking second was agony.
Her mother pursed her lips. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, sweetheart . . . I thought if I gave you your space, you’d come around. I thought you needed time.”
Amelia turned toward the wall and coughed. “I guess we’ve run out of time.”
“Don’t say that,” her mother said fiercely. “Please.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t have to talk. Will you listen to me?”
“Doesn’t look like I have much of a choice, does it?” She was being difficult, like Silas. Even in her delirium, she recognized that. It made her feel guilty.
Her mother shook her head. “I know you’re angry with me. You have every right to be. But there are things I didn’t get to tell you before. I’m going to tell you now. I want to tell you how I met your fa—Declan.”
“I know.” She’d heard the story a hundred times: how they just happened to meet at the hotel where he’d presented his findings on an experiment with epilepsy patients, how fate brought them together, Declan Black whisking her mother off her feet, how he’d saved them both.
“You don’t.” Her mother wiped a cool cloth across her forehead and checked the IV fluids dripping into Amelia’s right arm. “I came from a poor family. My parents died young when the cholera epidemic hit twenty-five years ago. My grandma claimed she couldn’t afford to raise me, but she just didn’t want the burden of a child. I bounced around the foster system until one day, I decided to run. The streets are a vicious, dangerous place for a girl, especially if you have something men want—like beauty.”