Exposure (The Fringe Book 2)

by Tarah Benner

  People wrote off the first generation as a doomsday cult, but the attack on Washington, D.C., that launched Operation Extermination sent a whole new generation to the compounds. By the time Death Storm began two decades later, the compounds were at capacity. My parents and I were among the lucky few who made it in, but most people were left on the outside to die.

  As we approach the center of town, I catch a glimpse of movement near a huge rustic-looking restaurant. The weathered wood exterior is covered with old license plates and street signs, and there’s an enormous porch with a red overhang leading to the entrance.

  Some of that old urgency creeps back inside me. It isn’t quite fear, but I’m relieved just to feel something.

  The front door slams, and Eli pulls me behind a dented truck to survey the scene. He taps his interface to zoom in on the restaurant and the adjacent convenience store.

  “I think this is it,” he breathes. “I’m gonna go around back and see if I can get a better vantage point.”

  Something familiar stirs inside me, thrusting me back into the present.

  “No!” I whisper, grabbing his arm.

  I don’t want him to leave. Something inside me just knows it’s a bad idea. My self-preservation instincts may have abandoned me, but I still have enough of myself left to worry about Eli.

  “I’ll be right back,” he says. “If I’m not back in ten, find somewhere safe to spend the night and then get back to the compound.”

  “Eli —”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Don’t go over there.”

  “I’m not letting us get ambushed again,” he says fiercely. “We almost didn’t make it, and I . . . I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if they’d . . .”

  He’s struggling to get the words out, but I don’t need him to finish. I know the toll all those cadets’ lives have taken on him, and I know he lives in constant fear of losing another. So I force myself to nod, and he hunkers down to creep behind the nearest dumpster.

  Glancing back at the restaurant to make sure the lookout isn’t watching, he darts across the street and disappears behind the building next door.

  As soon as I lose sight of him, my heart starts pounding. I check my interface to note the time, though I have no intention of leaving.

  The next few minutes are the longest of my life. I keep waiting to hear gunshots or the panicked yell of people inside the restaurant, but it’s dead silent.

  I check my interface compulsively, and every minute that drags by compounds the fear unfurling inside me. It mixes with the nauseous feeling I’ve had since the garage, leaving me tense and clammy despite the oppressive heat.

  Eight minutes in, I hear a muffled wail and then a thud. Terror roots me in place, and I don’t know whether I should run straight toward the source of the noise or take Eli’s concealed path.

  Deciding to risk exposure, I spring out from behind the truck toward the building where Eli disappeared. I don’t feel my legs burning or the dry air hitting my lungs. Every single part of me is focused on finding him.

  Eli may have given me orders, but he also risked everything to come out here with me. No matter what he’s said or done to push me away, Eli is my friend.

  I throw my back against the hot stucco and try to formulate a plan, but my brain has left my body to fend for itself.

  I clench my fists and prepare to run into the restaurant to shoot anyone who isn’t Eli. It’s a stupid plan, but I can’t just abandon him.

  Just as I take a step out into the open, I feel a powerful arm snake around my waist. A hand knocks my mask askew and clamps over my face to muffle my involuntary scream.

  As unfiltered Fringe air hits my lungs, I have to fight another source of panic: I’m breathing in radioactive particles.

  I bite down on the fingers and taste salt, shooting my elbow back to connect with my attacker’s abdomen. He grunts and slams me against the building.

  My fighting instinct kicks in automatically, giving me an unexpected surge of strength. But then I see Eli’s blue eyes protruding over the top of his mask, and my arms go limp.

  He jerks his head once, and I choke on my breath of relief. Gasping for air, I yank the mask back down and try to calm my racing heart.

  I’m fine. Eli’s fine. We’re safe.

  My mantra doesn’t help.

  Eli still has me pinned against the wall, but he releases me quickly and gives me a disapproving look.

  “What did I say?” he growls.

  “Ten minutes,” I pant. I click my interface and, sure enough, it hasn’t even been ten minutes yet.

  I want to defend myself and give him hell for making me worry, but orders are orders and Eli is Eli. There’s no justification for disobeying him and abandoning the plan.

  Luckily, we’re both too relieved to be angry.

  Once my heart rate has returned to normal, Eli motions for me to follow him.

  We crouch down and make our way up the front steps. There’s a body tucked behind a trashcan, and I recoil at the sight of his head hanging limply from his neck.

  Another kill, another life.

  I wonder how many drifters have been murdered in service to the compound. Regardless of the threat they pose, it seems like a high price to pay for security.

  Apparently this guy was the only drifter guarding the restaurant, because Eli is calm as he leads me inside.

  Momentary blindness sets me on edge, but when my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, I can make out a dozen or so tables pushed against the outer walls. The interior is cluttered with framed posters and more street signs, and the shelves near the front boast an impressive selection of coffee mugs and other knickknacks for sale. It reminds me of the commissary, though I don’t know why a restaurant would sell anything other than food.

  Part of me wants to stop and look at everything, but Eli leads me straight back to the kitchen. The floorboards groan underfoot, and I tense a little with every step. He pushes the swinging door aside and holds it open for me.

  There’s nothing unusual back here — just stacks of boxes, pots and pans, and defunct cooking appliances coated in a thick layer of orangish dust. But then Eli jerks his head toward another door and signals for me to be quiet.

  There’s something in there. I can feel the excitement radiating from him. He opens it slowly, and I follow him down a dark staircase. My heart is pounding, and halfway down, an earth-shattering creak nearly dislodges it from my chest.

  Eli freezes, and we both wait.

  Nothing.

  Eli turns on his interface, flooding the dark basement in blue light. I flip on my interface, too, and the added brightness reveals an astounding sight.

  We’ve wandered into what looks like an outdated command center. There are several computers and other equipment I don’t recognize trailing wires around the room. I run my hand over the aged keyboard, and I’m shocked when it comes away dust-free.

  People have been here recently, and they’re using this setup as drifter headquarters.

  “What is all this stuff?” asks Eli.

  “I don’t know. Was that lookout the only . . .?”

  “Yeah. The rest must have left for a while.”

  I catch his meaning. Whoever has been using this basement could be back at any moment. I fall into action and start pouring over the equipment, taking pictures of everything I see and recording notes on my interface.

  It doesn’t look as though they have any kind of Internet connection, but they clearly have power. There’s an old-fashioned two-way radio, and I wonder briefly whom they could be communicating with.

  I hit the power button to boot up the computer so I can see what kind of software they have installed, but the sound of voices coming from outside makes me freeze.

  Eli’s face mirrors my own panic, and he gestures toward the door.

  I turn off the computer quickly and follow him back toward the stairs. I have no idea how I hear the footsteps over my own pounding heart, but
it sounds as though they’re still out in the main restaurant.

  I stay close behind Eli as we fly up the stairs and into the kitchen. I can tell from his cool expression that he had planned on this happening.

  Instead of kicking down the door and opening fire on the men, he moves toward a concealed exit I hadn’t even noticed. At least we won’t have to shoot our way out.

  He throws the door open, and I’m strangely relieved when I feel the blast of hot Fringe air on my face. He shoots across the street, back toward our original hiding place, and I follow him at a run.

  In one motion, he hauls me behind the truck, and we sit leg to leg, catching our breath. My heart is pounding against my ribcage. I want to get back into that basement to learn more about the drifters, but going back in there right now would be foolish.

  Still, I’m glad to have something to distract me from the darkness that’s taken root inside me. As long as I have a mission, I can keep moving.

  When my breathing evens out, I notice the heat is not nearly as oppressive, and the sun is beginning to sink on the horizon. I hadn’t even realized how long we’d been out here, and part of me can’t believe I survived my first day on the Fringe.

  “Come on,” says Eli. “We need to find a place to settle in for the night.”

  Bracing myself for the nerve-wracking journey, I follow him back toward the outskirts of town. I have no idea where he plans on sleeping, but I know I won’t be able to close my eyes for a second — not out here.

  The town is silent as we make our way around the corner of buildings and duck behind parked cars. We still don’t know how many drifters might be roaming around here, so we don’t let our guard down for even a second. I can tell from Eli’s stance that he still doesn’t think we’re out of danger.

  There’s a post office I don’t remember passing before, and I’m a little surprised when Eli lets himself in. He scans the small room for any signs of life and then pulls off his mask and mops his sweaty face with his sleeve.

  “We’re staying here?”

  “No. Let’s check out the upstairs.”

  I hadn’t even considered what was above the post office, but Eli’s powers of observation are leaps and bounds ahead of my own.

  Sure enough, there’s a steep flight of stairs in the back leading up to more offices and two apartments. Most of the doors are locked, but one creaks open when Eli turns the handle.

  “Wait here,” he whispers.

  I hesitate, but then he shoots me a deadly look that says he won’t put up with a repeat of the restaurant stakeout incident.

  Eli disappears through the door, and I try to remember to breathe.

  He’s only gone about twenty seconds, but it feels like forever. My nerves are already stretched to the breaking point.

  Finally he ushers me inside, and I enter through the small kitchen. It’s obvious no one has been here in a while. There’s a thick layer of dust covering the countertops, but the modest apartment was obviously well cared for. Cheery lace curtains are drawn over the small window, and Eli pulls them aside to peer out onto the street below.

  “Why did you pick this place?”

  “We’ll be more protected up here than on the ground floor,” he mutters. “And it’s got a nice view.”

  An uncomfortable silence falls over the homey kitchen when I realize that to Eli, a “nice view” means a good vantage point for shooting drifters.

  He opens up all the cabinets, but they’re empty except for a few odd dishes and spices.

  To distract myself, I wander into the next room to explore. The living room walls are completely bare, but there’s a ratty couch, an old TV, and a red velvet recliner that still has the imprint of a thousand naps worn down the middle.

  Off to the side, there’s a tiny bathroom and a room with a lumpy double bed and a battered chest of drawers. There are very few personal items left in the apartment, but I can see where the wallpaper is faded around the outline of picture frames and a clock.

  Once I finish exploring, I join Eli in the living room and sink down onto the scratchy couch. The sun has almost set, and faint golden light is filtering in through the dusty windows.

  Now that the immediate danger is gone, I realize how beat-up and exhausted I am. My face feels tight and dry from sunburn, and my hair is a ratty mess. But the real problem is the agonizing black hole expanding in my chest. I’ve never felt anything like it — a void where nothing good could ever exist again.

  I clasp my dirty hands together, as though holding on to something might help me summon a normal emotion.

  Eli still hasn’t stopped moving. There’s a lot of zipping and unsnapping as he unpacks his rucksack, retrieves two ration packets, and starts preparing one of the unappetizing “just add water” meals.

  “You should rehydrate,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time. “You haven’t had enough water today.”

  “You said we had to ration everything.”

  He grins. “I can’t exactly carry you back if you pass out from dehydration. Besides, we’re restocking tomorrow.”

  I sigh and start to drink.

  He checks and rechecks his rucksack, taking stock of our remaining energy bars and ammunition.

  Watching Eli work, I realize how on edge he is. He brought me up here to feel safe, but he doesn’t. His handgun is still tucked in its holster, and his rifle hasn’t left his side.

  His hands are stiff as he tips the seasoning packet into our meal, as though he’s just waiting for someone to charge in here and start shooting.

  “How did you live like this?” I blurt out.

  Eli’s shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t raise his head to look at me, but he knows what I’m referring to. Eli was brought into the compound when he was fourteen, but I’ve never asked about his childhood.

  For a moment, I think he’s going to shut me out or yell at me for prying. But when he meets my eyes, his gaze softens.

  “Honestly, I don’t remember most of it,” he says, running a hand through his dark hair. “I think I’ve blocked out the really bad stuff.”

  My face heats up, and I instantly feel terrible for ambushing him. I couldn’t have picked a worse way to bring it up, but his response makes me feel as though I have to ask a follow-up question.

  “What happened to your parents?”

  “They were killed when I was eleven.”

  By his matter-of-fact tone, you’d have thought he was reporting the weather, but it still feels like a punch to the stomach. I wish I hadn’t asked, but there’s no going back now.

  “Who killed them?” I whisper.

  Eli shakes his head. “I have no idea. It was just a random attack. Things were chaotic back then. Salt Lake City was one of the last places hit by Death Storm, so most people had time to flee. My family had left the city, and there were a lot of bad people who were trying to claim territory.

  “Somebody broke into the house where we were staying, and my parents told me and my brother to hide.”

  Eli stops for a moment, and the expression on his face tells me he still doesn’t understand how it could have happened.

  My stomach clenches with dread. I shouldn’t have asked. Now he’s going to shut down, and it’s my fault.

  “We’d had looters break in before to steal food, but . . . this was different. Normally, my dad would have told my mom to hide with us. I should have known something was off.”

  He swallows, and for a moment, I don’t think he’s going to continue. His face is frozen in the shadows, and the silence feels heavy and tense.

  “I think they thought they could slow down whoever it was so that we’d have time to get away. I don’t know . . .”

  Every word he adds just compounds the sinking feeling inside me. I already know how this ends.

  “Owen and I hid in the den, and then I heard my mom scream. I tried to run out there, but Owen held me down. He was a lot bigger than me then.”

  He swallows thickly, and I can tell th
e next part is hard for him to get out.

  “There were a few gunshots. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew she was dead.” Eli shudders. “Then I heard my dad. He let out this loud sob. I’ll never forget that sound. Then they shot him.”

  He looks up at me, his eyes dark with regret. That look — that helpless, guilty look — cuts me to the core.

  “I heard them leave, and Owen ran out into the living room. They were just lying there.”

  “Your parents?”

  “They’d shot them point blank. There was nothing I could do.”

  “You were only eleven,” I murmur.

  “I know.” Eli lets out a sigh, biting the inside of his cheek. “I couldn’t believe they were dead. Owen was pulling on my arm, telling me we had to run. I wouldn’t go with him, and he took off. I tried to run after him, but it was so dark . . .”

  Eli looks away, and when he speaks next, his voice is so quiet I can barely hear it.

  “He ran right into them. I heard the shot, but I kept going.”

  I don’t want him to finish. I can see what it’s costing him to relive it, but he doesn’t stop.

  “I couldn’t see a foot in front of me. I tripped over something . . . fell down. It was a person, but I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why someone would just lie down like that. I thought maybe they were playing possum. But then I realized it was Owen.” He clears his throat. “Owen’s body.”

  “Eli . . .”

  “I got up, and I ran. I couldn’t go back there and see my parents’ faces.”

  I stare at him, searching for something to say. “I didn’t even know you had a brother.”

  “I don’t anymore.”

  Eli’s voice is hollow, but he isn’t shutting down. He seems relieved to get this off his chest, and it occurs to me that this could be the first time he’s told the story.

  “I should have stopped him. I could have gone with him right away, and he might’ve missed the shooter.”

  “You don’t know that,” I say, my voice cracking.

  He bites the inside of his cheek, but his expression seems lighter now that he’s gotten it all out.