by Astor Penn
It takes longer than it should, but eventually I realize that black suits have routine checks just the same as the scientists, but their checks are on the scientists themselves. Checking their safety, I assume, from the big bad threat of a sick girl in a box. Otherwise they don’t always stand by the doorway, and they usually don’t stay longer than a few minutes. Sometimes, when the door slowly opens, the automatic pause in the door before it slowly closes gives me just enough time to scope out the hallway outside. There’s not much to see, but there is often another black suit standing outside the door. It’s impossible to know if there is always one stationed there.
Today, Jackson enters my room. It’s difficult to call it a room, hard to call it even a prison. Purgatory. Hell. Heaven, sometimes. It’s all confusing when I can’t sleep. I hear them at night—the guard and scientists—they’re outside my door. Always. There’s always someone there.
“What’s going on?” I ask him. My mouth feels full of cotton today. Almost as if my tongue has swelled up. It’s still difficult to concentrate, but not as badly as before. I tell him all this.
“What do you mean? We’re doing our checks, like always.” I like Jackson to some extent. When he talks to me, even though it’s rare, he doesn’t speak down to me. He just sounds monotone, bored. Sad. He sounds the same when he speaks to anyone else. That’s why I still feel real when it’s Jackson doing the checks. Today he doesn’t yank me out of bed for a public viewing of my well-being.
“You’ve stopped giving me the injections.” It’s been three days since the last shot. There have been other things given to me, but the blue syringes have been missing.
Jackson pauses from where he’s leaning over me. He almost smiles. It’s alarming. “You noticed.”
“I’m not a zombie.”
He chuckles. It’s like we’ve entered a void of some kind, where monsters are real and the only things you can call your friend. “Sometimes you act like one,” he says.
He falls silent again, but he goes through the motions slower than usual. He asks me to bend over and feels my back along the spine. He’s gentle—they’re all perfectly gentle.
“As far as I know, they won’t be giving you any more injections. At least, not for now.” He makes a fist and lays it flat against my back; with his second fist, he gently hits the hand on my back, like a hammer hitting a nail.
“They’re letting me go.” There will be no more medicine for me, I think, heart sinking. They’re finally going to let me die like they must all the people moaning in the other halls.
“Child, they ain’t ever letting you go.”
“What?” I could never forget the bone-chilling numbness that seizes me unexpectedly from time to time. I shake pathetically in his arms, as happens frequently. They keep it cold in our little hub.
My stomach rattles, and I feel like I might throw up. “What do you mean? I’m dying. I don’t care what they say. How exactly do you plan on stopping that?”
Even though he’s behind me, I can feel Jackson straightening up. There’s a long pause, and when I glance back at him, he’s nervously watching the others outside. Today we do checks in my room with the door open, but it’s Ringley and a couple of the suits I don’t know in the atrium working.
“What’s your name?”
“Brie.”
“That’s right. They have it on your file somewhere.” Jackson gently guides me to lie on my back. He pushes up the hem of my shirt, just enough to feel my belly. I used to fight them every time they tried to lift my shirt; I’m used to it now.
“Listen carefully, Brie. You know this is a testing facility, and you have been tested, but you didn’t come here infected. In fact, you were virally infected with an injection the first day you arrived.”
“The blue syringes?” I interrupt.
He nods. “Right. They are different grades of the virus that we now carry in this facility to test with. You were given a low dose, then a higher one when you didn’t react.” He pauses.
“You were given the most virulent strain of the virus two weeks ago. You got worse, remember? When you started to feel too ill to move much? We thought you were done for then.”
“But I’m not.”
“Not yet.” He stands. Fidgets with his medical supplies. He acts like he’s about to leave.
“Wait! But the injections have stopped. I don’t understand—what’s going to happen now?” Nothing he’s saying makes sense. I’m sick, but not as sick as they clearly thought I would be. If they’ve been dosing me for weeks, I should be dead by now. I may not know the exact timeline of the virus, but I know it doesn’t last weeks.
“They’re formulating antidotes now,” he says. “From your blood.”
Chapter 13
IT’S A Thursday afternoon, the almost beginning of my weekend since I don’t have classes Friday mornings anymore, and the classes I do have in the afternoon are my favorites—modern American literature and my civics class with Mr. Brady. I often celebrate Thursday afternoons after calc is over by taking a train uptown to the park. Sometimes I get coffee on my way since it’s too crowded anywhere near Central Park, but today I skip.
I’m empty-handed, nervously picking at my cuticles because I’ve nothing to do. On a bench in the middle of the park, far enough away from entrances that it’s not too packed with tourists, I have nothing to do but sit. There are fields around me filled with New Yorkers enjoying the crisp fall day; mothers pushing their babies in strollers, friends picnicking on the lawn, or frat boys chasing a Frisbee around. I’m alone, my school uniform tucked into a long gray coat and scarlet scarf covering half my face as if I’m a clandestine celeb.
I come here to escape being stuck inside all day; usually I go from my dorm room to my classrooms, back to my dorm room, interrupted by occasional visits to the dining hall. It’s boring and gives me headaches, so on Thursday nights, knowing I don’t have to be up early the next morning, I come to the park to watch people. Sometimes I bring homework or even a camera, but I’ve been confronted by passersby for taking unwanted pictures once before, so I’m careful now about bringing it.
There’s not even a watch or phone on me today. That’s all right. It allows me to close my eyes, tilt my head back, and enjoy the colder weather coming. The summer, even with its freedom from classes, was too long and too hot. Now I can feel the chill bite into my fingertips; it’s one of the best feelings. I concentrate on the voices, both near and far. It’s different here than at home in the center of the country—the pigeons are the only birds in the park, and they don’t make much noise. It’s the squirrels that dare get closer than any other animal and make the most fuss. I miss the distinct presence of birds singing or insects chirping—it’s the only thing missing from this scene.
When I open my eyes, I see the leaves in the trees above me, in all the lovely colors of fall. When I glance down, it’s a beautiful girl standing in front of me. I know her—her skin the color of mocha, her lips ridiculously full and red, and her hair pulled down in a braid. Raven.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask. She’s wearing my school uniform—the plaid skirt, the blue jacket. Even the ridiculous kitten heels and socks.
“Waiting on you, of course.” She rolls her eyes at me and sits next to me so our sides are touching, not an inch of space between us. I blush; I didn’t think Raven was a cuddler, and I would hazard a guess this is as close to cuddling as she gets in public.
“I missed you.” I sigh, leaning into her side, enough to feel her warmth through my coat but not enough to garner attention from anyone glancing at us. I feel like a cliché as it is; two young schoolgirls in their uniforms. Experimenting for fun, they would say.
“What are you talking about? You just saw me the other day.”
“It feels like it’s been ages.”
She sneaks an arm around my shoulders despite my height advantage on her. We sit in silence and watch the five o’clockers leave work. A tour group weaves around a collection of
women and men walking with yoga mats tucked under their arms. A daycare class with kids in matching T-shirts strides hand in hand in a long line, a little boy staring straight at me, grinning. He’s wearing white jeans under his orange shirt, and his backpack’s printed with dinosaurs.
I smile and wave back; I glance over my shoulder at Raven, but she’s staring intently in front of us, over the heads of the children. Over the heads of everyone in our vicinity.
“Do you see that?” she asks. She sounds winded, her eyebrows pinched inward. When I glance that way, I don’t see anything special. There are a lot of trees between us and the busy streets of Manhattan, so only the tops of the skyscrapers are visible.
I’m about to ask what she’s talking about when I finally see it; there’s a tidal wave of people, all madly clambering forward, running on whatever surface their feet land on, whether it’s pavement, grass, or human skin, and they’re heading straight for us, breaking out of the city streets and into the park. As the front-runners fall forward, more people rush over them, eventually falling themselves while others take their place trampling over them. It’s just like watching the ocean tides, except there’s nothing comforting about this. As they get closer, the noise builds, a horrible combination of yelling and screaming, buses and taxis on the streets blaring their horns all around us.
We both stand abruptly, reaching for each other’s hands. I squeeze hers so hard I’m sure she’s turning to yell let go, but instead she screams at me to run, then pivots and dashes forward. She drags me along with such ferocity that I trip instantly, eating a mouthful of gravel. She screams get up, they’re coming, but when I clamber onto my feet already this feels like a nightmare, like the details are fading away.
It feels too familiar.
We run forward, climbing the rock structures that decorate the park. If I found them tedious before, now they make it impossible to cut across Central Park with any great speed, and the footpaths weave around the park without ever straightening to a street, so we have little choice but to hurtle over them. We knock over an older man, push past one of the mothers with an overturned baby stroller, the cries echoing in my ears as we blaze by. The roar of the moving tide is right behind, getting closer and closer. I don’t want to look back, but I have to.
The gushing wave of people has just reached the bench were we previously sat. Right in front of them are the day care kids, their caretakers furiously trying to pick up as many of them as possible, but the children keep slipping out of their overstuffed arms. There are too many of them to carry, a couple of the kids stumbling over and crying and a few running away as fast as their chubby legs will carry them. I see my little boy with the dinosaur backpack—he’s one of the kids running, except he’s not screaming or crying. He’s laughing, his cherub cheeks rosy red and his toothy smile flashing.
Behind him, it’s like a vortex of air sucking everyone up into it. The women desperately yelling for the kids disappear, then all the children except him. I stop, Raven’s hand jerking out of mine and disappearing too. I turn to face the wave, the crest growing taller and taller—taller than the trees and then taller than the buildings. The sky begins to darken with it, a long shadow passing over me and threatening to engulf the entire city. I stand still. There’s no use in running.
All too familiar.
The last thing I see is the little boy. A splash of red hits him from behind, soaking his entire body. It knocks him off his feet, but before he can stand up all the way again, he’s gone too.
I scream and turn for Raven, but everything in front of me is now black.
THEN WHITE. My eyes wrench open, and despite the cramps in my stomach and side, I sit up, fighting my way through clothing sticky and heavy with sweat. Gasping, I clutch my side, one hand fluttering around my throbbing shoulder, scared to touch it. I suck in a breath and hold it, hoping to calm down my racing heart before I’m sick. When my fingers trace the mottled flesh of the bullet wound, it reminds me. Where. When. How. Why. Maybe not why.
One of the hazmats’ oddly modern fixtures in this otherwise shabby building has followed me into the new room—mounted on the wall, red numbers flash up and down in quantity. My heart rate, on a new high-tech monitor. I have no visible hookup on my body. I look at my shaking hands; every part of my body feels like it has its own thunderous beat, but somewhere under my skin they must have implanted something to track my vitals, and it’s more than likely if they can track my vitals, they can track my body if I were to escape.
The number keeps flashing. A voice breaks into the invisible sanctuary of my room: “Are you all right?” Whoever it is doesn’t sound concerned, but ready to act if need be.
Because I’m some sort of key to an antidote, and therefore I am considered precious, valuable property. After Jackson left the other night, I thought about everything he had told me and why he might have told me. Perhaps he pities me, but from the few details he’s supplied, I can only assume so many things. First, my life is no longer in immediate danger, just as they promised. In fact, it seems they are not taking any more chances with my health. My diet is being supplemented slowly into more and more rich solid foods. They add vitamins and liquid supplements to the tray every meal as well. I can’t imagine they’ll let anything risk my health now, not even my own nightmares.
Second, although I seem to be part of the equation for a cure, I am not the definite answer. The infection may not have killed me, but I wasn’t immune to it. I suffered horribly, not as horribly as others certainly, but between the body spasms that crippled me for days, the headaches, dizziness, nausea, and nose bleeds, I slowly suffered for weeks instead of dying within a few days.
Third, if I’m not immune to it, there is still the possibility that it will kill me. Maybe they’ll generate a stronger version, maybe even weaponize this version. They might test this on me too. Maybe the strain already in my body will mutate on its own and come back for me later. Maybe I’ll get the common flu or a cold, and I won’t be able to fight it off this time. Regardless, even if my health were to return to what it was before, they won’t let me go, surely. This kind of operation has to be run by the government or some kind of elite medical corporation; in this level of crisis, I can’t see any other explanation, and my fear is that they won’t let any loose end go. They’ll keep me alive so long as they can use me, but if I attempt escape and make it just halfway, they’ll shoot me rather than let that loose end go.
The last thing I constantly fantasize about is something brought to my attention by one of the hazmats, a new one I don’t care enough to name. There are too many now. She asks me the details of my family history one day as if I’m sitting in my ordinary doctor’s office. The questions she asks range from every known disease in the planet to every location I can remember any family member living. Where I lived when I was an infant, where I grew up as a child. Where my grandparents lived. Their habits. What they liked to eat. Did they smoke? Did your parents drink regularly?
It takes an embarrassingly long time for it to click; they want to know everything about my family because the answer isn’t in my blood alone. It’s in my family’s. It’s our genetics. If I have a version of immunity, no matter how slight, it stands to reason that other members of my family have the same immunity. For the first time since coming here, I feel hope. My parents, too kind to survive even in their life of privilege, may still be alive out there somewhere because of their natural ability to cope with the disease. Their genetics are their greatest gift to me.
Now every time I close my eyes, I wish to dream about them. Maybe they’re holed up somewhere on a little self-sustaining farm, or maybe they’re still sitting at home in suburbia, with the windows carefully boarded up so no one will see them from outside. I shouldn’t have ever presumed they were dead; if I could make it this far, why not them? Who am I besides a privileged girl missing from her boarding school?
I just hope—well, I know the one reason they would have given up. If one of them was suscept
ible to the virus, if one of them did die—because who isn’t susceptible to a panicked man with a knife, or a woman fleeing in her SUV?—then I think the other might die of a broken heart. My parents are unimaginable apart; they were high school sweethearts. They grew up together, they taught each other how to drive and kiss and be happy, and I know neither one would want to live without the other, no matter how much they love me. They likely, if alive, assume that I am not. I wouldn’t blame them.
Nor would I blame them for not continuing without each other. I think about Raven in the painful wake of my dream—one of the few I remember, although I am sure there are countless others—and I wonder, if I had Bryant’s handgun and a spare bullet left, what would I do? If given the chance, would I end my own misery? Despite my improved setting, I am still nothing but a lab rat, and I will most likely end my days as such, alone and without any personal purpose. Such bleak thoughts do not inspire me to get well. I don’t think I’ll ever be well again.
The doctors like to encourage me to walk around the atrium now as much as possible; they often even leave my door open. I usually refuse to move from my bed or desk. They always send Barlett or Jackson in to see me, or occasionally Ringley, as if I’ve formed some kind of bond with them, and they will coax me into action. They ask me if I’m depressed; they have something for it, they assure me.
Ignoring them is my preferred answer, but it doesn’t help the case for depression, so I make a show of talking to Jackson; but it’s only when we lower our voices that we really talk.
“What’s happening now?” I ask him from my bed. I’ve refused to move all day, so he had to come in here. Jackson picks me up like a ragdoll and maneuvers me into a sitting position. He checks my reflexes. He takes his time; he’s not nervous around me like the others. He probably doesn’t care if I die, and I’m so grateful for his callousness that I almost think of him fondly.