by Ann Christy
Forget that. Hormones, please hear me and just go away for the love of all things not dead.
He seems to catch that momentary lapse, but I’d like to interrupt the direction of this train, so I hold out my hand and say, “Give me one of them. They’ll bring us food at some point. We’ll take out whoever comes and get the hell out of here.”
Charlie levers one of the knives out of the sheath he has strapped to his leg. I know these knives. They are big folding knives of the sort that must have been illegal in the old world. When he hands it to me, I pull it open and admire the gleaming blade with its razor-sharp edge. The blade is as long as my hand and a lever locks it open for safety. Which is ironic since I’m not thinking of safety at all at this moment, and no one who comes inside this room is going to be safe from me.
“What about the nanites?”
That throws me and I immediately feel bad. My anger made the nanites entirely leave my mind in favor of thoughts about my own escape. The fear associated with why we might be being held crowded out my reason for being here in the first place. We don’t know why they’ve locked us in, and the unknown is always scary.
“I can’t see how we can get them now, do you?” I ask, trying to figure out the best place to stash my knife. Sleeve? Pant leg? Waist?
Charlie slides up the wall in a reverse of the movement he used to sit, peppering me with questions as he does. “And the hard drive? Did we bring that here for nothing? What exactly do we do with Emily when we get back? Do we tell her what happened, or just bash her head in straight away?”
It’s just two steps till he’s standing in front of me and he leans forward to get right in my face for one final question, “Do you want to give up?”
I put my hands over my ears, and when he doesn’t back away, I reach out and shove him. The stress is too much and I start to shout at him. “No! But what else can we do? We can’t even get out of this room, and there are dozens of them and two of us. And we don’t even know why they have us locked up!”
We both start when a voice behind us says, “For the good of mankind.”
It’s Chester—or Doctor Reed now that we’re on prisoner and captor terms—standing at the door with two of his troops. The two troops stand a couple of feet back in the hallway. One carries a rifle and the other a crossbow. Neither looks like a slouch and I think our chances of taking all three of them with our knives, no matter how sharp they are, are less than zero. Chester is standing at the door, his arm bracing it open. He looks serious, but not particularly tense.
“Well, that’s freaking dramatic,” Charlie says.
“You never asked me why I turned some people away but not others. I did it for the same reason that I locked you in. Genetic diversity. We need enough people to create a viable population for the future.” He’s speaking very calmly, like he’s addressing some students who aren’t the brightest in the group, but really only need that little bit of extra help in remembering the basics.
It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and during that moment, I just sort of stare at him. Then I get it. He’s a total lunatic.
“You’re crazy!” I yell. “You’ve got a possible means to a cure and you’re thinking of making babies? What about all the babies out there right now? Right this minute. Save them!”
“I can only work with what I’ve got,” he says and opens his hands, as if to show me how very empty they are. “I’d help every person I could—if I could. But I can’t, and I have to focus on what I can do.”
“She’s right, you’re crazy,” Charlie says and backs up a step to stand next to me and put as much distance as he can between himself and the crazy doctor I thought I was so lucky to find.
For the first time, Chester shows some sign of irritation in the narrowing of his eyes. “Do you know how many people you have to have to maintain a healthy population? And I don’t mean for right now. I mean for humans as a species.”
“Two would be my guess,” I snap back.
He levels a look at me that says very clearly that I’m not giving him a serious answer and am headed for a big fail in this class.
“It’s called Minimum Viable Population and it varies from species to species. And the answer is, no one knows for sure what that number would be for humans because we’re so dependent on the variables within each individual. If you get too many with a recessive gene for something bad at the beginning, then you’ll need a much larger number of starting individuals so that you can ensure the bad gene gets weeded out. And given how many bad genes can be hidden inside every single person, the math becomes a nightmare.”
“And I should give a shit why?” I interrupt as he readies himself for yet another big helping of nonsense talk.
Doctor Reed seems to almost be talking to himself, like he’s forgotten we’re here. That snaps him out of it, and he says, “The language doesn’t impress me, Veronica. Not at all.”
“And yet, I find it so satisfying. So, shit, shit, shit. Yeah, I do kind of like the way that sounds,” I send right back at him.
One of the troops behind him, up to now standing straight and still, bobs her head a little, as if she’s choking back a laugh. That’s good. The deference they have for this guy isn’t blind devotion if they can laugh at what he doesn’t find funny. I feel a flicker of victory at discovering this small crack, which is entirely inappropriate just now.
“What I’m telling you is that the only way that humanity is going to survive this is to have the best individuals carry on the next generation. The best individuals that can be gotten for the resources used to maintain them are crucial. You’re both young, healthy, and soon enough, I’ll know if you’re nanite free. If you are, then you’ll be welcome additions,” he says, clearly finished with his pitch and smiling. It’s almost like he thinks we’ll be happy at that news.
Charlie puts his hand on my arm to stop me from spewing out yet a few more nasty remarks. In a remarkably conversational tone, he says, “Hate to break it to you, Doc, but I don’t want to stay and neither does Veronica. If you’re not going to even try to use the solution on that drive, then we’ll take it back until we find someone who will. And if you don’t mind, we’d love a dose or two of those nanites. The right ones.”
Whatever warmth might have been on Chester’s face before washes away like it never existed. His eyes are flat and weirdly shiny. “That’s too bad. Because we’d really like you to stay, and I’m not sure letting you go running around out there would be the right thing for me to do. We’ll all just stay put here until it’s safer. How’s that?”
“I’m guessing that’s a no on the nanites then. And you’re not even going to look at that drive, are you?” I ask, my mouth twisting on the words.
I can’t help that I sound bitter, because I am bitter. If this place had been empty, that would have been one thing. We could have searched for those nanites, gotten whatever information was here to be found and maybe even found clues as to where we might go next to look for help. But finding someone here, especially someone with experience in nanites, made me really think we were going to get somewhere. It had made me believe that I might get Emily back.
“Oh, we are looking. The resident tech is looking it over even as we speak. But, as I told you before, this isn’t the first supposed cure brought in here. There were smart people who did this for a living alive for a good while, and they never found a way to turn the nanites off. Still, we’ll look. Can’t hurt, right?” The smile is back on his face, the warmth once again crinkling the corners of his eyes, but now it’s obvious that it’s not quite right, that there is something just a little off about him.
Charlie shifts a little and I see him glance at the guards behind the doctor. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, but I have no idea what he might be planning. I try to get ready for anything. But he doesn’t actually do anything. Instead, he asks, “How long are you going to keep us locked up here? How long can you keep people prisoner and make everyone else do the w
ork? How many others are here and locked up, waiting for their turn to breed you some babies?”
I almost let out an “ah” of understanding when he’s done speaking. I know he’s directing his words at the doctor, but it’s really a question for the troops following him around. They are, no doubt, doing the work that we and anyone else he has locked up isn’t able to do. We seem to have the answer as to why we saw so few people during our tour yesterday. He must have a good number of people prisoner around here somewhere. That means a lot of work.
Doctor Reed turns away from the door for a moment. Charlie and I risk a glance at each other, wondering if that’s the end of the conversation and what we should do next. It isn’t the end, because when the doctor turns back around, he has two trays in his hands. He sets them down on the floor, careful to keep us in sight as he does, and then he nudges them forward one at a time with the toe of his boot.
“I guess we’ll just have to see how long, won’t we?”
He smiles, steps back, and quickly shuts the door. The bolt sliding home outside sounds out before either of us can take a step. He’s good at that, and that makes me wonder how many others he has locked up in this hospital. Is this what’s become of the good people? Do the ones who dedicate their lives to helping others wind up twisted like this when things go bad?
“Man, that dude is completely whacked,” Charlie says and plops down on the bed.
“How very retro of you. Whacked?” I remark and head for the trays.
“You sure we should eat that?”
He’s got a point, but would they waste good drugs on us? I wouldn’t. Why bother when they’ve got us locked up tight already right where they want us? I pick up a tray and sniff at the food, turn over a few pieces of carrot, and poke my finger into the boiled greens. “I don’t see or smell anything suspicious,” I say and pick up a piece of carrot. “Want me to go first?”
He nods, so I poke the slice into my mouth and taste it before I do any chewing. “Nope, just boiled carrots.”
We still have food in our packs, but I’m not willing to dig into that unless it becomes necessary. Our situation has changed and getting home might be substantially more difficult even if we do manage to get out of the hospital. Our bikes were just inside the secure portion of the hospital, but would they be there now? And how we’d get them out again even if we did find the bikes, I have no idea.
“So, I guess he wants to breed us,” Charlie says between bites. He doesn’t look at me but I can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Might not be so bad for me.”
I have no fork or knife, just a plastic spoon, but I poke him on the back of his hand with it. “This isn’t a joke, Charlie.”
He tosses his spoon onto his tray and says, “No, but it is funny. Seriously, that guy has got a screw loose.”
There’s not a thing we can do about our situation at the moment. The window is some sort of unbreakable stuff, the door is solid and thick, and whatever he’s using to bolt us in is stronger than we are. It’s an incredibly frustrating feeling. I’m not particularly scared for myself or for Charlie, but I’m desperately afraid of what might happen to Emily if we don’t make it back in time.
There’s a part of me that counsels calm, because if whatever is on that hard drive offers real hope, he’ll switch his passions to that. I mean, that would be the logical thing for him to do.
Then again, since when is it logical to lock up people so you can have clean breeding pairs? Not ever, so I probably shouldn’t rely on logic changing our situation.
While the wait grows longer, I’ve been sitting on the tiny ledge by the window that overlooks the interior garden. It’s like a compulsion to keep looking for anything out there that might help us and the hours pass, albeit slowly, while I plot useless schemes for freedom. A couple of times I see people down there weeding or gathering produce. When I see someone, I bang on the window and yell, but the only one who even glances up is the girl I saw carrying a basket in the hallway. And when she does look up, a man tugs her arm and she bends back to her work. I wonder if she’s a prisoner as well.
The afternoon light loses its luster and goes gray, hinting at rain to come. That’s good. If we can get out of here, we know the way we want to go and the route, while these people don’t. It would be easier to lose them if it rained. I hope it pours.
We’ve been silent for so long that when Charlie speaks, I jump a little and bang my forehead on the window.
“In a weird way, it makes sense,” he says, almost to himself.
“What does?”
“His whole minimum population thing. I can almost see what he’s talking about,” he says in a tone that sounds almost embarrassed that he’s agreeing with the good doctor.
I swing around on the narrow windowsill so that I’m facing the room again. It shifts me to a new spot and the cold of the granite, or whatever stone it is, seeps through my jeans and makes me shiver. “You’re not serious! You can’t possibly agree with what he’s doing here. That would make you just as bat-poo crazy as he is!”
“I’m not saying that, but…well, I guess I feel sorry for him. It really is the only way he can do anything to help at all, so he does it,” Charlie says and shrugs.
No words of response come to my mind, so I make a rude noise that sort of sums up my feelings and turn back to the window, finding my warmed-up spot again.
Charlie sighs, gets up and unrolls his sleeping bag onto one of the beds. I watch him in the reflection in the window and I see him glance my way, but he doesn’t say another word to me. He just climbs in and rolls to his side facing away from me. Eventually, the darkness and the silence make me tired, and I feel myself falling asleep with my face pressed against the cold window that shows me nothing but darkness.
Two Months Ago - Better Off Dead
This entire thing is such a bad idea that I hardly know how to express it in words. Savannah and Gregory, our two crack shots, have stationed themselves on two different roofs overlooking the grassy square of the college. Both buildings—the science building and the business building—are taller than the lookout tower, but because they are huge buildings, they’re really impossible to clear entirely of their population of deaders. Matt is going to be my buffer, and I can feel him behind me at a second story window inside one of the old dorms. Charlie is back at the warehouse with Emily and the kids, so this is all the protection I have. These three people and our paltry weapons are all I can depend on for my safety.
Of course, I am the bait. Of course.
At the far end of the square is the tower. It isn’t really square at all, but rather a long rectangle broken by brick paths, benches, and trees. The tower is also not a true tower, but rather the top of the opera house. It’s a small building, but beautiful. This is an old southern college, so you bet they have an opera house. I hear the acoustics are great.
I take a deep breath and look over my shoulder at Matt in the window. He nods and hefts his crossbow a little as if to reassure me that he will take down anything that comes at me. That part of the dorm building is cleared—for the most part anyway—so the plan is that he’ll move down the hallway as I walk so that he can keep me within range of his crossbow. The college has been partially cleared by successive waves of inhabitants, including us when we searched various buildings, but new in-betweeners show up here constantly. Either it’s the squirrels and raccoons that infest the trees and buildings that draw them in, or there’s a part of them that remembers the college and that memory brings them. Perhaps it’s an impulse, like whatever makes some in-betweeners return to their homes. Maybe it’s like what Sam did when he stayed close to our apartment after he turned.
My part in this little play of ours is quite simple. I’ll take this bike cart and roll it until I’m in sight of the tower, accidentally tip it and drag the whole scene out until I draw some attention. When someone comes out, I’ll run, drawing them after me. If we can’t get them all, we want to get enough of them to make the others
nervous, make them try to leave. All we need is to get them out in the open. Savannah and Gregory will finish them quickly. But, it’s liable to be noisy if they have to resort to the guns, and we’ll have to be quick.
I’m hoping they can do it with crossbows. I’m the one out in the open after all.
My palm is sweaty on the handle of the cart even though it’s chilly out, so I wipe my hands on my jeans and take one more deep breath. Savannah put my hair in pigtails high on either side of my head, just to make it very clear that I’m a girl even from a distance, so I tug the ends to squeeze the hair bands more tightly to my head. It’s time to go.
In my imagination, every rustling leaf is a deader and every swirl of the old litter on the ground is an in-betweener. Every chirp of a squirrel means imminent danger, and I flinch when a bird alights on the branches of a tree as I approach. I steer clear of the benches with their piles of deaders heaped around the metal bases. Most of them are truly dead, their heads gone entirely or simply smashed to bits, but new ones show up and join the piles all the time, so there are some that are still very animated.
I have two huge, and very sharp knives, strapped to my waist and a poker—in this case a broom handle with a butcher’s knife attached to the end—so I can take care of any that move if I need to. But I’m supposed to appear harmless if at all possible, and going to town on a deader isn’t exactly the right image.
Before I get past the first set of old dorm buildings, a deader makes my harmless guise impossible to maintain. This one is missing a leg from the knee down, but is surprisingly mobile and crawling toward me at a good clip. The deader has no eyes, like most of them, but his head is cocked to the side and I know it can hear me just fine.
I pause, my heart jumping up into my throat as it always does when I find myself facing a deader with a little pep still inside them. There’s a tree, flush with early spring leaves, between me and the tower so I pull one of the knives from my waist and jam it with all the force I can muster into the eye socket of the deader. Underhand stabbing is never as good as overhand, sort of like when pitching for speed and force in baseball, but I make my forward motion count, and hear the satisfying—but slightly nauseating—sound of the eye socket crunching and the squish of my blade scrambling it’s moist brain.