by Tarah Benner
“Come on,” I say. “Don’t think like that.”
“It’s not a matter of thinking,” she says in a harsh voice. “You read the same files I did. The virus always progresses the same.”
“But viruses mutate, right? So there’s a chance —”
“Don’t do that, Celdon.”
“Do what?”
“Go down your rabbit hole of denial. The sooner you accept this, the better.”
“I won’t.”
“Why?” she splutters. “I have.”
“Bullshit.”
Now she looks more irritated with me, but I keep going. “You can’t tell me you’ve accepted it. You wouldn’t be this calm. You’re still as much in denial as I am, so don’t pull that ‘I’m so enlightened’ shit on me. You’re terrified. And that’s good.”
“Good?”
I nod. “Terrified means you’re still fighting it, which means you’ve got a chance.”
“I’ve only got a chance if Progressive Research can somehow cram years’ worth of clinical trials into a few days,” she says. “I’m telling you . . . it doesn’t look good.”
A cold feeling sinks into the pit of my stomach, and I have to fight to keep my voice light. “Is there anything you need?”
Sawyer shakes her head, and I can tell there’s something else that’s got her worried — something that has nothing to do with the tubes carrying oxygen into her airways or the slow buildup of fluid in her lungs.
“What is it?” I ask.
“They released the spores directly into the main air ducts,” she says in a grim voice. “That air goes through the entire compound.”
“You think I’m infected?” I ask, not really wanting to know the answer.
“I don’t know,” she says. “But I guess we will soon.”
I bite the inside of my lip to hold back the moan of dread threatening to burst out of my mouth. Of course I knew there was a possibility that I’d be infected, but I never really considered what that would mean.
“Harper knows about Constance,” I murmur finally. “So she officially hates me.”
Sawyer gives me an uncharacteristic look of sympathy. She doesn’t try to comfort me by saying Harper will forgive me eventually. She knows that if I am infected, I don’t have “eventually” kind of time.
I’m about to ask her jokingly if she can get me a special suite in here once I start showing symptoms, but my thoughts are interrupted by a loud beep from my interface.
Devon’s picture pops up, and I let out a groan.
“I have to take this,” I say, giving Sawyer’s shoulder a squeeze. “But I’ll be back to see you,” I promise. “Just hang in there.”
“’Kay.”
Even though Sawyer knows the call is Constance business, she doesn’t give me a dirty look. I think she’s just too exhausted to be her usual disapproving self. Either that or this Caleb guy is getting her to loosen up a bit.
I slip out of the medical ward without being accosted by any more nurses and strip off my sweaty suit in the emergency stairwell. By the time I shimmy out of the rubbery pants, Devon is calling a second time.
Letting out a preemptive groan, I hit “accept” to take the call.
Devon’s flustered face appears in front of me. Judging by the background, he’s video messaging me from Systems.
“What?”
“Where the hell have you been?” he hisses, looking around headquarters to make sure there’s no one around to overhear him.
“Sleeping,” I lie. “What is it?”
“I need your help with something,” he says. “It’s important.”
“Okay . . .”
“Consider this your initiation.”
“I thought that meeting meant I was in,” I say hopefully.
Devon is too distracted to indulge my comment, which means something must be up.
“It’s a little unorthodox, but your job is pretty simple,” he continues.
“Shoot.”
“Go up to the main conference room, but wait outside. I’ll meet you up there in a few.”
“O-kay.”
Devon ends the call without another word, which further stokes my curiosity.
I didn’t bother telling him that I’m already right outside Constance headquarters. I just keep walking down the deserted Information tunnel toward a nondescript door marked “Archives.”
I let myself inside and head for the door tucked back among the built-in filing cabinets. Then I place my thumb on the fingerprint scanner and punch in the code to unlock the door.
Stepping into the small passage just outside the conference room, I see Jayden sitting at the long table alone. She’s talking in a serious voice to an empty room, but then I realize she must be deep in conversation with Ozias on the speaker.
I duck out of the way so she doesn’t see me and flatten myself against the adjacent wall. The last thing I want is to get caught eavesdropping.
“Come on, Devon,” I breathe.
“We’ve done it,” she murmurs. “We’ve finally captured one of the gang leaders.”
My ears perk up at that news, and I lean forward so I can see Jayden’s expression. Either she’s lying to cover her ass, or there’s something major going on that I don’t know about.
“How?” barks Ozias’s harsh voice.
“One of my cadets shot him running away from the compound.”
This is new.
“Was our security compromised?”
“My team is sweeping the perimeter as we speak, but they haven’t found any signs of forced entry.”
“Was the drifter spying on us?”
Jayden looks suddenly uncomfortable. “That’s not clear at this point, sir. He was shot fleeing the area.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. “How long until we can question him?”
“A few hours. The cadet in question just grazed him. It was his first deployment, so he was a bit nervous.”
“Humph. So we don’t know why this drifter was here?”
“Actually, sir . . . I have a pretty good idea.”
I lean forward to look at Jayden. Her face is tight with apprehension, and I can tell whatever she’s holding back doesn’t look good for her.
“Well?”
“He was caught fleeing the area with two Recon operatives — well, one current operative and one who was recently demoted.”
“Who?”
“Eli Parker and Harper Riley.”
Suddenly, my blood goes cold. Now I know why Harper was so desperate to get in touch with me: She knew she was leaving. She messaged me to say goodbye, which means she probably doesn’t plan on coming back.
The thought sends an overwhelming wave of sadness crashing over me. My best friend is gone, and my only other friend is lying in the medical ward, getting sicker and sicker. But I can’t focus on that right now.
“It’s just as well, really,” Jayden adds in a tone meant to sound offhand. “Riley was the biggest troublemaker on my payroll, and I’ve never trusted Parker.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” booms Ozias.
Jayden’s face goes white.
“You let two disgruntled operatives escape and you think everything is fine?”
“No one could have predicted this, sir. We’ve never had an operative leave the compound voluntarily.”
“No,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You only had two of them turn on you and release a deadly virus in the compound.”
“Sir —”
“Enough!”
There’s a sharp intake of air, and then Ozias continues. “If you had just taken them out in the first place, Commander, none of this would have happened. Now there are two hostile compound citizens out there who know exactly how we operate . . . our reconnaissance tactics . . . what our vulnerabilities are. You might as well have invited all the drifters into one of our defense meetings!”
Jayden doesn’t say a word.
; Behind me, the door leading to the archives slides open, and my heart leaps into my chest.
Devon puts a finger to his lips and places his other hand on my shoulder.
“Commander,” says Ozias, “it seems to me that every decision you’ve made has led us from bad to worse.”
“But sir —”
“First . . . you convince the board that a fence will keep out the drifters so you can divert all your resources to hunting down their leaders.”
“We all agreed that was the best course of action!”
“Then we lose fifteen workers to a drifter shootout,” he continues, acting as though Jayden never spoke. “That little mess resulted in thousands of credits’ worth of damage to the solar fields and nearly started another tier-three riot. And now you’re telling me that drifters are luring Recon workers away from the compound.”
“That was beyond my control, sir.”
“Clearly!” he snaps. “As is everything else I’ve entrusted you with.”
An uncomfortable silence stretches between them. I expect Devon to use the break in conversation as an opportunity to announce our presence, but he doesn’t move a muscle.
“Commander, here’s what’s going to happen next. Recon is going to send out additional operatives to apprehend Parker and Riley, using lethal force if necessary.”
“With all due respect, sir, that would be a mistake,” says Jayden.
“Oh, really?” croons Ozias. “After all these failures of leadership, you’ve finally decided to take a stand on something?”
Jayden is blinking furiously, but she jerks her chin up in defiance and opens her mouth to speak. “Sir, the drifter we apprehended could give us valuable information about his comrades’ whereabouts. But we need Parker alive to use as leverage.”
“And why is that?”
“Because they’re brothers, sir,” says Jayden, regaining some of her usual confidence. “The drifter we captured is Owen Parker.”
At the mention of Eli’s brother, my breath freezes in my chest. If Owen was captured fleeing the compound with Harper and Eli, they’re going to be back. They wouldn’t just leave him.
“That’s very good to know,” says Ozias. “And I’ll take it under advisement.”
“Sir?”
He sighs, and a feeling of unease creeps over me. Ozias doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who expresses regret easily.
“I’m relieving you of your duties, Commander. I just don’t think you’re fit to make decisions for this compound any longer.”
“What?” Jayden blanches. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying your services are no longer required,” says Ozias. “In Recon or in Constance.”
As if on cue, Devon pushes the door open the rest of the way and steps into the conference room.
Jayden’s eyes swivel toward him, looking confused, suspicious, and then fearful.
“No,” she murmurs, rising into a standing position and straightening her gray jacket with shaky hands.
“I’m sorry, Commander,” says Devon. “But it’s time.” He bends his head sympathetically, but his eyes have gone cold. “You know how this works.”
“You can’t do this to me,” she says. “People will ask questions.”
“No one’s going to ask any questions,” says Devon in that silky-smooth voice of his. “Not with an epidemic underway.”
“Screw you,” spits Jayden.
“So what’s your move, Commander?” Devon asks. “This can be messy . . . or it can be dignified.” He shrugs. “It’s up to you.”
Jayden’s eyes are flashing with malice, but she sinks back into her chair with her spine ramrod straight.
“Good,” croons Devon. “I’m glad we were able to work this out.”
As I watch, he crosses behind Jayden and reaches into the breast pocket of his blazer. He withdraws a small bundle of cloth — a pair of leather gloves wrapped around a thin coil of wire.
Jayden’s eyes are fixed straight ahead, but her trembling lip betrays her fear.
When Devon dons the black gloves, he looks like some bizarre entertainer or a particularly well-dressed surgeon. He wraps the ends of the wire around his palms and lowers the loop gently over Jayden’s head.
“Anything else you’d like to say?” Ozias asks in a hollow voice.
Jayden’s eyes are shimmering with unshed tears, but her expression is severe. “Go to hell.”
“Will do,” says Devon, throwing his weight back onto his heels.
As he pulls, the wire goes taut around Jayden’s throat. She makes a sickening gargling sound, and a thin line of blood blossoms over her collar.
I step into the doorway, watching in horror as Jayden struggles for air. Her eyes are bugging out of her head, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if I should intervene.
But what would I do? Reveal my true colors to save someone who wants my friends dead? Tackle Devon to the ground to save Jayden? For what?
Soon, my internal conflict is rendered unnecessary. Devon releases Jayden with a sigh, and her head droops forward onto her chest.
“Is it done?” asks Ozias.
“It’s done.”
Suddenly, Devon is all business again. He yanks off his gloves and tosses them onto Jayden’s lap. Then he turns to one of the cabinets built into the wall and withdraws a small stack of garbage bags, which he shakes open and lays out on the floor.
“Help me with her,” he barks, looking annoyed that I’m here even though he asked me to be.
Moving in a trance, I shuffle over to Jayden’s lifeless body and bend down to grab her legs.
She’s surprisingly heavy for such a petite woman. But a few minutes later, she’s neatly wrapped in a bundle of black plastic on the floor of the conference room, and Devon is mopping his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“See that she makes it to the incinerator,” he says to me, crossing the room.
“What?”
“Oh.” He stops at the door and turns, as if he just remembered something important. “Congratulations, by the way. Starting tomorrow . . . no more busywork for you.”
thirty-one
Eli
When the truck graveyard swims into view, I deposit Harper on the ground and slow to a brisk walk. I can’t hear or see anything coming up behind us, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t followed.
Harper has fallen completely silent, which means she must be in shock. I don’t blame her. My heart is pounding in my throat, my arms are shaking, and my mind is running faster than I am.
Owen was shot. Owen was shot. My brother might be dead.
But I can’t think about that right now. I have to operate under the assumption that he’s still alive, because I can’t afford to fall apart. Sticking to the original plan is my only hope of saving Owen, finding the cure, and keeping Harper alive.
The shadowy outlines of two dozen abandoned vehicles are just visible in the soft moonlight. This used to be a prime hiding spot for drifters, so I flip on the stolen interface and raise my rifle, scanning the aluminum corpses for signs of life. Nothing.
Owen must have hidden the truck somewhere among the junkers, and we need to find it so we can get the hell out of here. As soon as Kipling and Bear fill the others in, we’ll have a Recon search party hot on our heels — if we don’t already.
When I’m confident we aren’t walking into an ambush, I scan the graveyard again in search of Owen’s truck. The blue light from the interface bounces off a rusty purple Malibu, a tan Jeep with a sun-faded interior, and several sets of abandoned car seats with their stuffing coming out.
Finally, the beam of light lands on a blue-green truck with a black motorcycle in the bed. Compared to all the other trucks here, it’s in fairly decent shape and only has a thin layer of dust coating the exterior. This has to be it.
The driver’s side door opens with a creak of protest, and I lean inside to look for a key. It’s possible Owen had it on him when he was shot, but we ma
y be able to find the keys to his bike.
“Eli . . .”
Harper’s voice is soft and scared, so I try to keep my voice calm. “Just a sec.”
I can’t talk about Owen right now. It took every shred of willpower I had not to turn around and careen into an army of Recon guards to get him. And if Harper’s life hadn’t been at stake, too, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I would have run straight into a hailstorm of bullets. But it isn’t just me I have to think about, and I won’t put Harper’s life at risk.
“Eli.”
I don’t answer. I just continue my search, shining the beam of the interface along the steering-wheel column. Where there should be a key, Owen’s jammed a pocket knife into the ignition.
“Damn. He must have hot-wired this.”
I hop in the truck, press the brake, and turn the handle of the knife. To my relief, the engine starts, and the headlights flare across the junkyard.
I mess with the knobs on the side of the steering wheel until the twin pools of light disappear.
The borrowed interface throws an alien glow over the dashboard and center console, and when I move, I see that the back of the truck is filled with all sorts of crap: a duffle bag, plastic sacks of canned goods, and a case of bottled water.
At that moment, the passenger-side door flies open, and Harper’s frantic face appears. “Eli!”
“What?” I snap.
“We can’t leave him!”
“I know,” I say as calmly as I can, swallowing down the burning sensation in my throat.
“We have to go back!”
“Not right now,” I say, reaching down to steady myself on the worn cloth seat. “Going back there right now would be suicide.”
“He came here to save you!” Harper yells. “And it’s our fault they have him now!”
“I know that!” I hiss, gripping the steering wheel in an attempt to hold myself together. “But we can’t just run back into an army. We need a plan.”
Harper falls silent, but her eyes are still quivering in panic.
“We’re gonna go back,” I say. “I promise. I just need some time to think . . .”
My thoughts are moving a mile a minute, but they’re too disorderly to be helpful. Owen went down when Bear hit him, but it couldn’t have been a fatal shot. Bear can hardly hit the target on his best day — let alone when he’s all worked up and shooting into the dark.