The Fever Code

by James Dashner

  “It’s right here,” his guide said as they entered a small lobby, two male guards with weapons posted at the doors. The woman’s tone made him think of a computer simulation. “Chancellor Anderson will be right with you.” She turned abruptly, and without meeting his eyes, she left him with the men.

  Thomas took in his new companions. They both wore official-looking black uniforms over bulging armor, and their guns were huge. There was something different about them from the guards he’d grown used to. Across their chests, in capital letters, was the word WICKED. Thomas had never seen that before.

  “What does that mean?” he asked, pointing to the word. But the only response he got was a quick wink and the barest trace of a smile, then a hard stare. Two hard stares. After so long interacting with only adults, Thomas had grown much braver, sometimes even bold in the things he said, but it was clear these two had no intention of conversing, so he sat down in the chair next to the door.

  WICKED. He pondered the word. It had to be…what? Why would someone, a guard, have such a word printed across his very official uniform? It had Thomas at a loss.

  The sound of the door opening behind him cut off his train of thought. Thomas turned to see a middle-aged man, his dark hair turning to gray and storm cloud–colored bags underneath his tired brown eyes. Something about him made Thomas think he was younger than he looked, though.

  “You must be Thomas,” the man said, trying but failing to sound cheerful. “I’m Kevin Anderson, chancellor of this fine institution.” He smiled, but his eyes stayed dark.

  Thomas stood, feeling awkward. “Uh, nice to meet you.” He didn’t know what else to say to the man. Though he’d mostly been treated well the last couple of years, visions of Randall haunted his mind, and there was the loneliness in his heart. He didn’t really know what he was doing standing there, or why he was meeting this man now.

  “Come on into my office,” the chancellor said. Stepping to one side, he swept an arm in front of him as if revealing a prize. “Take one of the seats in front of my desk. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Thomas looked down and walked into the chancellor’s office, a tiny part of him expecting the man to hurt him as he passed. He went straight for the closest chair and sat down before taking a quick look around. He sat in front of a large desk that looked like wood but most definitely wasn’t, with a few frames scattered along its front edge, the pictures within them facing away from Thomas. He desperately wanted to see what parts of Mr. Anderson’s life were flashing by in that instant. Besides a few gadgets and chairs and a workstation built into the desk, the room was pretty much empty.

  The chancellor swooped into the room and took his seat on the other side of the desk. He touched a few things on the workstation’s screen, seemed satisfied about something, then leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. A long silence filled the room as the man studied Thomas, making him even more uncomfortable.

  “Do you know what today is?” Chancellor Anderson finally asked.

  Thomas had tried all morning not to think about it, which had only made the memories of the one good Christmas he’d known all the more crisp in his mind. It filled him with a sadness so sharp that every breath actually hurt like a spiky rock laid atop his chest.

  “It’s the beginning of holiday week,” Thomas answered, hoping he could hide just how sad that made him. For a split second, he thought he smelled pine, tasted spicy cider on the back of his tongue.

  “That’s right,” the chancellor said, folding his arms as if proud of the answer. “And today’s the best of all, right? Religious or not, everyone celebrates Christmas in one way or another. And hey, let’s face it, who’s been religious the last ten years? Except the Apocalyptics, anyway.”

  The man fell silent for a moment, staring into space. Thomas had no idea what point the guy was trying to make, other than to depress the poor kid sitting in front of him.

  Anderson suddenly sprang to life again, leaning forward on his desk with hands folded in front of him. “Christmas, Thomas. Family. Food. Warmth. And presents! We can’t forget the presents! What’s the best gift you ever received on Christmas morning?”

  Thomas had to look away, trying to shift his eyes in just the right way so no tears tumbled out and trickled down his cheek. He refused to answer such a mean question, whether it had been intended that way or not.

  “One time,” Anderson continued, “when I was a little younger than you, I got a bike. Shiny and green. The lights from the tree sparkled in the new paint. Magic, Thomas. That’s pure magic. Nothing like that can ever be duplicated for the rest of your life, especially when you get to be a crotchety old man like me.”

  Thomas had recovered himself and looked at the chancellor, trying to throw as much fierceness into his gaze as possible. “My parents are probably dead. And yeah, I did get a bike, but I had to leave it when you took me. I’ll never have another Christmas, thanks to the Flare. Why are we talking about this? Are you trying to rub it in?” The rush of angry words made him feel better.

  Anderson’s face had gone pale, any trace of happy Christmas memories wiped clean. He put his hands flat on the desk, and a shadow descended over his eyes.

  “Exactly, Thomas,” he said. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. So you’ll understand just how important it is that we do whatever it takes to make WICKED a success. To find a cure for this sickness, no matter the cost. No matter…the cost.”

  He sat back in his chair, swiveled a quarter turn, and stared at the wall.

  “I want Christmas back.”

  223.12.25 | 10:52 a.m.

  The silence that stretched out from that moment was a long one, so awkward that Thomas wondered more than once if he should get up and leave. At one point he even worried that maybe Chancellor Anderson had died—that he was sitting frozen in death, eyes open, glazed over.

  But the man’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths as he sat staring, staring at that wall.

  Thomas actually found himself feeling sorry for him. And he couldn’t take the stillness anymore.

  “I want it back, too,” Thomas said. It was simple, and true—and, he knew, impossible.

  It was as if the chancellor had forgotten that Thomas was sitting there. He snapped his head around at the boy’s voice. “I…I’m sorry,” he stammered, adjusting his chair to face the desk again. “What did you say?”

  “That I want everything back to normal again, too,” Thomas answered. “The way it was before I even existed. But I don’t think that’s going to happen, is it?”

  “But it can, Thomas.” A light had somehow found its way into the man’s eyes. “I know the world is in horrible shape, but if we can find a cure….The weather will normalize eventually—it’s already starting. The Cranks can die off; all of our simulations tell us they’ll wipe each other out. There are plenty of us who are still healthy—who can rebuild our world if we can only ensure that they don’t catch that damn disease.”

  He stared at Thomas as if Thomas should know what to say next. He didn’t.

  “Do you know what our…institution is called, Thomas?” the chancellor asked.

  Thomas shrugged. “Well, you said WICKED a few minutes ago—and those guards had it on their uniforms. Is that really the name of this place?”

  Chancellor Anderson nodded. “Some people didn’t like it, but it really makes perfect sense. It explains exactly what we’re here to do.”

  “At any cost,” Thomas said, repeating what the chancellor had said earlier, making sure he realized that Thomas had understood what that implied, though he wasn’t quite sure he did.

  “At any cost.” The man nodded. “That’s right.” His eyes were bright now. “WICKED stands for World In Catastrophe, Killzone Experiment Department. We want our name to remind people of why we exist, what we plan to accomplish, and how we intend to do it.” He paused, seeming to rethink something. “To be fair, I think the world will fix itself eventually. Our objective is to
save humanity. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  Chancellor Anderson watched Thomas carefully, awaiting his answer, but Thomas’s head hurt too much by then to figure out half of what the man had said. And he was really creeped out by the word killzone. What could it possibly mean? It seemed even worse than the word right before it, catastrophe.

  He’d always thought that given the chance, he’d ask these people a million questions. And here he was, with even more questions. At some point they didn’t seem to matter anymore, though. He was tired, angry, and confused—all he wanted was to go back to his room and be alone.

  “Things are going to get very busy over the next several years,” Chancellor Anderson continued. “We’ve brought several young survivors here—just like you—and we’ve finally determined that we’re ready to get to work. Complete more and more testing to see which of our sub—which of our students will rise to the top. Take my advice when I say that you’ll want to do your best. Being immune to the Flare holds power, but it will take more than simple biology to succeed here. And we have such magnificent structures to build, biomechanical labs to construct…wonders of life to create. And all of this will ultimately lead to mapping out the killzone. We’ll identify the differences that cause immunity and then design a cure. I am sure of it.”

  He paused, his face alight with excitement. Thomas sat still, doing his best to remain calm. Anderson was getting a little scary.

  The chancellor seemed to realize he’d gotten carried away with himself and let out a sigh. “Well, I suppose that’s enough of a pep talk for one day. You’re getting older, Thomas, and doing better than almost anyone in the testing program. We think very highly of you, and I felt it was time that we meet face to face. Expect a lot more of this in the future—more freedom, and a bigger role to play here at WICKED. Does that sound good to you?”

  Thomas nodded before he could stop himself. Because, well, it did sound good. He sometimes felt like he lived in a prison, and he wanted out. Plain and simple. Maybe the path had just been laid before him.

  “Can I just ask another question?” he said, unable to get that one horrible word out of his head. Killzone.

  “Sure.”

  “What does…killzone mean?”

  Anderson actually smiled at that. “Ah, I’m sorry. I guess I assumed you knew. It’s what we call the brain—the place where the Flare does the most damage. Where it eventually, well, ends the life of those who are infected. And that’s what we’re battling. I guess you could say it’s the battleground for us here at WICKED. The killzone.”

  Thomas was a long way from understanding, but for some reason this explanation made him feel better.

  “So we’re set, then?” Chancellor Anderson asked. “You’re ready to play a role in the important things we’re doing here?”

  Thomas nodded.

  The chancellor tapped a finger on the desk a couple of times. “Fantastic. Then go on back to your room and get some rest. Big times ahead.”

  Thomas felt a little rush of excitement, followed immediately by a shame he didn’t even understand.

  —

  Thomas couldn’t help himself after the same lady had escorted him back to his room. Right before she closed the door, he stuck his hand in the gap to stop it.

  “Uh, sorry,” he said quickly, “but can I just ask you one question?”

  A flash of doubt crossed her face. “That’s probably not a good idea. This…all of this…it’s a really controlled environment. I’m sorry.” Her face flushed red.

  “But…” Thomas searched for the right words, the right question. “That guy…Chancellor Anderson, he said something about big times ahead. Are there many others like me? Are they all kids? Will I finally get to meet some of them?” He hated how much he dared to hope. “Like the girl next to me…Teresa…will I actually get to meet her?”

  The woman sighed, sincere pity in her eyes. She nodded. “There are lots of others, but what’s important now is that you’re doing great in the testing, and meeting the others won’t be too far away. I know you must be lonely. I’m really sorry. But maybe it helps to know that everyone is in the same boat. Things will get better soon, though. I promise.” She started to close the door, but Thomas stopped it again.

  “How long?” he asked, embarrassed at how desperate he sounded. “How much longer will I be alone?”

  “Just…” She sighed. “Like I said. Not much longer. Maybe a year.”

  Thomas had to whip his hand away before she slammed the door on it. He ran over and crumpled onto the bed, trying to hold in his tears.

  A year.

  224.3.12 | 7:30 a.m.

  A knock on his door, early morning. It had become as routine as clockwork. Same time, but not always the same face. Yet he knew who he hoped it to be—the nicest doctor he’d met so far. By a long shot. The same one who’d taken him to see the chancellor two months earlier. Unfortunately, it usually wasn’t her.

  But when he opened the door today, there she stood.

  “Dr. Paige,” he said. He didn’t know why he liked her so much—she just put him at ease. “Hi.”

  “Hi, Thomas. Guess what?”

  “What?”

  She gave him a warm smile. “You’re going to be seeing a lot more of me from here on out. I’ve been assigned to you. And to you only. What do you think of that?”

  He was thrilled—he already felt comfortable with her, even though they’d only met a few times. But all that came out to show his excitement was “Cool.”

  “Cool indeed.” Another grin that seemed as genuine as Ms. Denton’s. “There are a lot of good things on your horizon. Our horizon.”

  He barely stopped himself from saying “Cool” again.

  She motioned toward the rolling tray at her hip. “Now, how about some breakfast?”

  He didn’t know how she did it, but when Dr. Paige took Thomas’s blood, he didn’t even feel the prick of the needle piercing his skin. Usually one of her assistants did the deed, but every once in a while she took care of it herself. Like today.

  As he watched the blood slide down its tube, he asked, “So, what’re you learning about me?”

  Dr. Paige looked up. “Pardon?”

  “With all these tests you run. What’re you learning? You never tell me anything. Am I still immune? Is my information helping you? Am I healthy?”

  The doctor sealed off the vial and took the needle out of Thomas’s arm. “Well, yes, you’re helping us a lot. The more we can learn about how your body, your health…Just by studying you and the others, we’re discovering what to study. Where to focus our efforts on finding a cure. You’re as valuable as they say you are. Every one of you.”

  Thomas beamed a little.

  “Are you just telling me this to make me feel good?” he asked.

  “Absolutely not. If we’re going to stop this virus, it’ll be because of you and the others. You should be proud.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, let’s get you on the treadmill. See how quickly we can get your heart rate over one fifty.”

  —

  “This drastically changed people’s everyday lives, connecting society in a way that had never…”

  Ms. Landon—a small, mousy lady with perfect teeth—was describing the cultural impact of cellular technology when Thomas raised his hand to get her attention. He was desperately bored. Everyone knew the cultural impact of cellular technology.

  “Uh, yes?” she asked, stopping midsentence.

  “I thought we were going to talk about the invention of the Flat Trans soon.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “I think you did. Anyway, it just seems a little more interesting than…this stuff.” Thomas smiled to take away the sting of his words.

  Ms. Landon folded her arms. “Who’s the teacher here?”

  “You are.”

  “And who knows best what we should talk about each day?”

  Thomas smiled again; for what reason, he had no id
ea. He liked this lady, no matter how boring she got. “You do.”

  “Very good. Now, as I was saying, you can imagine how much the world changed when suddenly every person in the world was connected by…”

  —

  Ms. Denton had the patience of a snail. Thomas had been analyzing the forty odd-shaped blocks on the table in front of him for over thirty minutes. He’d yet to actually touch one. Instead, he gazed at each separate piece in turn, trying to build a blueprint in his mind. Trying to approach the puzzle the way his teacher had taught him.

  “Would you like to take a break?” she finally asked. “You need to go to your next class anyway.”

  Even her patience could run thin, he supposed. “I can be late. Mr. Glanville won’t mind.”

  Ms. Denton shook her head. “Not a good idea. Once you run out of time, you’ll start rushing things. You’re not ready to rush things. For now, it’s okay to take as much time as you need. Even over several days. Give your brain a solid workout, visualize what you’ve been analyzing while you lie in bed at night.”

  Thomas forced himself to look away from the blocks and leaned back in his chair. “Why do we do so many puzzles anyway? Aren’t they just games?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Not really, I guess. Seems like it works my brain more than any of my other classes.”

  Ms. Denton smiled as if he’d just told her she was the smartest teacher in the school. “That’s exactly right, Thomas. Now, off to Mr. Glanville. You shouldn’t make him wait.”

  Thomas stood up. “Okay. See you later.” He started for the door, then turned back to face her. “By the way, there are seven extra pieces—they don’t belong.”

  Impossibly, her smile grew even wider.

  —

  Sample after sample.

  Class after class.

  Puzzle after puzzle.

  Day after day.

  Month after month.

  224.9.2 | 7:30 a.m.

  The knock on the door came precisely at the correct time, maybe a few seconds off. Thomas opened it to find a stranger staring at him. A bald man who didn’t seem very happy to be there. Maybe not very happy to be alive. He had puffy red eyes and a frown that seemed to be reflected in every wrinkle on his wilting face.