Marked (Sins of Our Ancestors Book 1)

by Bridget E. Baker

  I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s been more than three hours, now. The Mark should appear any minute. I touch my forehead. It feels the same. I stand up and walk to the mirror over the sink. I close my eyes, exhale, and finally force them open. I take a good hard look at my forehead.

  It’s still clear.

  This might be the last time I see it, unblemished, unmarked. I finally look away and glance at the rest of my face. We don’t have many mirrors in our house—only in the bathrooms. I have curly, blonde hair, but it’s almost always pulled back in a ponytail or a braid.

  My face is angular, my features all sharp. I’m bony in general, like one of those stick figures people draw with just arms, legs and a big round head. My hair sticks out from my head like I stuck my finger in a light socket as a baby. Tendrils escape from my ponytail, no matter what I do. I take one more look at my forehead and then look away. I can’t stare at myself all night waiting for a rash to appear. Maybe I should take a sleeping pill. My aunt makes them to help me deal with the nightmares. Since I was leaving home, I packed all of them before I left. I should take one, but I don’t want to sleep until I’ve seen the Mark.

  I pull out one of my dad’s journals and start reading. Most of the entries are pretty boring, but a few are about me, and a few are scientifically interesting. My aunt was right when she said my dad knew a lot about viruses. The first journal dates to right after he left his big pharma job to pursue his own research. He had less resources after he quit, but he charted his own course. I don’t recall the move we made from the East Coast to Texas because I was so young, but my dad talked about it sometimes.

  When Tercera hit, my dad had just died. My aunt took a leave of absence and we stayed at my dad’s cabin near Republican City. We hid in a tiny cabin with a big barn, near a lake, for years until our supplies ran out and most everyone was dead. We only left to join the Unmarked, for a chance at a community. I took more than three years of Science before I quit. I advanced quickly and was being taught the same things as the teenagers by the time I turned eleven. It gave me a pretty good understanding of basic scientific terms. Even so, some of these confuse me and I have to look them up in Clinical Virology. Good thing I snagged it, too.

  When I finish the last entry, I glance at my watch. It took almost three hours to read the entirety of the first journal. It’s been six hours since Wesley and I kissed, maybe closer to seven. I take a deep breath and walk over to the mirror.

  Still no rash.

  I should be elated. I don’t know how it’s possible, but it seems I might not have been Marked. The rash should’ve shown up within three hours, four at the most.

  Why am I disappointed?

  Being Marked meant I was doomed to die, but I finally felt free, like something good could happen, like the worst couldn’t fell me. With Wesley, I might have found a place, and someone to build something with. We spend so much time huddled inside Port Gibson behind tall, razor-topped walls, following scads of restrictive rules, that we aren’t even able to enjoy anything.

  It’s almost 2:00 a.m. when I reach down and grab a sleeping pill. I can’t wait all night. As I drift off to sleep, I think about Wesley, waiting by the tree alone, maybe forever.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Sam’s gone and Barrett’s back. I wake up to the sound of Barrett sliding a tray through the flap on the bottom of the door. When I glance up, he glares at me. I look down at my breakfast and scowl right back at him. The tray holds a metal box, with lumpy gray blobs on it. Defense rations are disgusting, but this looks even worse. Barrett’s punishing me for escaping, which wouldn’t have been possible if he’d been doing his job. I eat a few bites until my stomach isn’t grumbling, but then I can’t force myself to eat any more. I wish I was home so I could pull some things from my greenhouse.

  I realize with a start that the disgusting breakfast distracted me. I hop up and run across the room to the mirror. I stare at my reflection, not quite sure I believe my eyes. Still no rash. I’m not sure what it means.

  I bang on the Plexiglas. “Barrett, I’m not Marked. Have you ever guarded someone in quarantine who was exposed, but the Mark never showed?”

  He coughs. “Nope.”

  “Very helpful, thanks. Feel like elaborating?”

  Barrett’s sneering face suddenly fills the small window. “You won’t tell me anything, then you run away, and now I’m on probation. What exactly did you expect? I’m the last one who’s going to run over to hold your hand and tell you everything’s going to be okay. In my experience, things are rarely okay.”

  “Well, I certainly hope that’s not how my husband taught you to talk to people in quarantine, especially individuals afraid their lives may end imminently.” Aunt Anne’s voice is crisp and clear, even through the window. She’s used to being obeyed and it shows. “Not to mention, she’s your boss’s niece.”

  Barrett jumps back, his face as white as the walls. I want to feel bad for him, but I can’t quite manage it. He brings this stuff on himself.

  My aunt’s smiling when she reaches the window, her irritation with Barrett already forgotten. “You aren’t Marked.”

  I rub my forehead. “I know.”

  Aunt Anne breathes in and out slowly. She must’ve come here from work. She’s wearing her typical dark pantsuit and pearls. My aunt’s a very put together woman. “As you probably remember, there are no known cases of a Mark appearing more than five hours after contact. It appears quite likely you aren’t Marked. Can you tell me why you thought you were?”

  I want to protect Wesley, but it’s not like she won’t be able to put the pieces together herself if I refuse. She knows I was at the Last Supper and every kid there saw us enter the shed together. Once his parents realize he’s gone, everyone will know anyway. “I was at the Last Supper. I kissed someone who was Marked.”

  My aunt gasps. “Why would you do something that imprudent?”

  “Obviously I didn’t know,” I say.

  “But he knew,” she says, “whoever he was. No one just waltzes around Marked without knowing it, and he had to have hidden it or you’d never have kissed him. Your uncle is going to shoot that little miscreant right between the eyes. Who was it?”

  I’d never realized how bloodthirsty my aunt could be. Maybe that happens when you’re married to the head of Defense and a former Olympic gold medalist in sharp shooting for twenty-five years.

  “Who, Ruby?”

  I sigh. “It was Wesley Fairchild.” I flinch at the fury in her eyes. “But it wasn’t like he meant to.” My words sound silly even to me. I’m still defending him, and honestly, maybe I should be. Turns out, he didn’t even Mark me.

  “He didn’t know he was Marked, not really, and he wasn’t even going to touch me. He told me we weren’t going to kiss, but I . . . I grabbed him and I kissed him, okay?” I drop my head in my hands. I’m such an idiot. Living through it was embarrassing enough, but telling everyone? Being Marked might be easier.

  “He should’ve turned himself in the moment he had any interaction with someone who was infected with Tercera,” my aunt says softly. Somehow, her soft tone scares me more than her yelling would. “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t want him harmed,” I say.

  My aunt ignores me. “Is he lurking around trying to Mark more people? I don’t care who his father is, he deserves to be shot.”

  I bang on the Plexiglas and she jumps.

  “Listen up. You aren’t me, and this isn’t your life. You don’t get to decide what to do. I don’t want Wesley shot, whether I’m Marked or not. Do you hear me?”

  Her eyes flash. “This isn’t just about you. He broke the law, and he’s still a risk,” Aunt Anne says. “He might Mark others. I can’t let him wander around. There are consequences.”

  I speak slowly and emphatically. “He didn’t even Mark me.”

  She steps back and her face blanks. “Are you sure he’s actually infected?”

  I nod my head
. “I saw the rash. After.”

  “After you kissed him?”

  I nod.

  “Did you touch him, other than the kiss?” she asks.

  “Why does that matter?” I think back to last night. I did touch him, but . . . “We both had gloves on.”

  “We’ve been studying barriers to infection,” my aunt says. “For instance, if you used Vaseline on your lips right before you kissed him—”

  “I don’t even know what Vaseline is.”

  “I forget how young you were when the world fell apart.” My aunt shakes her head. “I know you bite your lip when you get nervous, and it looks puffy on the bottom where it’s split. Any chance you used something to cover that up last night?”

  Could my nervous habit have saved me? “Gemette gave me some strawberry flavored lip gloss when the bottle pointed at me, but our kiss was a little bit of a mess. We sort of collided. I’m pretty sure he ingested some of my blood.”

  “Which wouldn’t matter,” my aunt says. “Only if you consumed his. And even then, Tercera congregates first in the dermis, so if he was recently Marked, and because the contact took place only at the lips, there may have been a lower concentration. The epithelial cells carry a high load of contagious viral cells, but lips are membranous tissue. They wouldn’t have much at all until at least twenty-four hours post infection.”

  Wesley fails to save a girl from drowning, while wearing gloves, and somehow gets Marked, and I practically jump him and somehow, I don’t? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  My Aunt’s lip turns up on the right side. “I think you got lucky.”

  I take a few steps back and sit down on my cot. When I do, it knocks one of my dad’s journals to the ground. I glance up at my aunt. When she sees the book, her eyes fly wide. I grab them and set them back on the cot, but my aunt’s gaze stays glued to them. Dates are written on the spine, and she turns her head sideways as if she’s trying to make out which journals I brought.

  “I grabbed a few of dad’s journals,” I admit. “I promised I’d meet Wesley today so we could join a Marked camp together. He and I were going to work on finding a cure. I know it was probably dumb, but you said Dad was a genius with viruses. I thought his notes might help.”

  And I wanted to take something of my dad’s with me.

  I pause, expecting her to laugh, but she doesn’t make a sound. “I wish I could see your face a little better. I’m sure it sounds stupid to you—a kid thinking she could cure Tercera.”

  I wonder whether I’m about to hear the typical adult refrain from Before. My kindergarten teacher said it all the time. You can do whatever you put your mind to, kid. I’m not expecting what happens next.

  She opens the door and walks through it. She sits next to me on the cot. “You aren’t Marked. They won’t let you leave until the three day quarantine period is up, but you and I both know.”

  Even so, I slide as far away from her as I can.

  “You have two days in here. You have to choose your Path the day after you’re released. I know you’re in Sanitation now, but you had such an aptitude for Science. And now you’re talking about continuing your dad’s research. I don’t think it’s ridiculous, I think it’s right. It’s a family legacy.”

  When I don’t respond, Aunt Anne continues. “There are almost a hundred Unmarked communities in North America, most small like Port Gibson, but some much larger. In almost ten years, no one has shown the aptitude for science that you showed. You advanced through four levels in that first year, and five in the second. Each level was created to take a year for an average student. I still don’t understand why you left.”

  I look down at my hands. I can’t bring myself to tell her the real reason, because if I do, she won’t love me anymore. I already hate myself.

  “You don’t have to choose Science if you don’t want to, but I need you to know, your dad would be so proud of you. I’m glad you’re showing an interest in his work.” My aunt clears her throat and I glance up at her face.

  It’s greenish.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nods. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time. The thing is, you were so young when your dad died, that it was easier not to explain everything to you then, and now you’re older, well the moment never seemed quite right. You’re still so young, but you’ve handled all of this so well, and you’ll be an adult in a few days. I guess it’s time I tell you.”

  My heart rate speeds up. “Tell me what?”

  “We told you at the time that your dad was in a car accident.”

  I nod. They did tell me that.

  “It’s not true,” my aunt says. “He was murdered.”

  I nod again. “I know.”

  My aunt stands up and her hands fly to her face. “What do you mean, you know?”

  I look down at my feet, because I can’t look her in the eye. I just can’t. When I finally speak, the words come out as little more than a whisper. “I was there, Aunt Anne. I saw Dad get shot.”

  My aunt sinks back down on the edge of the cot and she’s blinking. A lot. She reaches her hand out and tries to put it over mine. I yank my fingers away and stand up.

  “Oh, Ruby, I’m so sorry. We found you at the daycare in the bottom of the building.”

  “I ran down there. After.”

  “We had no idea you knew.”

  I turn to face the wall so she can’t see the tear running down my right cheek. She’s going to ask; I can feel it. She’s going to figure it out.

  She walks up behind me and I shake my head. “Don’t get too close.”

  “You’re not Marked,” she says.

  I shake my head again. Tears run down my face freely now, so I continue to face the wall, willing her not to press me about it. “I don’t care.”

  She takes a step back and I relax a bit. Maybe she won’t figure it out. Maybe she won’t hate me like she should.

  “If you knew all this time, why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  My stomach ties in knots. I shake my head again.

  “Ruby? Why didn’t you say anything? That must’ve been a terrible burden.”

  When she steps close again, I can’t help it. I spin toward her with my palms out. “Don’t touch me, please. I didn’t ever tell you because I didn’t want you to know the truth.”

  My stomach fills with ice. Jackhammers dance inside my skull. She’ll figure it out, so I may as well come clean.

  “I was there, okay? I watched him get shot, and I had his cell phone in my hands, but I hid in the closet because…I’m a coward. My dad died because I was too afraid to save his life.”

  My aunt’s face falls and my heart breaks.

  I expect her expression to grow stony, her eyes sharp like flint. I expect her to back away, to shake her head, to look at me with horror. Instead, a tear forms in her eye, too.

  “You were six, Ruby. You didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing a six year old could have done to save him.”

  She doesn’t understand. I’m tempted to let it go, but this is the first chance I’ve had to stand trial. The judges and juries from Before are gone, but someone should know the truth about me.

  “My dad told me to hide in that closet, and he gave me his phone. I watched under the door crack while a man with a freckled nose walked in and they argued. I heard the gunshot and saw my father collapse, bleeding from his leg. I was supposed to stay quiet until the man left, and I did. But after he left, I could’ve done something. I should’ve called 911.”

  “You were six.”

  “You don’t understand. They taught us at school. I knew what to do, and I didn’t do it. I ran to the elevator and rode it downstairs to the daycare. They were all on the playground and they didn’t even realize I hadn’t been there all along.”

  Tears streak my aunt’s cheeks now. “You did exactly what your dad wanted you to do. I only wish you’d told me years ago.”

  “Do you know why I left Science
?” I ask. “We were studying anatomy in Level Ten. That’s the day I realized it would have taken him over an hour to die from his gunshot wound. If I’d called for help, or if I’d been brave enough to tell anyone, your brother would still be alive.”

  Now she knows the truth.

  I killed my own dad.

  Chapter 6

  My aunt hugs me. She ignores my protests, my complaints, and my attempts to pull away. She doesn’t let go until I finally hug her back.

  As she pulls away from me, she looks me in the eye. “You didn’t kill your father. Your dad’s biggest regret, wherever he is now, is probably that you’ve agonized over this for so long. It was not your fault.”

  It helps to hear her say it, even if I know she’s only trying to make me feel better. It’s what adults do for kids. They lie to us so much that it gets easy for them. I don’t argue with her because it would just prolong this . . . whatever this is.

  “Whoa!” Barrett bangs on the window. “What are you doing? You can’t be in her cell!”

  My aunt frowns at him before turning back to me. “I know you aren’t Marked, but I can’t get you out of here until seventy-two hours have passed.” My aunt presses her lips together as if she’s debating something. She sighs heavily. “I’ll bring you the rest of your father’s journals so you have something to do.” She turns to leave.

  “I’m going to have to hold you too now,” Barrett says.

  My aunt laughs as she walks past him. “I’d like to see you try, kid.”

  He doesn’t bother.

  Less than an hour later, a disgruntled Barrett slides my dad’s leather bound journals through my meal drawer one at a time. My dad dated all his entries, so I put them in order and start reading. At first, they’re a little boring and I almost stop. When I think about Wesley, alone in the cold, and probably headed for the nearest Marked encampment right now, I persevere. I hope he doesn’t think I was too angry to go with him. I still can’t believe I’m fine. It may be the first stroke of luck I’ve ever had, other than not dying in the Tercera apocalypse the first time around, obviously.