“Uh, I haven't looked at any figures on antibody load or Tercera's viral load, so I can't really say how much we should plan to give them. Are you looking at one treatment versus several small injections?”
He beams at me. “Exactly, yes. Standard protocols, but the numbers are making my eyes cross. I'm going to check Libby and Rose's blood later today. I've compared mine and Rhonda's to yours already. For some reason, even several days out for Rhonda and thirty-six hours for me, with virtually continuous exposure to the virus, your blood still has ten times the antibody load of ours. I need to figure out what exactly your dad did to make yours so much higher, and to keep it that way. I keep coming back to the article Mom showed me about the stimulation of CpG oligonucleotides, but of course, that article's back in Port Gibson.”
“It’s almost hard to listen to,” I say. “You sound exactly like her.”
He raises both eyebrows. “Her?”
“Your mom.”
“Thanks!” He grins like I proclaimed him the smartest man in the world. I guess I kinda did.
I roll my eyes, and walk toward the door.
Job hops up, hands in his pockets like that will somehow make him look like he’s taking a stroll and not making sure I’m not making a break for it.
“You don’t need to play jailor,” I say. “I’m only headed out to look for breakfast. I’m guessing eating is still on the list of items I’m allowed to do, my nutrition being key to my body’s replication of said antibodies…”
Job has the decency to look chagrined. “They have a mess hall around the corner on the main street. It’s for the Marked leadership mostly, but Rafe said we're welcome there. Probably because we’re busy doing administrative, or, you know, scientific work.”
“I’d be welcome even if I planned to sit around and stare at the ceiling. After all, we’ve gotta fuel my body’s miraculous work, right?” I roll my eyes heavenward. “Should I bring you food? It doesn’t look like you’re even stopping to pee.”
He shakes his head. “I ate almost an hour ago. A pack of adult diapers would be awesome though, if you see a pharmacy. That was a brilliant idea.”
I shake my head as I walk toward the front door. He’s kidding, at least I’m pretty sure he’s kidding. Something about Job's not quite right. I like making sense of things as much as the next researcher, but he's obsessed. Like mother like son, I guess.
I've always assumed my aptitude with science came from my dad. With an uncomfortable pang, I wonder where it came from. What if I picked it up from being around them, but I'm not really like them at all, because we aren't really related? Maybe that's part of the reason I left Science.
What if I'm actually genetically pre-destined to hatch, not medical viruses or their cures, but in fact, evil plans, murderous attacks and abusive torture of my loved ones? I shove my thoughts into the back corner of my head and walk out the door into the freezing cold air of Baton Rouge’s winter. I wave at the two armed guards, who fall in a half dozen steps behind me. What’s the protocol here? Do I chat with them? Is it rude not to? Or is fraternizing distracting them from their job?
The skin on my arms pebbles in the cold air. I should've grabbed my coat before launching from my new, homey, guarded plasma center hotel. I'm sure that's the reason I'm shivering as I reach the long brick building, and not because I’m worried about my conspicuous honor guard and my morally bankrupt parentage.
I wrap my arms around myself and push through the front doors. My lip curls when the smell of burned oatmeal assaults my nose, but my traitorous stomach growls anyway.
“Hungry?” Amir waves the guards away and offers me a bowl.
I reach out and take it, almost equally grateful for the dismissal of the guard and the food. “Thanks.”
A groan from behind him draws my eye. Riyah hands him her bowl. “Oh don't worry about me. I'll go back and wait in line again so you can fangirl in peace.”
Amir looks upward briefly as if asking for divine help in being patient. “Don't mind her. Seriously.”
I follow him when he starts walking toward a table. “Why does she hate me? I didn't ask for your breakfast, I didn't even know there was a line.”
He sets his newly acquired bowl down. “She's tired of us all hoping for some kind of way out of this. Riyah was born a pessimist and life has confirmed that worldview almost every day of her life. She thinks you're more false hope, since even if your blood can cure us, there won't be enough to go around. She thinks we'd be better off without you here.”
I understand that sentiment, actually. It's exhausting to know so many people have pinned their hopes on me. False hope is more dangerous than no hope in many ways.
And yet, almost every face in this cafeteria casts pleading glances my way. “What do you think?”
Amir shrugs. “I think the world surprises you sometimes.”
“How so?” I ask. “Flooding, famine and plague?”
Amir snorts. “Sure, I guess all that is true.”
“What did you mean?”
He smiles. “My parents thought they'd never have kids. They were in their forties when my mom got pregnant, and then after they had me, Mom got pregnant with Riyah two months later.” He throws his hands up in the air.
“And then they didn’t even get to watch you grow into adults.”
Amir frowns. “That’s true I suppose. We can make plans all day long, but no matter what plans we make, we can't know how they'll turn out. Kids when you know you can't have any, and that miracle happens twice? My parents saved money like fiends, worried they'd die before we got married, or made it through college. And then they died when we were barely nine years old, but not from old age like they feared, or cancer. They died along with everyone else on earth, from a virus that killed everyone who had grown out of adolescence.”
“How does that not scare you? You’re like the only optimist left in a world full of pessimists. Except we aren’t even pessimists. We’re realists because when the world surprises us it’s always bad.”
He shrugs again. “I don't think there's such a thing as false hope, not really. There's just hope and despair, and we get to choose each day which one to cling to. I always choose hope.”
I wish I chose hope. I wish I thought the world was full of possibility, as much good as bad. “The world needs more Amirs.”
He smiles at me and I’m a little lighter for it. Amir eats his oatmeal quickly and stands up. When I start to stand, he holds out his hand. “No, please don't rush. I have another batch of new cows to integrate back into a local herd, so I can't stay. Such is the glamorous nature of the science affairs we manage.”
“Hey, does that mean the other cows made it back safely?”
Amir nods. “All but one. WPN's strangely quiet right now. Our sentries say no one's leaving or entering. We've been preparing for an attack, but they seem to be hunkering down.”
Almost like their leader is incapacitated. I take another bite to hide my smile. The oatmeal’s flavorless, and burned flecks are spread throughout, but it's food, and I'm glad to have it. I stand up. “Maybe I can help you? Or learn about your operations, at least.”
He shakes his head. “Please, eat another bowl, and maybe drink a little more.” He points at the line. “We're all allocated one drink per day, but I'm sure they'd be happy to give you as much juice as you can drink. Not all of us have succumbed to our worst fears. Most of us are overjoyed to have something, anything, to hope for.”
For the first time, even though someone's encouraging me to eat and drink so I can make more plasma, more antibodies, more of the cure, I don't feel like he sees me as some kind of walking medication incubator. I don't have room in my stomach for any more fluids right now, but I appreciate his concern.
“Thanks, Amir.”
I stay seated until he leaves the cafeteria. Once he's gone, I stand up to leave.
Wesley's voice stops me. “Done already?”
I shake my head. “I was going to look
for you.”
His smile makes it easier to breathe than it has been for days. “Here, take mine. I'll grab another bowl.”
“Nah. I've already eaten, but I'll sit with you.”
He hands me a glass full of juice. “Surely you've got room for a few sips.”
“That's yours.”
He raises one eyebrow. “You afraid you'll get cooties from me?”
I think about our kiss and feel a little jittery. “No, but—”
“Relax goof, I was kidding. I haven't had any of it. I'd rather you drink it.”
“You'd think I was sick, not the other way around, with how everyone's treating me.”
He grins. “Can you blame them? Everyone wants to keep you healthy. Try to enjoy the special treatment.”
I slide over next to him and whisper. “Have you had any ideas of how we might escape?”
He takes a big bite and chews slowly. I'm convinced he does it just to annoy me, because you don't need to chew oatmeal.
“Well?”
He nods. “Actually, we've had a stroke of luck. Rafe gave me an assignment to return to Texas City in the truck you stole from WPN. It's our most reliable vehicle, and I'm supposed to bring back the last cache of supplies left at the hospital. Rafe thinks we might need them here in the near future. And there's one more cow that had its calf yesterday. He didn't want to move them both until today.”
That is a stroke of luck. It puts Wesley headed down to right near where we need to go anyway. “How can you take me with you? Think Rafe would allow it if we ask?”
Wesley throws an arm around me and shakes his head. “Not a chance. He's not letting you out of his sight.” He whispers in my ear. “But if you pretend to get upset with me right now for being too friendly, yell at me and storm out, I could act upset and leave with another girl. Maybe one who's wearing a hoodie and who people can't quite place. As long as you were somewhere isolated, researching maybe, or reading when I leave, who would suspect?”
I'm not a great actor, but I give it my best. I shove away from Wesley and stage whisper as best I can. “Stop acting like you're my boyfriend. I don't like you like that, not anymore.”
“Yeah well, the guy you liked for a whole entire week died, okay? You need to get over it, because I'm still here, and he's not coming back. Not ever.”
My jaw drops for real. Wesley would never, ever say something like that. Lucky for me, no one here really knows him well enough to guess. “You may as well be dead for all I care. Leave me alone from now on, okay?”
I spin on one foot and march out, keeping my eyes on the door. If I focus on my path out, maybe I won't stumble and look like an even bigger idiot. I ignore my two guards, and all the other eyes on me as I walk the two chilly blocks back to the plasma center. At least none of them approach or touch me, maybe because of the guards. I shudder. I need to get away from here. I feel guilty about risking myself when they need me, but I don’t see another way around it.
Job glances up when I walk inside. I grab three books off the top of his mountain of resource material. “I'll take these, okay? My head kinda hurts, so I'm gonna read them back on my bed. Can you just tell anyone who asks that I'm tired?”
“You can take a nap, Ruby. I've got this, really I do.”
I shake my head. “I want to help.” I couldn't sleep if I wanted to. I don't wanna see the Wesley and Sam show, not again. I carry the dusty tomes back to my room. Luckily, Rhonda's gone when I go inside. I glance at the window, and I notice it looks out onto another parking lot in the rear, probably the employee parking or the bay where trucks made deliveries of plasma donation supplies Before. At least I won't be seen sneaking out of a window as easily as I would from the main road.
Speaking of being seen, my coat has a hood to hide my uncommon mop of hair, but I worry the coat itself will be too noticeable. Everyone watched as I marched through town yesterday in my puffy, down coat. Unfortunately, it's all I've got and without a coat I'll be even more eye-catching.
I force myself to read through the table of contents of the first book to identify anything we might use. I slog through the four most promising chapters without finding anything helpful. I have no idea when Wesley's coming exactly, so I may as well try and make myself useful. I begin skimming the second book with a groan, but a few chapters in, I uncross my eyes in relief when I hear a tap on the window.
I wave at Wesley so he knows I heard him, and then walk to the door in the little office area I'm using as a bedroom. I poke my head out and call out to Job. “Nothing in this first book. The second has a few spots that have potential.”
Job says, “Keep me posted. I've found a few good studies we can use to model ours, I think. And I have enough plasma to start now. It should last us at least three rounds with sixteen participants each. I'll want you to check my math, of course, but we won't likely need to pull more plasma this week. I think after yesterday you need a substantial break.”
“I guess.” I don't think the people living here in Baton Rouge will agree a “break” from the antibody farm is a good plan, but now doesn't seem like the best time to argue since I'm planning on ditching them entirely.
Satisfied Job won't check on me for a while, I grab my as yet unpacked backpack and cross to the window. The hinges on the window creak noisily when I lift it the first inch. Wesley and I both freeze, nose to nose, separated only by the dirty glass. A split second later Wesley ducks down, presumably in case Job heard and came to check on me. After a count of ten, I assume Job isn't coming and start to lift the window again. Every whining, scratching sound the window makes causes my heart to beat a staccato rhythm, but eventually I lift the window high enough that I can crawl through the gap. Wesley steadies me as I emerge.
He also holds out a darling, sapphire colored peacoat.
“What's that?” I ask.
He cocks his head and lifts an eyebrow. “I thought you'd want to change your outerwear. That huge down coat is totally last season.”
I roll my eyes.
“Seriously, I imagine people will recognize that puffy thing.” He glances at my dingy old coat disdainfully.
For some reason it annoys me that he's solving a problem I had already identified. I know it's irrational, but I yank the gorgeous coat out of his hands crabbily, and stuff my puffy jacket back through the window. The new one fits me perfectly, and the bright, combed wool, with a double row of shiny wooden buttons transforms me into a new person. It's even topped with a hood that will cover up my hair and face. In spite of my baseless annoyance, I manage to squeak out, “Thanks. I really like it.”
He shrugs and takes my backpack.
“Where's your bag?” I ask.
“Already in the truck.”
We walk along the alley until we reach the main road. Wesley reaches his hand out and holds it over mine, hovering suspended in air. Close, but not touching. His eyes seek mine out and he angles his head, as if to make sure I remember the plan. “Go ahead. I remember I'm supposed to be your new, pity girlfriend. Whatever.”
His warm hand covers mine, and our fingers interlace smoothly. It feels right, like popsicles in the summer, like popcorn and an old movie on a Saturday night, like the sound of generators whirring, like swimming in the big drainage-basin-turned-pond off Bridewell Lane. Like everything about home that I miss now I’m here in Baton Rouge.
If Wesley wasn't Marked. If I had gone with him. If my dad hadn't created Tercera, and I hadn't gone off to try and save Wesley, maybe we'd be walking down main street in Port Gibson right now, on our way to our respective Paths, respectable Unmarked citizens. Maybe Sam would still be there too, and I'd never think about how he doesn't have much to say, but he's thinking about everything all the time. I'd never want to let go of Wesley's hand to ease the guilty ball forming in the pit of my stomach. I wouldn't have to grit my teeth and hold onto it anyway.
I need to do this to get back to Sam, so I do it.
I'm not paying attention to anything around u
s, but I feel Wesley's hand stiffen and he swears.
I look around, but I don't recognize anything concerning. “What's wrong?”
“My friend Mike's walking up ahead. He helped me out when I first arrived, and he's gonna want to know who I'm holding hands with. He’ll recognize you for sure.”
My hand shakes, and my breathing picks up, until Wesley spins me around and pushes me back against the concrete wall of the paint store we're walking past. His head leans down and I realize what he means to do. He's going to kiss me, because his friend won't interrupt that. If we're kissing, they won't look too closely, they'll walk on by, and hound him for the details later. Wesley's face lowers over mine, hovering in front of mine exactly like his hand did. Asking permission without asking. Time stands still. His hair falls forward in the way I used to swoon over.
He won’t push it. I can stop him. I should stop him, because it's not Wesley's beautiful mouth I want on mine, not anymore. I should turn my head, or say no, or come up with another plan like tying my shoe. I should stop him right now before his lips touch mine. Before it’s too late.
I don't stop him.
I think about how last time he kissed me, I prepared first. I spent days dreaming of it, imagining it, and then that night, I did my hair, picked my outfit, and I even borrowed lip gloss. Shiny lips, and gobs and gobs of expectations. This time, I know this isn't going anywhere. It's not important how I look, or what I'm wearing, because this means nothing. Except when his lips meet mine, a shiver runs from my mouth down to the pit of my belly. Instead of kissing me, and then letting me go, like he did in that dark shed, we're standing in daylight on a busy street. When Wesley's mouth opens a little, mine follows his lead. His arms wrap around me and draw me closer, and I sigh into him.
For some reason, his words from last night zing through my head. “Sam is my enemy, because we both want the same thing,” and “I'm in love with you.”
Sins of Our Ancestors Boxed Set Page 35
