Feet shuffle, a door creaks open. A woman sobs. “Wha—what do you want with us?” she asks. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
She’s stammering, frantic. Wheezing.
Another scuffle—
“Mr. and Mrs. Bedrosian!” The same voice. “Step back! Stay inside the apartment!”
Footsteps enter the apartment, then fall silent. The only sounds on this floor come from two shrill beeps.
“HBNC positive. Contagious, both of them,” the man says. “But the complaint’s only been made against the woman.”
I rest my forehead to the door, pushing away my sudden rush of anger. Contagious? All along they’ve been next door? Aven might not have been able to catch it anymore, but what about everyone else?
“Mrs. Julia Bedrosian,” a new voice barks. A familiar voice—I know him. “You are being placed under arrest for Transmission of the HBNC virus. According to an anonymous complaint, the witness heard you, Julia Bedrosian, overtaken by a wheezing fit on Broad Walk two weeks prior. Within two days, said victim developed symptoms of HBNC and was tested positive for the contagion. I’m sure the victim will be pleased to know you’re being brought to justice. Mr. Bedrosian, HBNC Patrol will be here momentarily to bring you to the nearest sickhouse for the contagious.”
My boss . . . that’s my boss out there.
More scuffling.
“There is no justice in this!” Mr. Bedrosian yells. “You cannot criminalize a disease! You cannot take us from our home—”
“Leave it alone, Armand,” his wife pleads.
Then, the unmistakable sound of metal against bone—metal cracking bone—and the slump of a body as it slides quickly to the floor.
Aven gasps from the back of the room. The candle flickers, and I see her cover her mouth.
“Armand?” Mrs. Bedrosian’s voice sounds low, stunned.
The blow . . . did it kill him?
The snapping of handcuffs as they bolt into position. A body pushed forward. Feet stumbling—she’s being taken.
Behind the door, in this pathetic crouched position, my face begins to flush so red and so hot, warmth radiates against my legs. I can actually feel the temperature of my shame. I may not be happy that the Bedrosians were living next door all this time, but that don’t mean I think they should’ve been punished.
I work for them. Them.
If I were a better person . . . I’d do more than just hide here, a coward, while the people I work for hurt people for being sick.
But that’s how it is here. Every man for himself. You do what you need to. You protect your family by any means. Besides, I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m one of the good guys—I scout for fresh. Even though I work for them, I’m not one of them. Right?
What else can I do?
Nothing.
My palms press sweat into the floor as I keep my neck craned, listening for the weighty footfalls to pass our door. Soon, when I think the hall is quiet again, I choke back a sigh. Get my head on straight.
There’s a new guilt building in my chest and I don’t like it. It’s relief. I’m relieved. Relieved I didn’t have to do anything. If I were a better person.
“Ren?”
Aven . . . I should get her more water. Put some food in her before I leave for the Tank. I uncurl myself from my spot on the floor and return to her bedside. One more time I feel her forehead. The sweat beads are still there, though now her temp seems even.
“That was awful,” she whispers into the dark. Our candle is out.
“How do you f—”
Cutting me off, “I’m fine. You should check on Mr. Bedrosian, Ren.”
Because she knows no one else can.
I don’t want to leave her. “I’m fine” could mean anything. But she’s right—I’m the only one. Our neighbors sure won’t risk seeing if someone who’s been diagnosed as contagious HBNC positive is still alive.
I stand and walk to the front door, but make it no farther than the knob. Another knock. Heavy, hammer-like knocks. And this time there’s no mistaking it. He’s here. Chief is here. . . .
My muscles fire up, and stupidly, I find myself scanning the room for a place to hide. Like I could avoid making this report. Like that wouldn’t get me in even more trouble. But my brain’s not doing the thinking anymore. My guts are.
What’s he going to do to me? A thousand possibilities race through my head: he could dock my pay, send me for correctional training. Beat the living daylights out of me.
I just don’t know.
I’m so dizzy, anxious, I almost forget—my trump card. The fresh. Maybe I missed the report, but once he hears about the spring, how angry could he be?
Gathering myself, I open the door a crack, find myself standing face-to-face with Chief Dunn.
He’s a tower in blue fatigues. A skyscraper, steel made flesh. Chrome and black hair, mustached, with a face that looks like it’d been flattened by bricks. When he sees me, he turns to one of the Bouncers, shouts, “Inspection here, too!” and pushes the door wider to let himself in.
It’s just a cover . . . it’s got to be—so that my mole status stays top secret.
With his hands clasped behind his back, Dunn strides into our apartment, followed by a yellow-and-black-jacketed Bouncer. I throw Aven a look. They don’t know about her. I thought it better that way—no one likes the sick. She’ll know to keep quiet. If we’re lucky, it’s dark enough in here that he might even miss her.
The door closes. Dunn surveys the room, stance wide-legged. Militant; he’s chief of the DI—he is the UMI military, after all.
“Dane. You missed your report.” He snorts, and as the patrolman shuts the door, the room goes pitch dark. Dunn’s first words are even, composed, but the way he enunciates every syllable gives it away. Something tidal is underneath.
A lump has gone and lodged itself in the back of my throat, but I can’t seem to swallow it. “Yes, s-sir. I’m sorry, sir,” I answer.
The patrolman clicks on a flashlight and a yellow glow floods the room.
I can see Chief again. Even in shadow his glare is razor edged, but he looks worn down too. “You think this job is a game?” As he speaks, he carves each word. “Something you can forget about when it’s convenient and come back to later?”
“No, sir . . . I don’t think that.” I avoid his eyes. “It’ll never happen again, I swear it. . . . I’m sorry, sir.” I’m pleading now, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t know how to do this, how to make him believe. “There was an accident—my Rimbo smashed into a spire. . . . I almost didn’t get out—”
Chief steps closer. Shuts me up with no more than a look. Across his forehead, the line of a vein rises up, red and full. I need to tell him about the fresh, but there’s no right time.
“That is not the point, Dane!” he shouts into my face, so near I see each brittle hair of his mustache, and the white K-dot stuck to his neck.
He’s too close. . . . My nerves short-circuit. His words are on my skin, and I want to step back, but it’s more than that . . . I want to break. That’s not the point. My almost dying is not the point.
It’s not like I expected a hug. Didn’t even expect him to ask if I was all right. I did, however, think that it would matter.
Just the tiniest bit.
He’s not done—“You missed your report, and you never contacted headquarters after the fact. Yet.” He pauses, the blacks of his eyes fixed on me. “Here you are. Perfectly fine.” He drawls those last words.
I’m about to open my mouth, say something, anything, but another voice beats me to it.
“It was my fault. . . .” Aven says, urgent. Unwavering. “I got sick.”
No, my head cries out. Stay quiet! I stumble backward, positioning myself between Dunn and Aven. As though I could somehow block her from his sight. “It was my fault, sir,” I insist. “She’s not speaking sense right now.”
“Who is she?” Dunn points, seeing the sickly girl—my Aven—on the bed for the first
time.
“A friend.” No need for him to know more than that. “She’s not contagious. . . .” Except for that.
He motions to the Bouncer, like he wants him to test her. Only out in public is random testing legal without a complaint. Not here in private. But this is Dunn. He can do what he wants.
The Bouncer pulls out the needle blood scanner, and I see Aven’s mouth open in fear.
I could distract him. Now, the fresh.
“Sir,” I start, anxiety pitching my voice a dozen octaves too high. I sound panicked. . . . I am panicked. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere, from my toes up to my throat. “My report. I found this—”
I reach for the canteen dangling off the edge of the bed frame and push it into his hands. Chief Dunn takes the canteen from me, not understanding, and I lead him away from Aven’s bed, closer to the door.
In a hushed voice, I tell him, “It’s fresh, sir.”
He unscrews the cap, eyes on me. “You know as well as I do, it’s been years since we’ve found an uncontaminated groundwater source,” he says, taking a whiff. His face registers nothing.
“Tasted it myself,” I insist, confused. Yet another reaction I’d never expected: doubt. Maybe I should have, though. Years I’ve been searching for fresh with no luck.
Shaking the canteen, he listens to hear how much is in there. “The governor would be pleased, to be sure. Location?”
“Quad Nine. A building with a red star painted on it, under the subway system.”
“You said Ten on the recording,” he reminds me.
“I had a tip. One of your guys, actually. Officer Cory. Officer Justin Cory,” I tell him, happy to offer credit where credit is due, give the officer a slice of the pie. Without him, I wouldn’t have found anything at all.
Chief shakes his head. “I know the name of every man assigned to me, Dane. There’s no Justin Cory in the DI.” Then, aiming his finger at me like a gun, he says, “Find out who this guy is and report back. Could even be a reward in there for you if he turns out to be someone interesting.”
I nod, but my head’s on a roller coaster, confused, even though it all lines up. . . . Justin Cory was lying?
I mean, of course he was. The way he spoke to me, too polite. And his lack of brawn. So the question is, who is he?
Chief opens the door, and he doesn’t look back at Aven. “This goes to the lab immediately,” he says. “If it turns up good, I’ll send a scout team out to gather more samples first thing tomorrow, five a.m. Don’t get your hopes up, though. More than likely, it’s just a pocket with low salinization levels. Not enough to pipe off for mass consumption.”
As the patrolman follows Chief out, he takes the light with him. Leaves us in darkness.
“I’m sure you’re right, sir,” I say, from just behind the door, watching as they leave, all the energy being sucked from my limbs. I’m exhausted. After hours of sleep, I’m exhausted.
Soon the sound of their footsteps is too far away to hear, and I look down the empty hall toward the Bedrosians’ apartment. Even the body is gone. Everything is back to normal—the candles replaced, flickering like they never died out. Almost.
If only the bloodstain were gone too.
11
9:30 P.M., SATURDAY
I don’t know what to do. . . .
It’s been more than four hours since the raid. Afterward I rehydrated Aven with some soup—she couldn’t keep it down at first. Then she could, and it seemed like she was feeling better, too. Now though, even in sleep, her breaths are short and erratic. And when I take her hand, it feels clammy in my own. Cold.
But the Tank—
If I go, I’ve still got a chance at meeting with this “Officer Cory” guy. Since he’s not really with the DI, he won’t know I just met with Dunn—no reason for him not to give me the green he promised. And if there’s a reward for passing on information about him to Dunn, so much the better. Aven and I will need more to make it to the end of the month, especially if she’s sick.
But as I move to her bedside and feel her cheeks—I don’t like it. They strike me as too warm.
I inhale and rub the bridge of my nose, racking my head for an answer.
I’m only sixteen.
How am I supposed to tell when she needs the doctor? If we had the money, I’d call him every time her temp hit 98.7. But we don’t. . . . I have to make the calls. I have to tell “bad” from “worse.” Right now, I don’t think this is the worst. She’s sleeping—that’s gotta say something.
If I stay, all I can do is make her comfortable: feed her daggers, get her water.
But if I go, we’ll have the money to pay for the doctor by the time I get back.
I don’t like this plan.
Leaving her alone turns my stomach like swallowing motor oil. Squeezing Aven’s hand, gentle, I head to the bathroom. If I’m going to leave, I should at least not look like I almost died.
I pull a paste pill from the cabinet and brush my teeth; no need for water. The foaming action is activated by the saliva in the mouth, and when I’m done, all I have to do is take a minty gulp. It occurs to me that I should probably clean my head wound before leaving, so it doesn’t get infected. After all, we don’t even have enough money for one sick person in this apartment, much less two.
Using some filtered rainwater, I soak a tiny corner of our washcloth, readying myself for the damage. I don’t particularly want to look at myself. From the barbed sting going on above my eyebrows, my face feels like the kind of ugly that’s best left in nightmares.
Good thing we don’t have a real mirror.
On the wall, hanging from a nail, we keep a tin lid. Aven pulled it off an empty coffee tin way back when, and it works all right so long as we keep from denting it.
I bring my temple closer, but it’s hard to see for myself. Rarely do I find myself wishing someone was around to take care of me; now is one of those times. And it would be especially nice if that someone were named Derek.
Oh, how his girlfriend would love that.
The thought makes me queasy, so I dismiss it, and squint to examine the wound.
Where the brick got me—the largest of the cuts by my temple—the blood’s crusted. I wipe away the dried, flaky reddish-brown bits. After a few dabs, I have to pull back. Not from pain . . . from surprise. I’d expected the two flaps of separated skin to be, well, separate, but already they’ve joined together. Formed a seam. Only in a few spots, where the slice was deepest, can I see tender, pink flesh underneath.
I’ve always been a fast healer, it’s true. This is really fast, though. Not that I’m complaining . . .
I toss the cloth onto the laundry pile and walk back quietly, careful not to wake Aven, then look around for something to wear. Normally, I’d just sport my red leather suit since the festivities usually get rolling after the race, but that’s at Derek’s. And destroyed.
After a few minutes of scrambling, lifting trunks, and tossing aside pants that haven’t fit my butt for years, I find my outfit for tonight’s soiree. In a lovely pile, accompanied by only a few dust balls. Perfect.
Black tank, check.
Grommet-and-buckle black leather vest, check.
Tan suede leggings, check.
Spare canteen, check, as Dunn now has my other one. I run to the bathroom, turn the spigot, and fill it only halfway. Don’t want to over ration.
Back in the main room, I find my Hessians: check, and check. Last, I throw on my utility belt.
Knowing that I’m going to be cold for the walk, I buckle on both my sleeves. A jacket’s around here . . . somewhere . . . but I’d just take it off when I got to the Tank anyway. Then I’d lose it. Better to be cold for a little while.
One last time, I look to Aven. On her wrist is the cuffcomm I’ve given her, just in case. I reach under the bed for the orange bottle and take out another Dilameth, which I leave on the bedside table with the water.
“Feathers?” I whisper, kneeling closer.
&nb
sp; Her eyes stay shut, but she musters a “hmm” so I know she’s heard me.
“I’m going to the Tank, but I’ll be back soon. You have the comm. Don’t forget?”
She tilts her chin, up then down, an even weaker response than the last.
I stand up, walk to the door. Hope she doesn’t open her eyes just then. Leaving her hurts, physically hurts. In more ways than I can pin. Guilt twists itself in my gut, insists that I’m not doing the right thing . . . going to a party, of all places. Even though I’m going to help us.
But that’s not even the worst of it.
My imaginings, they’re what do me in. Every time I step out the front door, I picture what coming back could look like. Because if my worst memory is of the time I found Aven alone but alive at the sickhouse, I can think of only one thing that’s worse—finding her dead in our home.
Alone.
PART TWO
12
9:45 P.M., SATURDAY
The cracked, Mad Ave solar-powered streetlights shed an eerie, fragmented bluish glow over the boardwalk. I’m trying to pass a family of four on either side, but they’re buying seeds from a vendor, probably for a private roof plot up north, and they’re lollygagging. It’s damn near impossible. Though the Tank isn’t far from here—a straight shot down—tonight is so crazy, it’ll take me twice as long.
As I finally weave through them, my spare cuffcomm buzzes on my wrist. I look down, see a message from Benny:
Towed your Rimbo back to the garage. Looking into the problem, may take a while.
Sure, sure . . . Benny says it’ll take a while, but if I know him, he just doesn’t want me to hound him every ten minutes. He’ll have an answer soon, no doubt.
I keep on through the market, slowing when I spot Zora’s cart. She’s my favorite, a gap-toothed little punk kid with a red afro and so many freckles on her face, you’d never know what color her skin really was. She’s the smartest sneak on the walk. Always offers to check for airdrops from her wealthy West Isle grandma. Then, when her dad goes on break, she’ll call me over—ladle me a bit of bona fide black market Upstate fresh, for Aven. Her grandma gets it by way of the Mainland, and I doubt there are even a hundred people in the Ward who can afford the stuff.
The Ward Page 9
