Better that Dylan think me dead than see the new, old me with cracked skin, deep wrinkles, demented thoughts.
Clanging, like from a bell, tripped my feet. People shouted and the pink disappeared in a crowd that had re-formed near the soup table. I slowed down and repositioned my clothing. It wouldn’t do to get caught now.
People edged the moat, staring across the green water to the stage. A shaved ice cart with pastel-colored lettering appeared. The woman manning it sprayed dark blue syrup on a cone and handed it to a toddler in a blue and white striped shirt, but this ghost-memory was easy to ignore. I pushed my way through people with thick coats that smelled of musty cloth, unwashed bodies covered in filth, incoherent rumblings of distress and anger and fear. I burst out the front of the crowd and almost fell in the moat.
I squinted to better see. My stomach sunk.
The old woman had escaped the hay nest.
She stumbled, trance-like, across Stage 1, arms out as if she was going to hug someone. Dylan stood in front of her. There was no doubt in my mind now that it was Dylan between her and the guns pointed now at his chest.
“Move away,” one of the soldiers said, his voice echoing across the water.
Dylan held his hands up, palm-faced and open, and shook his head. Another soldier came running. He held a different kind of gun in his hands. He charged Dylan and tackled him to the ground.
The first soldier raised his gun. A sharp crack snapped across the moat.
I looked away and then forced myself to look back, to be a witness. The old woman had fallen to the floor in a heap, but there was no blood.
A few cheers sounded behind me. Another person screamed “That’s right! That’s right! That’s right!”
A man next to me hunched his shoulders and shook his head as if in disapproval.
The stage filled with people in uniform. They dragged both Dylan and the old woman away. They used a dog-catcher stick on the woman so they wouldn't have to touch her. They handled Dylan roughly, slapping him around the head, kicking his shins when he didn’t move fast enough. I felt the acidic remnants of the chicken soup return to burn the back of my throat.
“What are they doing?” I dared to ask the man with the grim lips. I tried to swallow away the acid and my fear for Dylan’s safety.
“You don’t help the sick. He’ll get a hearing and she’ll go to the experiments. Those are Sergeant Bennings’ rules. Don’t you know that?”
I felt his eyes rake my face. I pretended to shiver and closed my hood closer. “I got here last night,” I said. “I forgot.”
“After they’re done with him, you won’t want to remember. But you will.”
I melted into the crowd, skirted the soup table, failed to see Jane, and then there she stood, off to one side of the moat, arguing with a guard. She tossed her blonde hair back over her shoulder, fiddled with the scarf she’d repositioned on her head and let tears stream down her face.
The soldier shrugged. He seemed young, grim, annoyed. “Probably to…” I couldn’t make out his last words and then he walked away.
Jane looked across the moat, at where the guards had disappeared with Dylan. I crept up behind her, and when I was within a few feet, I whispered, “Jane.” Her back stiffened. She dropped her hands from the scarf down to her sides.
“Jane, where are they taking him? Tell me, and I’ll help any way I can.”
“He thinks you’re dead,” she said, without turning around. A slight shift in the breeze brought the smell of algae to me. Two men dressed as lumberjacks did the log roll on a large rough redwood trunk in the moat. I ignored the illusion of their plaid-covered contest and waited for Jane to realize keeping Dylan alive was more important than keeping her lie alive.
“There are holding cells in Building B for problems. For their experiments.”
“I thought they killed anyone sick.”
“We’re not animals, you know. She was only tranquilized.”
“No, I don’t know that. They were killing people at the gates for looking old.”
She shook her head. “No, that’s not how we do things. He said he always checks first, just in case.”
“You believe that?”
“They tranquilized that woman, didn’t you see? They didn’t kill her.”
What I had seen was Dylan stepping in to hold back bullets until the tranquilizer gun arrived, but I bit back my words. There was no point in trying to reason with Jane. Plus, one of the men had fallen off the log and splashed into the moat, causing the winner to do a quick tap dance to stay afloat.
“We’ve got a better chance of helping him if we work together,” I said, even though I thought maybe my help might get me killed. But I couldn’t leave. I accepted that now. I cared too much, even if the same wasn’t true for him.
“All right,” Jane said.
The men and their log disappeared, leaving only the empty stage someone had forgotten to draw the curtains on. I suddenly wanted water, anything to wash away the taste of the chicken soup that burned my throat.
However large a part of me hated her now, at least I knew she cared about Dylan. And maybe they belonged together. Neither sick, neither—I shook my head and told myself to stop. My plan hadn’t changed, only taken a detour. I could feel despair later, but I would never live with myself if I didn’t help Dylan now, no matter what he thought of me or of Jane. I wasn’t that kind of person.
“People who break the rules always get a hearing, but—”
“But what?” I examined the skin on the back of my hands. I was disease-ridden, Jane-betrayed, falling apart physically and mentally. It didn’t matter whether Dylan had meant it when he said he loved me and wanted to work things out. That was before this new world. That was in the past now. Before I became old and decrepit and ugly and infected.
“Then they’re executed,” Jane said. “Sergeant Bennings says it's the only way to make sure people follow the rules. He says it's the only way we can last long enough to find a cure.”
Chapter 20
Jane and I followed the group dragging Dylan and the old woman along. The few guards and refugees nodded at Jane as we passed. Working the soup table must have made her well known.
By now the diffused light of winter had faded, signaling late afternoon. The fog rolled in more thickly, further blocking out the faint December sunlight. This was in my favor. I focused on working through the pain in my shoulder.
An empty chip bag floated across our path, its shiny orange color in contrast to the dull gray sky and faded blue buildings. Sometimes my mind wandered with ghost-memories and I caught myself limping. At least the exercise helped push them back.
Dylan and the soldiers crossed to the backside of Building B, a place once used for vendor exhibits. Even from this distance I could see they had modified the concrete space into a series of human cages.
There were more guards here and we stopped before getting close enough for them to question us. I didn’t have any sort of military background, but even I could see the ‘prison’ wasn’t well protected. In fact, everything about my entrance and movement around the Cal Expo fairgrounds spoke of deep security problems.
The men took Dylan and the old woman. The windowed walls showed them disappearing into an aisle of cages.
We hid behind the wall of another building, out of sight of the guards and anyone who might decide to walk the route we’d just taken.
“Why are there so few guards?”
“This is where they keep the infected,” Jane said. “The crazy, violent ones are held somewhere sturdier, but the quiet ones, like the old woman, they don’t climb or fight, so this is easier.”
“What do you do with them?”
“We…I don’t do anything,” Jane said. “They’re trying to find a cure or vaccine or anything that might help us figure out how to stay human.”
“What do you mean, stay human?”
“The infection changes DNA. That’s what they said at least. It swaps ou
t a bunch of our DNA with something else, making us less human.”
“That woman looks human enough to my eyes.”
“The ones that attacked our street, they’re more like rabid dogs that need to be put down. They say the same thing happens with the quiet ones, but they go quiet instead of violent.”
“They’re lying,” I said quietly.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She looked at me over her shoulder. Red rimmed her eyes, but not a speck of dirt marred her face. “How could you possibly know?”
“I just do.”
Jane turned back around. “Excuse me for taking their word over yours.”
I told myself to shut up. The infection had changed me. It had changed the old woman too, but to my eyes she still looked human, just sick. And I definitely believed I was still human. I thought Spencer had a better sense of what the disease did to people than these scientists.
Two men in uniform ran up to the guard at the doors, yelling about an assault at the gate and Vs getting inside. All three dashed inside. A third uniformed person limped up. He held his rifle low and loose at his side. His shoulders slumped and he was missing his left boot. A half dozen people in fatigues streamed out from the building. One of them spoke into a radio. It squawked back. The group ran back the way the first three had come. The remaining bloodied soldier slumped to the ground, using his rifle as a supporting cane. He stared at his bare foot.
“It’s Stan,” Jane hissed.
The guilt I felt over leaving him punched me in the gut. A part of me felt glad to see my old neighbor alive. A part of me knew he probably wouldn't feel the same way about seeing me now. I wasn't much better than Jane, abandoning someone when they needed you most. “Does he know you’re here?” I asked.
“Yeah. He’s part of the guard at the front gate now.”
I flinched at that information. He was one of the ones shooting and killing people infected with the cure like me.
“He makes sure he’s always in my food line, brings me news.”
Shoots you like you would a dog too old to walk, I was tempted to add. “Talk to him then. Distract him, anything. I’ll go inside and find Dylan.”
She paused, bit her lip. She looked ready to disagree, but then nodded. “Dylan’s going to be shocked to see you.”
“I can’t do anything about you lying to him,” I said.
She winced. “I deserved that,” she said, and without waiting for a response, she walked confidently forward. As soon as Stan heard her steps he jerked his head and swung his rifle point at her, but she didn’t pause, only raised her hands to show they were empty. “Stan, it’s Jane.”
He slumped his shoulders and pointed his rifle down.
Jane stopped within a few steps of him. They talked too quietly for me to hear their conversation. After another minute, she helped Stan up and supported his weight. I didn’t know what she said or how she managed it, but Stan didn’t resist, just let her lead him away.
I got to the doors and no one yelled out or shot at me. In their rush the guards had not yet turned on the interior lights of the building. Only dim natural light filtered in. Even though I couldn't see what all filled the space, I could smell it. Unwashed bodies, the peculiar scent of sweat, fog, mud. Precise rectangular rows of cages created aisles to walk down. Each cage near me included a dark shadow, a person. They had filled this building with human prisoners.
I walked the first aisle, the shuffle of my shoes against the linoleum floor a calming swish. I heard shallow, stuttered breathing, turned to find its source. A Faint pressed himself against the bars on my right. I knew he must be a Faint. In the dim light, his skin was clear of markings, his eyes were lost in a coma, he didn't seem dangerous. Even though there were bars, they were probably unnecessary. The disease wrapped his mind in a prison thicker than the metal.
He wore a brown suede coat that had seen better days and a red plaid cap with ear flaps. He stared unseeing at something behind me. I looked over my shoulder. Nothing there. Nothing except for the old woman in another cage, the same woman I had tried to keep warm with the hot water and hay so many hours ago in the barn building.
A memory-rush took hold. The building, the man, the woman, the bars. They all disappeared. I relived the hot water bath, the pleasure at being warm and clean.
When it was over and my mind cleared, the building still felt unguarded, but if anyone had come upon us three just then— the man, the woman, and me—they wouldn’t have found any difference. They could have taken me into a cage without a fight and left me to my coma of memories.
I had one advantage over these two. I could walk away from the memories. They did not hold me in a permanent state.
Though I could not feel grateful for what Christopher did to me and Maibe, I did admit at that moment that he had provided me with an advantage to live in this new world. Without the double infection, I could turn into a V or a Faint. Getting the hybrid virus was a poor vaccine I wouldn’t wish on anyone, yet—
A voice startled my thoughts. I cocked my head, trying to better listen.
It wasn’t a whisper or a conversation. It was—
Singing.
I drifted in the sound’s direction. Took a few false turns before the singing became unmistakable.
“Corrina, Corrina…”
The words floated along the linoleum floors, past the sick people making no noise, past the animal corral bars turned into human cages.
The words hit me like a knife in the stomach.
I went after those words like I was starving and had found a trail of breadcrumbs.
Chapter 21
The breadcrumbs stopped at a cage with bars taller than the others. This cage had a roof. This cage was meant to hold people with minds intact enough to climb out.
And there was a man. It seemed as if a spotlight shined on him. It highlighted his layers. The scarf and jacket and shirt, all some mottled brown. His dust-covered jeans. His brown hair was messed up, tousled, and I almost couldn’t resist reaching out to smooth it all down, to touch him again.
He sat, back against the bars, profile to me, his hand resting casually on the metal. Singing.
“Dylan.”
His singing cut off. He tensed his arm and closed his fist around the metal. He tilted his head.
I held my breath. Of course I wanted to scream and shout and run to him.
Yet.
I was sick. The spotlight showed beyond a doubt that his skin was unlined, untouched, his face only rough with beard not sickness.
I was—
“Who’s there?”
I thought about running. The light made it easy for me to see him and impossible for him. Maybe it would be best to keep things that way.
“Is someone there?”
I stepped forward, to the edge of the light. “Dylan.”
“Corrina?” In a flash he stood up and pressed himself into the bars. “Corrina? Is it really you?”
“It’s really me.” Before I could think about what I was doing, I rushed into his outstretched arms and buried myself into the metal bars, into his clothes, his heat, his familiar smell, like how he'd smell after a long day of work in the yard.
His hands explored my back, my shoulders, my head. His fingers ran through my hair, like he was afraid I was an illusion.
“Jane said—”
I froze. All the pleasure I felt at being together again died. I shouldn’t have let myself touch him. I shouldn’t have given in. My face pressed into his shirt between two bars, my breath hot and humid, my nose full of cotton and Dylan’s earthy smell. Water filled my eyes. He was the most beautiful being I had ever known, and he was no longer mine.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said. “I thought—” He tightened his embrace and my shoulder burned where the fresh scab must have split open under my shirt.
I remembered who I was now. I tried to back up but his arms felt as if they were made of steel. Finally, I said, “Dylan, we need
to get out of here.”
He released one arm, but kept his other hand against my neck. “The key, it’s hanging on the rack.”
I stepped back from his heat, away from the light. I saw the rack about fifty feet away. Next to it hung someone’s scarf, left behind in the rush of whatever had sent them running after Stan’s message.
I returned with the key. The metal clanked but the bars did not release. Dylan rattled the bars in impatience.
Finally, the lock clicked.
I retreated into darkness and choked back my longing and despair as he swung the gate out. I knew I had only a few more moments before he discovered the truth. If I could just pretend for another minute that we were really together again and everything was going to be okay now—
He rushed to me and framed my face with hands the texture of fine sandpaper, his blue eyes large and glowing, his three week old beard long and dark. He tilted my chin for a kiss, into the light—
“No!” I said.
But it was too late. The joy on Dylan’s face froze, half-formed.
He dropped his hands.
He backed up one step.
I flinched.
“How is it possible? You’re walking and talking. It’s not possible.”
I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to witness the moment when the joy on his face vanished altogether. “It is, if you’re infected with the Lyssa virus and the bacterial infection that keeps it in check.”
“Oh God.”
Anger seeped into my next words—better anger than hurt. “You can feel repulsed by me later, after we get out of here.”
“Corrina, that’s not—”
There was a rush of slapping shoes, a rush of loud male voices, a rush of fear.
Jane ran into view at a dead sprint. She saw us, tried to stop, slipped on the concrete floor, and crashed into me. We tumbled to the ground in the center of the spotlight. My head cracked against the floor hard enough for stars to burst across my vision.
Jane gasped above me. “Oh my God. Oh my God. You’re infected. You’re, you’re…”
Feast of Weeds (Books 1--4) Page 23
