Mid-day sunlight spills inside, and he holds out his hand. I take it without hesitation. I want to be outside more than I want almost anything else right now.
“Up you go,” he says, helping me out.
A tepid breeze caresses my face, and it's the best thing I've felt in months. Squinting against the sun, I shield my eyes, waiting for them to adjust. It's brighter than I thought it would be, but I quickly realize that's due to the beams of light bouncing off the metallic shell of a helicopter parked on the roof.
I've never ridden in a helicopter, or even an airplane before, and the thought of flying through the sky with strangers at the helm has my stomach cramping with nerves. But I follow my chaperones, grab hold of the open door, and pull myself inside.
Inside, it smells of fresh air tinged with bleach. I don't know why, nor do I let my mind mull that over for too long. I take a seat and wait for everyone to situate themselves.
Wilder takes the seat beside me, and for once in my life, I wonder if it's safer to speak or to keep my mouth shut. He's the closest thing to royalty I've ever been around, so I decide not to make any more jokes. I'll err on the side of caution and keep to myself.
The whir of the blades is deafening once they get going, and when we lift off I fight to keep the contents of my stomach where they belong. Although that's not hard, considering I haven't eaten breakfast.
I peer out the dirty window and see the school grow small below us. After a few minutes, it's disappearing along with the rest of the deserted town.
When the thought of what I'm leaving behind is too much to bear, I open the small bag I'm still clutching and spill the contents into my lap.
Immediately, my throat constricts and my eyes begin to burn. I should have waited until I was alone. Swallowing hard and breathing through my nose, I stave off tears that oh-so-badly want to escape.
In one hand, I pick up the small picture I know my father always keeps in his wallet. It's of the three of us, dressed to the nines, at a hospital charity dinner.
We often attended events like that one, but that night was different. It was the night I'd been so proud of my father and all his accomplishments that when he returned to our table after delivering the invocation, I told him that I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. I wanted to save lives.
He was my idol, after all, but that was the very first time his eyes had glistened with tears of pride when I told him just how inspiring he was to me.
I bite the inside of my cheek remembering that night and turn the picture over on my leg so I can't see their smiling faces.
The second item is my mother's.
I brush my fingers against its smooth, cool surface, acknowledging just how important it is and how crazy it is that it's now mine.
The silver chain always contrasted beautifully against mother's olive complexion, and the ever-polished pendant never failed to catch the light and blind me when we were outside. It's just a small oval, but the image lasered into the metal is Saint Monica, the patron saint of married women.
My family isn't Catholic, not by a long stretch, but my mother had always considered this necklace one of her most sacred possessions. Perhaps because my father presented it to her on the night of their wedding. Or perhaps because he removed it from her neck the night she went into labor with me, only to return it a few days later, this time with an inscription on the back.
'In your arms, I find my everything.'
That never did make much sense to me, but I can't deny that the phrase warms my heart every time I read it. Even now, surging through the sky, not knowing where I'm going or what life has in store for me, or if I'll even live to find out, it still feels like a hug.
I slide the chain over my head and smooth the pendant against the front of my T-shirt where it rests between my breasts. The photograph goes in my back pocket, and I vow to find a safe place for it as soon as possible.
With my mind still on my parents and everything I'm leaving behind, I let my head fall back against the stern cushion and close my eyes. Even though it's not a wise thing to do, I focus all my energy on their faces, their voices, their smiles; remembering all the moments of fear throughout the past year, but also, all the good times as well.
The times that brought us closer together as a family, even when it didn't seem possible for us to be more loyal to one another. Through all the deaths we witnessed, the friends we lost, the hardships we endured... we persevered.
We made it through.
And now-
My thoughts cut off at the feel of a sharp pinch on my shoulder and I turn with a yelp.
Vice-President Wilder, the man in charge, the person that holds my very life in his hands... removes a syringe from my arm.
“Hey! What did you–”
CHAPTER FOUR
The stars above us twinkle silently, turning the night sky into a canvas no mortal man could ever duplicate. Even though the air holds a chill and dew begins to seep through our quilt, I don't care. I have Jared's body heat cradling me, crickets and frogs serenading the two of us, and two full weeks of a spring break filled with nights such as these to look forward to. I have everything. Everything a sixteen-year-old girl could ever ask for.
“What's that one called again?” Jared asks, pointing out the Great Bear.
“Ursa Major. And those seven bright stars there, those make up the Big Dipper.” I use our joined hands to point out the constellation. “Then up there is Ursa Minor, and that brightest star right at the tail? That's Polaris.”
“Polaris,” he repeats with a whisper. “Hmm.”
“What?” I smile up at him. “What are you thinking about?”
The arm wrapped around my shoulders tightens and I close my eyes, enjoying the careful way he holds me, like I'm something precious.
“I'm thinking that... I love you.”
Surprised delight shoots through my chest, jerking my body with its force. Did he... did he really just say those words? All the right words?
Looking up, I lock my eyes with his and search for sincerity. I don't have to search long.
Now that his guard is lowered, I see it. I see his love for me. It's as bright as the Northern Star, as fierce as all the winds given to Odysseus, and as beautiful as the Aurora Borealis from the slopes of Fairbanks. It's the kind of love only someone young can possess and reciprocate without fear. A love born from recklessness and naivety. A love cushioned and protected by the strife and disappointment that slowly strips away your passion as you perilously make your way through life.
With his confession, I let go of the searing truth that has been eating away at my chest for the past few weeks. The truth that, after feeling the gravity of his words, I'm not afraid to put out into the world. Not anymore.
“I think I might love you too.”
An illustrious smile curves along the handsome lines of his face, and he turns me in his arms until we're nose to nose.
“You think so?” he asks, his voice so soft I can only hear the words in the puffs of air that hit my lips.
“No.” I bring my hands up to cup the sides of his face. “No, I know I do.”
I close my eyes, but when I expect the world to disappear into darkness, it doesn't. Each star above us twinkles brighter and brighter until every sun begins blending into the next, creating light, creating panic, creating desperation to hold onto the moment just a little longer.
Just one more second. Just one more...
“Wake up, Winters!”
I jerk upright so fast my spine screams out in pain. Every muscle in my body aches and my vision blurs and wobbles. A hand on my shoulder grips me hard, keeping me from sliding off into the floor.
When my awareness perks up, I shrug off the offending hand and sit up by myself, shaking off a haze that can only be drug-induced. It's not hard for me to remember what happened.
The helicopter. The Vice-President. The syringe.
My lips curl in disgust.
They fooled me, too
k me, drugged me, and now I'm in a room, in a metal chair, staring out at a circle filled with other teenagers just like me. All dazed, all curious, and all mad as hell.
Although rage flows from our pores, permeating the air around us with riotous energy, not a single person speaks. No one moves. We all sit, glancing between one another like caged animals seeking answers from other inhabitants of a cold, drafty prison.
Guards stand at attention behind us, but they give nothing away. When a metal door creaks open, we all jerk with surprise and anticipation. Whoever's coming in will have answers. We won't be left in the dark for long.
After a string of guards, in steps a man. He's less recognizable than my previous travel partner and drug administrator, but all the more regal and demanding of respect.
Every head in the room whips around to watch as he makes his way to the center of our little pow-wow and he comes to a stop, eyeing each of us with a cold indifference that sends a fission of fear leaping through my already tight chest.
“Who's the douche in the suit?” calls a voice from across the room.
The question is quickly followed by the sound of a boot hitting the leg of a chair, and I look to my right to see two boys exchanging combative glares.
“The hell's your problem?” the blond boy asks, pulling his teeth back in a snarl.
The wiser of the two keeps his voice low and even.
“Mind your manners.”
“Excuse me?” The blond laughs. “What did you just say to me?”
“You can't talk to him that way.”
Blondie laughs again. The stupid, stupid boy.
“And why the hell not? He's just an old fart in a suit.”
“No, he's not,” says the boy with close-cropped hair and bright eyes.
He lifts his chin and locks eyes with the man, fully acknowledging his appraisal of the situation before voicing the words that are whipping through my brain on a loop.
“He's the Secretary of Defense.”
Multiple pairs of eyes lift in confusion, taking in the man who hasn't yet said a word. I expect him to speak, to address us as a whole, but he doesn't. Instead, his attention turns to a girl, one of the youngest in the room by the looks of her, and points to her raised hand.
Her fingers shake as she lowers her arm and clasps both hands together in her lap.
“Excuse me, sir?” Her voice quivers just as badly as the rest of her. “Are- are we safe here?”
From my position at his side, I watch him smile, and all at once he doesn't look quite so threatening. But I remain alert. Just because you put googly eyes and lipstick on a cobra doesn't make it any less capable of delivering death.
“This is the safest place in the country right now–” he looks down at a clipboard in his hands, “–Tara. There's no need to fear for your safety as long as you're here.”
The young man with close-cropped hair leans forward, watching the man. My eyes are drawn to his face and down to the scar running along his jaw. From the puff of his chest and the way his shoulders roll, I know he's summoning the courage to speak.
“Why are we here?” His voice rings out deep and firm, and the man turns to face our slice of the circle.
Instead of offering up a verbal answer, the Secretary merely raises his hand and flicks three fingers forward, signaling one of the guards, the same beefy guard that took me from my home. He approaches the door, his back ramrod straight, and opens it all the way. Then he steps aside to let someone through.
The man entering the drafty room needs no introduction. We all know him. We've seen his face enough to know him by name, to know his origins, to know his duties and, most of all, to understand that he demands the highest level of respect we're capable of delivering.
The Secretary leans down and whispers to the rude boy.
“That's why.”
I clamp my hands together as my eyes dart nervously around the room. I'm not sure where I'm supposed to look, and as footsteps approach us, my heart threatens to bust the vein running up the side of my neck.
He's here. He's right here. Right in front of me.
“I appreciate you all coming quietly,” he says, the unmistakable boom of authority carrying his voice through the room. “I realize this is scary, but I also know it's necessary. So thank you for your cooperation.”
When the last echo of his voice dies away, he looks back to the scarred boy a few chairs down and smiles.
The boy squirms in his seat, but the movement is almost microscopic. Beneath the scar, his jaw tenses, and I watch an internal struggle wage on his features as he prepares to speak for the whole lot of us.
“You're welcome, Mr. President.”
President Decker moves his eyes around the circle, taking us all in.
Commander-in-Chief and Nameless Teens.
Authority Figure and Authority Questioners.
Adult and Children.
When the door opens once again, I break my eyes away from his face to find an elderly woman pushing in a cart covered in what looks like food. At least, I hope that's what is it. Not that I should be thinking about food in such dire times, but I'm running on E, in fear of collapsing.
“You eat, I'll talk,” President Decker says. “If you have questions, wait to ask them. Think of this as a briefing of sorts.”
When the cart comes around, I grabbed a wrapped sandwich and open it as fast as my fingers can manage. It looks to be more bread than anything else, but I don't care. I take a huge bite, savoring the salami and rich mayonnaise, and lean back in my seat, happy to at least have something to fill my belly.
Decker can prattle on forever if he wants, just as long as I get to finish this sandwich.
“This virus,” he starts, taking caution with every word he puts out into the room, “is spreading. Not just from person to person, town to town, or state to state. Now, it's leaving our shores, hopping our borders.”
That sounds dreadful. A little more dreadful than the fact that I don't have water to wash down the lump of bread sticking to the roof of my mouth.
“I've prohibited sea travel, but they're still finding ways into Europe and Asia.” He turns to look at the few people who aren't engrossed in their sandwiches, but that only constitutes a few. It looks like some of these kids haven't eaten in days. “This is no longer America's problem. It's everyone's problem.”
I didn't figure it would take long for other countries to have their own outbreaks, but it's surprising to know it's our own citizens that pose the threat.
“But we may have a vaccine to fight it.” He smiles, and I can see just how much faith he has in his words. “It hasn't been tested thoroughly enough for distribution, but that's where you all come in.”
The hunk of sandwich sliding down my esophagus suddenly feels like a stone. A stone filled with lava and coated with screws.
There's the catch. The downside. The hidden agenda.
“Come again, sir?” a voice squeaks from somewhere in the circle.
Decker turns and clasps his hands together in front of his chest.
“It's not as scary as it sounds, I assure you.” His voice is nothing but placating. “Consider this phase one: the easy part. Phase two is a little more... rigorous.”
The scarred boy beside me speaks up again.
“Meaning?”
When I look his way, I find he isn't eating. His sandwich remains untouched, still in its wrappings, sitting on his lap.
“Meaning that you'll be given a shot to create an immunity in your blood. After that, you'll train in short bursts. Now, we're not looking for Navy Seals here. Just a basic understanding of combat and defensive maneuvers.”
The boy risks a second question. “Why?”
“So you can serve as protection detail.”
I don't know why the president chooses to answer his inquiry, but he does so without ire.
“Protection for who?” Scarred Boy presses.
The answer doesn't come from the man in the center of the
circle, but rather Secretary Arthur March, who stands just inside the door, looking pissed enough for all the adults in the room.
“The President of the United States, son. That's who you'll be protecting.”
Tara, the girl who can barely speak thanks to her shaking limbs, raises her hand again, ignoring the President's request to hold questions.
“Wha– what about the Secret Service?”
The blond across the way laughs, shaking his head at her ignorance.
“They're too valuable to experiment on,” he sneers. “I'm guessing we're Plan B.”
With that assumption out in the open, we all look to Decker for answers, for guidance, or to see if he'll deny it.
He doesn't
The boy's deep voice rings out again, this time far less arrogant, with more than a touch of fear coating his words.
“We're the lab rats, aren't we?”
“No,” Decker whispers, almost too low to hear. “If this works, if we can do what we think we can... you'll be this country's best chance at survival.”
Us?
A handful of scared, homeless, hormonal adolescents?
My mouth takes off without me.
“We are so screwed.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The shuffling of our footsteps echo through the windowless hallway as we follow the guards. We'll be training, sleeping, eating– living in this part of the base for as long as we're part of the program.
Curious eyes wander as we try to get our bearings, but there's nothing to see. No signs, no colors, no passing faces. Just us, walls of concrete, bare light bulbs, and the occasional metal door.
The girl in front of me keeps her shoulders curled in, her head low. But the boy behind me is apparently in a hurry to get wherever we're going, because every time we turn a corner he kicks my heel with the toe of his boot and I have to suppress the urge to swing my fist back into his groin.
I have to remind myself to keep my composure. Making enemies isn't something I need to do, especially not on my first day.
Our group comes to a stop at the end of the hall where a guard punches in a four-digit code next to a door. It makes a clunking hiss before cracking open.
The Blood Pawn Page 4
