Outbreak

by Tarah Benner

  The red light is still glowing at the top of my monitor, which means someone in Constance is still watching me. They don’t fuck around when it comes to monitoring their protégés.

  I wonder how long it will take for someone to see this footage and notify Jayden. It’s possible they have other things to worry about, but Harper made it seem as though finding the drifters’ leaders was Jayden’s number one priority.

  I try to talk myself down, but I can feel the clammy sweat breaking out all over my forehead. I need to get a message to Harper and Eli.

  I tap my fingers impatiently on the desk, waiting for the video to come to an end. Owen and his companions have already disappeared into the building.

  What an idiot. I’m sure Eli warned him that he needed to act dead. And what does he do? He wanders right into range of the surveillance cameras.

  Suddenly, I hear a dull beeping coming from just outside my door. Someone is letting himself into my compartment.

  With a lightning-fast stroke of keys, I clear my monitor of every window except the reeducation video.

  Less than a second later, my door flies open.

  I’m on my feet by the time the intruder rounds the corner, and my fists clench automatically when I see Devon’s smug face.

  “Good evening, Celdon,” he says in that falsely bright voice.

  “Devon,” I snarl. “Did knocking go out of style, or do you just want me so bad that you’re letting yourself into my compartment now?”

  The second I blurt it out, I know it was a mistake. Devon’s creepily polite façade wavers, sending a ripple of anger down his smooth, tan face. It happens so quickly I could have missed it, but I know instantly that I fucked up big time.

  “I’m not sure where this hostility is coming from,” says Devon. “We’re on the same team now.”

  “I know . . .”

  “When you agreed to join us, you promised to put the bitter, angry Celdon to rest and focus on becoming a better version of yourself.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, trying and failing to sound sincere.

  Devon sighs and shakes his head. “This is really unfortunate. You’re deep in your reeducation now. We should be getting past this cynicism and negativity.”

  The guy looks so genuinely upset that Constance hasn’t been able to break me of my angry, fucked-up ways that I almost feel bad that I’m not taking this shit seriously . . . almost.

  Then I remember I’m trying to infiltrate a psychotic, eugenics-happy cult. It’s probably a good thing that I’m having a hard time adjusting.

  I’m so busy trying to arrange my expression to look contrite that my brain doesn’t immediately register Devon’s hand reaching into his pants pocket.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, fiddling with something at his side. “We’ll get you up to speed.”

  “Oh, yeah? Good, because —”

  I never finish the sentence. Devon throws out an arm with unexpected speed and aggression and whips me across the face with a long, stiff object.

  White-hot pain flares over my skin, and I double over before I realize what he struck me with. Fighting the painful throbbing sensation spreading from my cheek to my ear, I squint up at the long silver instrument in Devon’s hand.

  “We generally . . . try to avoid the use of force,” he huffs, drawing his arm back again and whipping me across the other cheek.

  A strangled yell escapes my throat, and now my entire face is on fire. I take a deep breath and force myself to stand, glaring up at Devon.

  “It’s all right to be angry with me,” he says. “But this is for your own good.”

  It sounds as though he’s reasoning with himself to justify striking me. What a nut job.

  “I’m your benefactor, and part of that job is holding you accountable.” He meets my gaze with a creepy look of determination in his eyes. “Celdon . . . I’m going to hold you to high standards because I believe in your potential.”

  He breaks into a crazed smile. “It’s time to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Just a little field trip.”

  “But I’m not done with the video.”

  “We’ll make sure it picks up right where you left off,” he says. “Since you’ve . . . fallen behind in your assimilation, we need a physical intervention.”

  Cold dread seeps into my stomach. I’ve been here before, only I wasn’t trying to convince Constance that I wanted to be one of them. I was their prisoner, and they tortured me for days.

  I can’t go back there again. I won’t.

  It isn’t the pain that scares me. I can handle the pain and the insults and the humiliation. But I need to get a message to Harper, and right now Devon is standing between me and the door.

  This is definitely going to delay my “reeducation.” Hell, it’s probably going to earn me a week in their torture room and twenty extra brainwashing videos. But I can’t risk being stuck in the bowels of the compound with no way to get a message to Harper.

  Letting out a wild battle cry, I launch myself across the room at Devon with all the force I can manage. Devon’s a little bigger than me, but I’m taller. And even though he sees it coming, he can’t get out of the way fast enough.

  My hands clamp down on his throat, and the momentum from my leap knocks him backward.

  Unfortunately, I haven’t had much practice choking people with my bare hands.

  I lose my balance, and we both crash into my beautiful glass coffee table. The sharp edges cut into my skin. Blood trickles down my arms and stains my slacks, but the fall isn’t as painful as I would have expected.

  Maybe the adrenaline is numbing the pain of the glass poking into my skin. Or maybe it’s because Devon is receiving the worst of the lacerations as he squirms underneath me.

  Then he lets out a guttural noise and swings out — hard.

  For an overgroomed pretty boy, Devon packs one hell of a punch. I feel his fist crash into my cheek — bone against bone — and the shock and heat travel all the way down my face. I wind up and throw out my fist, feeling the power and a slight twinge of pain shoot up my wrist as I make contact.

  Devon lunges to the side, and shards of glass cascade off his shoulders and back as he tries to buck me off.

  Then I feel a sharp throttle to my gut, and Devon uses the opportunity to grab my neck and head-butt me.

  There’s no cartoonish boink! sound when our skulls collide, but for a moment, the room goes all blurry. There’s a crackle of pinks and yellows in my vision before I fall forward onto my hands and knees.

  Glass is cutting into my palms, but they’re already so slick with blood that it barely registers.

  Devon is no longer sprawled in front of me. All I see is the sparkle of bloody glass and the blur of carpet.

  By the time I hear the crunch behind me, it’s too late. Devon’s arm encircles my neck, and his other fist puts pressure on the back of my head.

  For one horrible moment, I feel my air passages close as he squeezes the life out of me. I smack his arm and jerk around, but Devon doesn’t let go.

  I keep fighting as the darkness closes in, but there’s no air left in my lungs.

  My last thought before passing out is that I really, really should have asked Constance to teach me their kung fu moves before I fought Devon Reid.

  twenty-eight

  Harper

  The next two days are the longest of my life.

  We aren’t allowed any more visitors. When we arrived, the quarantine crew stuck little monitors to our chests, which means the doctors don’t need to come by to take our vital signs. Apart from each other, the only human contact we get is the nurses who serve our meals.

  Health and Rehab confiscated my interface when we were quarantined, so I can’t message Celdon to see if there have been any new developments on the Fringe.

  But the worst part is not knowing if we’re infected. Every little sniffle or cough sets me on edge. The constant boredom makes me tired, but fatigue could also be a sympt
om of the virus.

  When Eli tosses and turns in his sleep, I worry it’s because he’s feverish — not that he would tell me. He hasn’t said more than a dozen words to me since we’ve been locked up together. He won’t even look at me.

  Then there’s Caleb. He’s the only real source of entertainment we have. If I haven’t taken well to confinement, Caleb should be institutionalized.

  Less than two hours after we were locked in the room, he came up with a plan to stay busy and keep from going crazy. He requested an interface for reading, but they just sent up a tablet and cut him off from the compound network, which meant none of us could use it to communicate. I guess the board didn’t want to risk us telling people we may have introduced a deadly virus to the compound. Go figure.

  As soon as we finished breakfast yesterday, Caleb started pacing back and forth. It’s become his habit after every meal.

  Part of me thinks exercise must be on the little prisoner schedule he made for himself — either that or he’s just bored and anxious like the rest of us.

  Sawyer is the only one who seems to be handling this well. She stares at Caleb as he paces back and forth across our small room and drinks lots of fluids. She takes her own temperature every two hours and even coaxed me and Caleb into letting her take ours. Occasionally, she’ll strike up a conversation, but it always circles back to “if we make it out of here.” After a while, we seem to reach an unspoken agreement that silence is better.

  I’m relieved when our dinner arrives. We had just missed dinner when we were locked in here two days ago, which means fifty-three hours have passed without even a whisper of symptoms.

  They send in a nurse in full hazmat gear to deliver our trays, and the smell of overseasoned institutional food fills the room.

  The nurse is a blond woman I vaguely recognize. She’s young, and her eyes dart warily between us as though we might suddenly morph into rabid dogs and maul her until she’s infected, too.

  Eli takes his tray without really looking at her, but the nurse’s eyes follow him all the way back to his bed. I scowl at her when I take my tray, and she quickly averts her gaze.

  Man, I really need to get out of here.

  I try to focus on the food and instantly wish I hadn’t. Even though it comes from the canteen, there’s something different about the meals they send up to the medical ward. The rice is more like mush, and the protein cube is too salty and slightly cold in the middle. The vegetables are soggy, but I savor every bite and draw out the meal as long as I can. At least it passes the time.

  I finish too quickly, and then it’s time for Sawyer’s temperature check and Caleb’s stroll around the room.

  At twenty-two hundred, I crawl into bed and turn out my light. Caleb and Sawyer follow suit, and I know we’re all thinking the same thing: When we wake up, we’ll only have a few hours to wait. Then we’ll know if we’re getting out of here or if we’re going to spend our last days in the medical ward, battling an illness for which there is no cure.

  A few feet away, Eli flicks off his light, but he doesn’t lie down. I can see his silhouette in the shadows: He’s just sitting there, staring into the darkness.

  It’s impossible to tell if he’s worried about the virus, scared for Owen, or just angry at me.

  I’m not tired yet, so I just lie there listening to the others’ breathing. Sawyer’s levels out after about twenty minutes, and when Caleb’s loud, rolling snores fill the room, sleep becomes utterly impossible.

  Eli still hasn’t moved. He’s propped up against the pillows with one arm thrown over his knee.

  I can’t take it anymore. I throw off my covers and roll off my bed. He doesn’t turn to look at me, but he stiffens slightly and watches me approach out of the corner of his eye.

  The four feet between our beds feels like an enormous distance, but I force my feet to shuffle toward him until I’m standing at the edge of the mattress.

  “Hey,” I whisper.

  “What is it, Harper?”

  His tone isn’t harsh, but it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth; it’s almost indifferent.

  “I just wanted to . . . talk to you.”

  “There isn’t much to talk about,” he sighs.

  “I think there is,” I say, fighting to keep the hurt out of my voice.

  “You didn’t talk to me before you jumped on Sawyer’s paranoid bandwagon and got us locked up here, so I’m not sure why you want to talk now.”

  He still won’t look at me, and that aggravates me more than anything.

  “I didn’t have a chance! It’s not like I could just come and find you and risk exposing more people to the virus!”

  “We aren’t infected!” he splutters. “I can’t believe you’d think he’d do that.”

  “I’m sorry, Eli. But it’s the only thing that makes sense!”

  “It doesn’t make sense!” he snaps, whipping his head around.

  Suddenly, I wish he’d go back to not looking at me. In the dim light filtering through the door, I can read the fury in his expression. It’s almost like looking at Owen.

  “My brother wouldn’t try to bring down the compound if it meant killing me in the process. He only gave me the arrowhead to remember him by. He didn’t contaminate it with the virus.”

  “Do you hear yourself? He and the drifters are releasing a virus in the compound . . . and you’re in the compound.”

  “He didn’t want us to come back.”

  “But he didn’t stop you!”

  I instantly wish I hadn’t said anything. Eli is looking at me as though I physically struck him.

  He takes several deep, angry breaths. “What would you have me do, Harper? Turn him over to Jayden?”

  “N-no. But I don’t think you should put your life on the line when you’re stuck in here and he’s not. If he’s not worried about Constance, maybe you should stop lying for him. He doesn’t need you to protect him.”

  “He’s not the only one I was protecting,” he says fiercely.

  Now there’s a heavy guilt competing with my discomfort. “You still shouldn’t have lied. If Jayden finds out —”

  “I told you. I’m handling it.”

  “How?”

  Eli’s jaw tightens, and his gaze becomes so intense — so accusatory — that I have to fight the impulse to look away. “Damn it, Harper! Why can’t you just trust me? Every decision I’ve made has been to protect you. How do you not get that?”

  His words throw me off guard, but he’s right.

  When I finally speak, my voice feels very small. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever.” He shakes his head, and it seems as though the fight’s gone out of him. “Let’s just get some sleep, okay?”

  I nod and then realize he probably can’t see me. I back away from his bed and settle down on mine, fighting the tears that are quivering in my eyes. I know our shouting has woken Caleb and Sawyer, which makes everything ten times worse.

  If I felt bad before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. I let Eli down — there’s no denying it. He finally let himself care about someone, and I destroyed his trust.

  I think back to our night in bed together, embracing skin to skin, and imagine what it would be like to have that all the time.

  I could have had that. Eli was different around me — we were different — but I wrecked it.

  When I close my eyes, a single hot tear leaks out and burns a path down my face.

  The worst part about the whole thing is that I might not have any time to repair the damage. If we are infected, this could be the end: the end of me, the end of Eli, the end of us.

  * * *

  When I wake up the next morning, Caleb has already started his breakfast promenade back and forth across the room. There’s a tray of cold oatmeal sitting at the foot of my bed, which means I must have slept right through the morning nurse’s visit.

  Sawyer is sitting up in bed reading from the tablet, and Eli is nowhere to be found.


  I hear the shower cycle running on repeat in the adjacent room, and dread settles over me as I recall our argument from the night before.

  It suddenly makes sense that Sawyer and Caleb didn’t wake me when breakfast arrived. I can only imagine how awkward it’s going to be with the four of us stuck together for another several hours.

  “Morning,” says Sawyer in a groggy voice.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Sawyer picks up the thermometer from her nightstand and swipes it once over her brow.

  “What’s the verdict, doc?”

  “Ninety-eight point six,” she breathes. “Here, let me do you.”

  She reaches over and swipes the cold metal over my forehead, and we both wait for the thermometer to beep.

  “Well?”

  She lets out a big breath of relief, and a hopeful grin spreads slowly across her face. She meets my eyes, and I know everything’s going to be all right. “Ninety-eight point four.”

  I let out a burst of air I didn’t realize I’d been holding. We still have five hours to go to the seventy-two-hour mark, but it feels as though we just might make it after all.

  “It’s too early to tell for sure, but I think symptoms would have presented overnight if we were infected,” says Sawyer.

  “I guess we’re gonna be all right, then.”

  She nods, but her grin slips slightly. “Is . . . everything else all right?”

  She glances at the bathroom door, and I cringe.

  “You heard all that, huh?”

  “You guys weren’t exactly quiet.”

  Caleb seems to quicken his stride, purposefully averting his gaze every time he paces in front of me.

  “It’s okay, Caleb. I know you heard, too.”

  He stops pacing, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Yeah.”

  “So what’s going on with you two?” Sawyer asks, handing him the thermometer and falling into girl mode.

  “I don’t know. Things were good. But he’s really sensitive about the Owen situation, and he’s upset that I didn’t trust him.”

  “He does seem to have a pretty big blind spot when it comes to Owen.”

  I nod. “It’s tough on him because Owen is the only family he has left. He assumes that just because he has a conscience, Owen must have one, too. But god, they’re so different.”