by Kyla Stone
“What do you think you’re doing?” the nurse asked in shock.
“Stopping her seizure,” Elise snapped.
“You can’t stop a tonic-clonic seizure!”
“This can.” Elise placed the used injector into a medical waste disposal container and dropped it into the biohazard bin next to the sink. “If we caught it fast enough.”
Micah stared at Amelia’s taut body in horror. She looked stretched, her tendons standing out, her muscles straining. “What can I do?”
“We wait.” Elise gripped his arm.
After a dozen agonizing seconds, Amelia gasped, writhed for a moment, then collapsed, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Elise placed her on her side, tilted her chin up, and checked her airway. “She’s unconscious but breathing.”
Micah pressed his fingers to her wrist to be sure. Her pulse thudded weak but present. Her skin burned hotter than he thought possible in a human being.
The nurse stared at Elise suspiciously. “How did you do that? What did you give her?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Elise said, exhausted. “That was the last one.”
“Won’t she need more?” Micah asked.
Elise wiped the faint streaks of blood smearing the corners of Amelia’s eyes. She gazed at him with a wearied, haunted expression. “Only if she lives.”
29
Willow
Willow caught a glimpse of movement at the tree line, a flash of red. She scrubbed her face with the back of her arm and looked again.
Silas stepped over the trip wire and slipped away between the trees. It wasn’t the first time he disappeared for no reason. Where the heck was he going? What was he up to?
They trained that morning and afternoon, but Silas was unfocused and cruel. The second time he’d nailed her in the ribs with a ‘practice’ kick hard enough to knock her breath from her lungs, Jericho stepped in and rebuked him.
Silas only curled his lip. “Why would I waste my time with a gutter rat, anyway?” And he’d stalked off.
For once, she didn’t blame him. He was angry and hurting. This awful waiting around for someone to die put everyone on edge.
She headed toward the trees before she could think about what she was doing. As she passed the last greenhouse, she grabbed one of the spiked baseball bats the Sweet Creek people used to fend off infected wildlife. She might need it in the woods.
She followed him at a distance, keeping his red shirt in her sights as she stepped over tree roots and eased past unwieldy branches as thorns tugged at her pantlegs. The leaf canopy towering far above her wore fiery shades of yellow, burnt orange, and crimson. The shadows were thick and dense, the air cool on her cheeks. She pressed the nodule sewn into her sleeve, adjusting the settings of her auto-warm sweater.
Fifteen minutes later, he disappeared. She turned, searching the forest, the bat gripped in her sweaty hands. She listened to the sounds of birdsong and the soft creak of branches rubbing against each other in the breeze.
A twig snapped behind her. She spun, bat up, heart pounding. She half-expected to see a panther or some other exotic creature, or even the huge black wolf that saved her at the warehouse.
A deer stood ten yards away, sniffing the air, large ears swiveled toward her. It stared at her for a moment before bounding away through the trees.
Willow sighed.
She heard another sound, a series of dull thuds and cracks. She kept the bat up and crept toward the noise. She stumbled into a small clearing with a log cabin in the center. The noises were coming from inside—banging sounds, followed by muffled curses.
She circled the cabin until she reached the front, then crept hesitantly through the front door, which hung open on its hinges. Dust swirled in the light streaming through scummy windows, a fine layer silting the small kitchen’s counter, the table, the sofa and the wooden coffee table.
No one had been here in a long time.
Something slammed against the other side of the living room wall. An old-fashioned painting of a bear in a mountain stream fell to the floor with a dull thud.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If it wasn’t Silas in there, she was in trouble. But she was committed now. Willow took a breath and entered the dark hallway. She leaned around the doorway of the first bedroom and peeked inside.
She glimpsed a bed with a patterned quilt shoved into a corner, a dusty dresser, and a faded blue rug. Silas faced the wall, repeatedly punching and kicking it with his bare, ungloved fists. The drywall was cracked in several places, white chunks crumbling to the hardwood floor at his feet.
His mask was yanked down around his neck, his expression fierce. He slammed his fist against one of the cracked spots with a growled curse. The drywall splintered. Blood streaked his knuckles and splattered the dull yellow wall.
“Silas!” She stared at him, stunned.
He leapt back, stumbling against the dresser as he ducked into a crouch, fists up, ready to fight. When he saw her, his mouth contorted, emotions crossing his face so rapidly she couldn’t read any of them. He stood up and wiped his fists against his thighs.
“What the hell?” he snarled, a raw edge in his voice. “What are you doing here?”
She lowered the bat to rest against her leg. “I could ask the same of you.”
“You stalking me? Is that it?”
She wanted to sneer back at him, but something about the situation, the glassy sheen of his eyes, the way his upper lip imperceptibly trembled, gave her pause. She stared at him for a long moment. “No.”
He glowered back at her. “No one said you could follow me. You’re trespassing.”
She raised her brows. “Oh, do you own this cabin?”
“Go away.”
She shrugged. “I don’t feel like it. Why are you out here bashing walls?”
“Don’t you ever get the hint? I don’t want you here.” He turned away, his mouth twisting— but not in contempt or derision. His eyes went glassy.
He was an asshole, but he was also a human with real feelings, no matter how he tried to mask them with sarcasm and cruelty. He might despise everyone else, but he loved his sister. Willow knew better than anyone how grief manifested itself in strange ways. Rage tangled so easily with sorrow.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay to be sad about Amelia.”
He whirled on her, teeth gritted. “Shut up! You don’t know anything!” He shoved past her, knocking her against the door frame, and strode down the hall to the living room.
Willow followed him. He didn’t want easy platitudes any more than she did. She thought of Zia, who she’d lost, who she’d failed to protect. She felt that impotent rage, that familiar wave of grief and shame she’d fought for seven eternal weeks.
She swung the bat as hard as she could. It struck the living room wall with a resounding crack. Drywall spidered, crumbled chunks dropping to the floor.
Silas spun and stared at her.
She held out the bat, handle first. “More satisfying, less painful.”
His mouth twisted like he was about to spit out some biting, asinine comment. But he didn’t. He reached out and took the bat. He turned to the wall and stared at the hole she made.
Silas swung, gouging his own hole.
“Again,” Willow said.
He swung again and then again, slamming the bat against the wall, the spiked nails biting out deep chunks of drywall. A fine white dusk clung to the damp sheen of his arms and face.
He handed the bat back to her. Together, they destroyed the entire wall until it was nothing but jagged holes, exposed framing, and a tangle of wires. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
With every satisfying crack, with every crater she created, with every reverberation from the impact trembling up her arms, with every bead of sweat that dripped into her eyes and every shriek torn from her throat, she felt the pain like a throbbing wound, opening wider and wider.
Memories assaulted her—Zia grabbing her hand, g
rinning mischievously.
Whack. Zia’s snorting, shoulder-shaking donkey laugh.
Smash. Zia dancing and singing dorky karaoke songs at the top of her lungs.
Bang. Zia’s crumpled face as Willow shouted, “I don’t want you around!”
Crack. Zia staring, unseeing, her eyes blank and lifeless as a doll’s.
And then her mother’s voice, always haunting her. They’re your responsibility. Take care of them.
She hadn’t. Willow stumbled back, gasping, her eyes burning.
Silas seized the bat and took a vicious swing that tore out a three-foot chunk of drywall. His knuckles were still bleeding, the bat handle flecked with red. “If she dies—” He made a sound in the back of his throat, like the tortured whimper of an animal caught in a trap.
Willow stared at him. She saw her own grief and guilt drowning in his eyes. If she were Micah, she’d say something brave and pithy. If she were Finn, she’d make a joke to lighten things up. If she were Nadira or Benjie, she’d enfold him in a comforting hug. Even Amelia, coolly aloof, was still sensitive in her own way.
But she wasn’t them. And she didn’t know what to do. She had her own guilt, her own pain. She didn’t know any way to survive it other than to claw her way through, one desperate handful at a time. Her nerves felt raw, exposed. She said the only thing she could think of. “I know.”
He nodded.
That was enough.
They stood there in the center of the log cabin, filthy and drenched in sweat. She didn’t know what it meant. She doubted this made them friends. She was pretty sure she still hated him. But as they made their way into the fading sunlight and headed back through the trees, they walked side by side.
30
Amelia
Amelia opened her eyes. Her head hurt. Her body felt like it’d been pelted with rocks and then pushed through an incinerator. Everything felt heavy, sluggish, bruised.
She turned her head. Early morning sunlight shone through the window she could make out on the other side of the tent wall. In the dim shadows, her mother slumped in the chair in the corner, dressed in her protective suit, her head flung back against the wall. She was sleeping, her face lined with exhaustion.
Amelia pushed herself to a sitting position. Waves of dizziness crashed over her. She blinked against the white spots sparking across her vision. Pressure thudded against the back of her skull.
She felt dirty all over. Her skin was itchy and filmed with dried sweat. She touched her bare arms.
She wasn’t hot to the touch. She felt weak and exhausted and aching all over, but fire no longer blazed through her. The fever was gone.
Wonder filled her, an emotion so extraordinary she wasn’t even sure she recognized it. She was so close to death, she felt it tugging at her soul. But she wasn’t dead. She was alive.
She considered waking her mother, but she wasn’t ready to talk to anyone. Not yet. She glanced around the room, her gaze landing on the side table beside the bed. A pair of utility pants and a long-sleeved shirt were folded neatly, her SmartFlex charged and resting on top of the shirt. The clothes she wore at the warehouse were gone, likely burned.
Her mother had done that. A burst of warmth filled her chest. Even in the face of enormous odds, her mother refused to give up hope, ensuring everything was prepared for when her daughter awoke.
Amelia’s pouch with the auto-injector lay open and empty beside the clothes. She shivered. She must have started seizing. She hadn’t suffered a full tonic-clonic seizure, or she wouldn’t be thinking coherent thoughts. But now she had no protection against the next one.
She couldn’t allow herself to think about that. She was alive. That was what mattered now. Tomorrow’s problems would come tomorrow. Today, she was alive.
Her fingers closed around the charm bracelet still in her hand. She spread her fingers and watched the diamonds glitter in the light. She wasn’t who she used to be. She wasn’t that scared, weak little girl. She wasn’t her father’s daughter, not anymore.
Her mother wasn’t who Amelia had believed her to be, either. In a blink, she’d transformed. Amelia could, too.
She wasn’t Gabriel’s patsy, wasn’t Kane’s victim. She wasn’t a rich princess who couldn’t protect herself. She’d survived all that. She survived the Hydra Virus. If she could defeat a killer disease, she could defeat Kane’s ghost. She could rise above Declan Black’s sordid legacy. She didn’t have to hang onto anything from the past she didn’t want to.
Her belt lay coiled on the other side of her stack of clothes, the knife sheath still attached. She leaned over and slid out the blade. She held it in her hands for a long moment.
She could be someone else, someone new. Herself—only better, stronger, braver.
Before she could overthink it, she grabbed a hunk of her hair. She held the blade against the pale strands and sawed. She cut again and again and again, long tendrils drifting down until a heap of white-blonde coils rested in her lap.
She didn’t stop until her choppy layers fell unevenly around her ears. She felt her scalp with her hands, the cool air kissing the back of her neck.
She didn’t do it for her mother or to protect herself from all the evil, lecherous men out in the world. She did it only for herself.
Amelia let her mother sleep a while longer. Her mother would figure it out when she saw the pile of hair on the rumpled blankets. She dressed silently, holding the bed to maintain her balance on her weak, rubbery legs.
An uneaten granola bar and an apple lay on a tray at her mother’s feet. She ate them hurriedly, letting the calories give her precious energy. She shuffled out of the room.
Nadira walked down the hallway, carrying a biohazard bin, which she almost dropped when she caught sight of Amelia, her eyes growing huge.
Amelia raised a finger to her lips. “My mother is sleeping.”
“You’re better! Praise Allah!” Nadira set the bin on the ground. “Everyone else is at breakfast. They’ll be so happy!” She frowned. “You’re weak. Let’s get through the decon chamber. I’ll help you.”
A few minutes later, Nadira slung her arm through Amelia’s and led her out of the building into the bright sunlight. Amelia blinked and shielded her eyes. She and Nadira made their way haltingly along the gravel path leading to the largest building.
Inside, the cavernous room buzzed with the hubbub of a hundred and fifty people eating and talking. Her stomach cramped as the smells of eggs, real butter, and pancakes filled her nostrils. Nadira helped her walk slowly among the rows of tables.
“Amelia!” Micah leapt to his feet a few tables away.
The din stilled. Everyone stared.
Finn’s face broke into an enormous grin. “Get your skinny butt over here, girl, so we can suffocate you in a group bear hug.”
It was Benjie who got to her first, barreling into her and nearly knocking them both to the floor. Nadira barely kept her on her feet.
Benjie wrapped his arms around her and squeezed as tight as he could. “I can’t breathe,” she said, unused to so much human touch. After a moment, she placed her arms around his small shoulders and gently hugged him back. It felt good. It felt right.
“I don’t understand.” Silas stood in front of her, his hands dangling uselessly at his sides. His typically sullen expression gave way to confusion. In his gray eyes, disbelief warred with something akin to joy, if her brother could feel such a thing.
He was beautiful. She loved every jagged edge and bristling part of him. She loved Benjie with his messy hair and huge, trusting eyes. She loved kind-hearted Micah and giant, goofy Finn and all of them, Willow and Nadira and Jericho—and in that moment, she didn’t feel even an iota of pain or bitterness for Gabriel’s startled, hard-edged face.
She smiled broadly. “I got better.”
“That’s impossible.” A woman stood up from the head of the table where Jericho, Willow, Nadira, and the others were seated. She wore mud-splashed work boots, leggings and an
elegant, lace-embroidered tunic.
She must be Harmony, the leader her mother had told her about. The woman’s face was deeply weathered, her gray hair pulled into a braid down her back, her deep-set eyes staring warily at Amelia like she was some kind of ghost.
Amelia glanced around at the strangers all looking at her, their expressions a mix of awe, bewilderment, and even suspicion. An unsettling feeling niggled at her mind. This was a bizarre reaction, and not the one she expected.
“Haven’t ya’ll seen someone sick get well before?” Finn flashed one of his crooked smiles. Only a few people smiled back.
“No, we haven’t,” Harmony said.
Amelia froze. “What do you mean?”
The cafeteria went dead silent. Amelia felt the stares of a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes.
“How many survivors are here?” Silas’s gaze narrowed as he shifted from Amelia to Harmony and back again.
“None,” Harmony said.
The way the woman looked at her sent a cold chill slicing through her spine. She gripped Nadira’s arm for balance. The room began to spin, her legs going weak. “None from this compound?”
“No. No one else. The Hydra Virus shows no mercy. Everyone dies in the end. Everyone.” Harmony stared at her, a strange, wild look in her eyes. “You’re the first survivor.”
31
Gabriel
Gabriel hadn’t taken his eyes off Amelia since she’d entered the cafeteria like some miraculous angel, only with purple bruises beneath her eyes and her glorious hair chopped into a short, jagged fringe.
She lifted her chin, skinny as a wraith from the sickness, but still the strong, determined girl Gabriel knew from the bowels of the Grand Voyager. She was still the girl who’d gotten the drop on him, then handed him the knife she’d held to his throat seconds before, offering him her trust, a second chance, everything. And he’d thrown it all away.
