The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

  Something scuttled in the shadows behind the desk. Gabriel whirled, aiming his gun at the sound.

  A furred, hump-backed shape scurried beneath the desk and popped out only a yard from where General Reaver squatted. Her hands and face were unprotected but for a thin pair of gloves and a paper mask.

  “Get back!” Gabriel shouted. His first shot struck the desk leg a foot above the rat’s head.

  The rat darted toward General Reaver. The general jerked back, instinctively raising her arms to protect her face and neck. The rat leapt, launching its muscled, bristling body straight at her.

  It was too close. There was no clear shot. Gabriel watched in horror as the creature struck the General’s right hand and latched onto her thumb, scrabbling with its tiny claws for purchase. It sank its gleaming razor teeth deep into the flesh of her thumb.

  She tried to fling the vicious creature off, but it was too strong.

  “No!” Cleo lunged forward and slammed the butt of her gun against the rat—and her mother’s hand—with a loud crack.

  The rat tumbled to the floor with an outraged screech. It scrambled to its feet but faltered, its hind legs limp and useless, likely shattered. Cleo struck it a second time, bashing its head and spine.

  It let out a terrible, high-pitched sound as it writhed in agony. It twitched, then lay still.

  General Reaver inhaled a sharp breath, but she did not cry out. She clutched her damaged hand to the chest of her navy wool peacoat. “I think you just broke half my fingers.”

  “I was saving your life,” Cleo said.

  General Reaver climbed heavily to her feet. “Let’s hope so.”

  “Did it bite through the skin?” Colonel Reid asked. He was a heavy-set man in his fifties, his middle bulging against his coat, his jaw blurring into his neck. Gabriel had only met him a few times, but he had a weak, conniving look about him.

  Colonel Reid’s olive-toned skin was ashen, his thick black brows lowered in alarm. He took a step back from General Reaver.

  The general looked down at her hand. “Possibly.” She spoke in a calm, controlled voice. “The virus is passed through saliva and other bodily fluids.”

  “Was the beast even infected?” Cerberus asked. “It doesn’t look like it.”

  Gabriel nudged the limp body with the toe of his boot. He didn’t see the tell-tale bloody saliva around the jaws. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t infected. Normal rats weren’t aggressive. Normal rats didn’t attack human beings. “I’m not sure.”

  Cleo stared down at the thing in revulsion. A tremor ran through her. She shook it off. Her whole body vibrated with barely restrained rage. “It’s not. It’s just a stupid rat. It’s fine.”

  “Bag the creature,” the general said. “We can test it at the lab in the infirmary.”

  Jamal pulled a few plastic bags from his backpack and gingerly wrapped it in several layers. Everyone watched General Reaver warily, as if they half-expected her to spontaneously leak blood from her eyes then and there.

  “Load up the Phantom,” General Reaver ordered, her voice rough as gravel, her expression impassive. “We have a war to win.”

  10

  Amelia

  “Whatever happens, we can’t let ourselves get separated,” Amelia muttered.

  “I won’t let that happen,” Silas said beside her.

  On her other side, Micah nodded. “We’re with you, always.”

  She wished she could find more comfort in their words, but the dread coiling in her stomach was a living thing, voracious and insatiable. It gnawed at her hope like a cancerous rot.

  They were inside a large, multi-domed tent assembled beside the gate in the plasma wall, separated from the outside world by a ring of wicked-looking barbed wire fencing. The containment center, the woman in the hazmat suit called it.

  “The medical safety department oversees and evaluates all outsiders,” the woman had said briskly. “Wait here.”

  The containment center was larger inside than it appeared, filled with rows and rows of small square cells with transparent, tent-like walls. Each cell served as a separate quarantine zone. The cement floors in each cell contained a drain—for reasons Amelia didn’t wish to contemplate—a single cot, a slot for food delivery, and a partitioned, non-transparent area for a latrine.

  The cells Amelia could see were all empty.

  The acerbic scent of antiseptic and bleach stung her nostrils. The smell was so strong that for a moment she felt lightheaded. They waited anxiously in the center of a ring of soldiers, all in hazmat suits, guns still pointed at them, while the woman conferred with two other officers with Coalition insignias emblazoned on their gray uniforms. She repeatedly gestured at the data on her holopad—the data that had appeared after she’d confirmed Amelia’s identity.

  One of the officers glanced over at Amelia, his expression grim. He tapped his earpiece and spoke softly to whoever was on the other end, his gaze never leaving her face.

  Amelia tensed. The sharp scent of antiseptic pricked her nostrils. Her breath stuck in her throat. But there was nothing she could do, nothing any of them could do. They were surrounded, outmanned and outgunned. The Sanctuary soldiers could do anything they wanted. There was nothing Amelia could do to stop them.

  A second figure in a hazmat suit approached them. “Put these three in containment,” he said, gesturing at Amelia, Micah, and Silas.

  “I’m not going in there,” Silas growled. “You can’t lock us up.”

  “It’s not a prison,” the man said with a sigh. An Indian man in his mid-sixties, his grizzled face and thick gray eyebrows were visible through his helmet visor. “I’m Dr. Veejay Ichpujani. These isolation units are for the safety of everyone involved.”

  “We’re not sick,” Amelia said.

  “We don’t know that,” Dr. Ichpujani said. “You aren’t chipped. We cannot determine your health status without a seventy-two-hour quarantine for observation and testing.”

  “Please don’t separate us.” Amelia despised the pleading in her voice but couldn’t help herself. Panic closed iron-fingers around her throat. She didn’t want to attempt this mission without them. She needed Micah and Silas. She couldn’t do this alone.

  “You should count yourselves lucky,” Dr. Ichpujani said. “The Coalition has mandated automatic rejections for anyone without chips and all non-essential personnel.” His gaze lingered on Amelia, his expression intrigued. “The only reason we aren’t tossing all of you out on your backsides is because of her. The daughter of the Coalition chairman. A Grand Voyager survivor. Who would have thought, after all this time? Good on you for making it, when so many billions of others didn’t.”

  Her lungs constricted. Did he know about her father? Did he suspect something? But he was already turning away, losing interest. She couldn’t let paranoia get the best of her. He didn’t know anything. “When will we get out of here? I need to speak to whoever is in charge. It’s of critical importance.”

  He glanced back at her and waggled his eyebrows. “Relax, girl. You got in. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’re safe. Seventy-two hours, we’ll let you in. No problem.”

  Three days was too long. She couldn’t wait here, trapped in these tiny cells, the walls closing in while outside people were sick and dying. Now that she was finally here, anticipation thrummed through her, the tension about to explode inside her chest. She had to know the truth. Whatever it was—she needed to know.

  Two suited, helmeted soldiers grabbed Micah’s arms and jerked him roughly toward one of the containment cells. Two more reached for Silas. He reared back, scowling and furious. “Get your hands off me, you filthy cockroaches—”

  “Silas!” Micah hissed.

  “Wait!” Amelia said. “I’m immune.”

  “Many of the remaining survivors are. Unfortunately, their blood has proved useless in the search for a cure.” Dr. Ichpujani merely flicked his wrist, dismissing her.

  “Mine isn’t.”

 
; But the doctor kept striding away, his focus back on his holopad. A soldier took hold of her arm. She shook him off. She wasn’t going to be ignored. Not now. She raised her chin and spoke loudly, projecting her voice. “I’ve had the Hydra virus.”

  The soldiers stiffened.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Dr. Ichpujani said over his shoulder. “I’m sorry you came all this way, only to perish like all the rest.” He didn’t sound sorry so much as resigned, like he’d said those exact words a thousand times. He’d seen his share of suffering and death, especially out here—so close to the Sanctuary but not safe inside its walls.

  “You didn’t hear me.” She spoke over her hammering heart, the blood rushing in her ears. He had to listen. She had to make him listen. “I said I had the Hydra virus. I recovered more than a month ago.”

  The doctor whirled and strode back to her, his expression incensed behind his visor. “Your lies are not appreciated here. Don’t think you can shirk the rules, just because you’re an elite used to getting whatever your little heart desires. The world has changed. No one escapes the Hydra virus except the immunes. Everyone who gets sick, dies. Everyone.” His lip twisted in barely restrained derision. “Not even your money can save you now.”

  “Do you know who we are?” Silas snarled. “You won’t get away with treating us like this!”

  “It’s true,” Micah said. “I was there. So was Silas. She had every symptom—even bleeding from her eyes. Then she got better.”

  Dr. Ichpujani only shook his head, disbelieving. “I will not waste another moment on you lot. I don’t care who you are. As far as I’m concerned, the Outlands can have you. All of you.”

  “I am not lying.” Amelia spoke calmly, keeping the trepidation from her voice, the tremble from her fingers. She met his irritated gaze without flinching. She thrust out her right arm and peeled back her sweater. “Test me right now.”

  “I told you, without the microchip, it takes seventy-two hours—”

  “You have microscopes, don’t you? Disease-identifying vectors? Take a sample of my blood. It won’t take much time or effort. A chance at hope—however small—is worth it, isn’t it, doctor?”

  Dr. Ichpujani hesitated, indecision flashing across his features. Finally, he sighed heavily. He swiped something into his holopad. “Fine.”

  An oblong-shaped med-bot with a half-dozen tentacled arms zoomed to the doctor’s side. It carried a tray with a needle and stretchy tube. “Pull up your sleeve and hold your arm steady.”

  The bot swiped an alcohol pad over the inside of her forearm with one tentacle, held her arm steady with another, scanned her skin with a soft beeping and flutter of red lasers with a third, wand-like appendage, and pricked her vein with a fourth.

  It was over in a moment. The needle was so tiny, she barely felt the sting.

  Deep red blood gushed into the glass tube. It looked no different than the blood she’d always bled from every scrape and cut her entire life. Was it really special? Could it really contain the antibodies that would lead to a cure? She hid the doubt from her face as the bot slapped a strip of med-glue over the needle prick and zoomed away, dodging expertly between the clusters of soldiers.

  “Wait in there,” Dr. Ichpujani ordered. He pointed at the containment cells before stalking off in the same direction as the med-bot.

  Amelia allowed the soldiers to put her in a cell. Micah and Silas were placed on either side of her, but the sides of the tent walls weren’t transparent. She couldn’t see them.

  Through the transparent exterior wall, soldiers and doctors and med-bots passed by without a glance in her direction. The door was sealed and locked with a biometric scanner.

  An air compressor near a ceiling too tall for her to reach distributed fresh oxygen and circulated out the stale air. The walls puffed in and out like sails. She pressed her hands against the walls. No one pressed back.

  “Micah,” she said. No answer. “Silas!”

  They couldn’t hear her. She couldn’t hear them. The walls must be made with sound-dampening fibers. With a sickening wrench of her stomach, she realized the doctors didn’t want to hear the screams of their patients.

  She punched the wall a few times. The fabric was strong and coarse, and scraped her knuckles even through her gloves. Still, there was no responding touch or push on the opposite side. There must be a hollow space between each containment cell.

  It didn’t matter that Micah and Silas stood only feet away. It might as well have been a thousand miles. Her palms were damp inside her gloves. A heavy sense of foreboding settled over her.

  When they’d been quarantined at the naval base in Florida, at least they had been together. This was different. This was isolation. She was surrounded by people and yet completely, totally alone.

  It had only been ten minutes, and she already hated it. She took a breath, steeled herself. She would be strong. She would be brave.

  This was only the beginning.

  11

  Willow

  “What do we do about the guards?” Willow asked under her breath.

  She and Finn stood near the rear gate of the perimeter fence, feigning interest in the small, dormant garden Benjie and a few other children were digging in about ten yards away.

  Benjie glanced up at her, mud on his hands and streaking his pant legs, a question in his dark eyes. He knew to be ready to run as soon as she said the word.

  She gave a small shake of her head. Not Yet.

  They had told him they were going on a surprise adventure, a secret quest. The wilderness was dangerous, but it was more dangerous here. There was no way Willow was leaving Benjie behind.

  She was Ate, the eldest sister, the responsible one. Her Filipina mother had put her in charge of her siblings. But now she was responsible for all of them—her friends, her family. She couldn’t fail them.

  She’d been worried about supplies, but luckily, the New Patriots collected the extraneous belongings of new recruits and rescued families and kept them in a single room, reallocating items as necessary. She’d spent last night breaking into the storage room and scavenging up the supplies they’d need for the trip.

  The wooden door had been padlocked with a small biometric scanner. Instead of messing with the lock, Finn used his multi-tool to unscrew the hinges and held the door aloft while she scurried inside. Luckier still, the Patriots were anti-surveillance. There were no drones zooming about, no holo ads scanning Smartflexes, and the old prison security cameras were all dark.

  Willow had quickly found and stuffed two hiking backpacks with a small camping stove, gloves and masks, enough self-heating meals to last them two weeks, water bottles, extra ammo for her rifle and handgun, a fire starter, tarp, rope, filtration straws, and a tiny three-man tent, but it was all they had.

  They had briefly considered grabbing an all-terrain vehicle or hovercraft, but stealing something of value increased their chances of being hunted and caught. It was better to take only themselves and what they absolutely needed. Hopefully, the Patriots would decide they weren’t worth the trouble.

  Now, their packs were hidden behind a garden shed only a few yards from the back gate. Even Benjie had a school-sized backpack stuffed with a change of clothes for each of them. The extra sweaters, mittens, and scarves, they wore in layers or stuffed in their pockets.

  They were ready to go—except for the two guards that manned the rear gate 24/7.

  The guards were mostly for external threats—they usually faced the hills, sweeping for movement. But the guards were equally effective deterrents to keep new recruits or kids from sneaking off.

  Willow and the others had been allowed outside the fence for Jericho’s funeral, but not since then. Burdened with two enormous packs of supplies, there was no way the guards would believe they just wanted to go for a little stroll.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to get past them,” Finn said. “Don’t they ever leave? Get bored and decide to take a nap?”

  �
��Not from what I’ve seen. I checked several times last night, and they were always awake.”

  ‘“We could drug them.”

  Willow cocked her brows. “With what? Somehow, I think the pharmaceuticals are more heavily guarded than discarded sleeping bags.”

  “You could knock them out with your ninja moves.”

  “Maybe. But there are too many people around now. If we tried that, it would have to be at night. But even then, it’s risky.” She knew her own limits. She couldn’t take out two armed guards by herself before either of them sounded the alarm.

  If she had Silas helping her…but he was already gone with Amelia and Micah. Gabriel was here, but he’d become fast friends with Cleo. Willow had never trusted him completely. Now that he was back in the fold of the New Patriots, she trusted him about as far as she could throw him. And Finn, bless his damn heart, was a pacifist, so he wasn’t any help at all.

  Jericho could have pulled it off with ease. But Jericho wasn’t here anymore. The thought brought a fresh pang of sorrow and regret. She had always felt safe with him. Now there was no one but herself.

  Carrying a glass of water, Celeste sauntered between two buildings. Balancing in the stiletto-heeled boots she’d found somewhere, she bent down to whisper something to Benjie. He glanced up at her, an eager grin on his face, and laughed.

  Celeste had been different since Atlanta, since the two nights she’d spent wounded and alone after Tyler Horne stabbed her in the leg and left her for dead. She was still Celeste, a spoiled and vain elite to the core, but she was somehow less irritating. She’d stopped complaining so much and actually pitched in to help with cooking, cleaning up, and other tasks.

  But now here she was, waltzing up in those ridiculous boots, dressed in skin-tight leather leggings and an oversized fuzzy salmon-pink sweater that would’ve looked absurd on Willow but somehow looked adorably chic on Celeste’s lean, nearly six-foot frame. Her springy, cranberry-red coils haloed her face.