by Kyla Stone
A boy dressed in army fatigues with a rifle slung over his shoulder rounded the corner of the garage along the inside fence line.
He shook his head when Cleo questioned him. He’d ducked around the corner to take a piss. He hadn’t seen a thing.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Cleo nervously, his eyes darting from her to Gabriel. A spray of pimples peppered his forehead and chin. A feather-light dusting of blonde hairs brushed his upper lip. He was just a kid. Maybe fifteen.
“What’s your name?” Gabriel asked.
The boy snapped to attention. “James Hunt, sir. Ready for orders, sir.”
Cleo gave him a tight smile. “You ready to fight for your freedom?”
There was fear in the kid’s eyes, but also determination and boyish enthusiasm. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll need your services soon, soldier. You’re dismissed.”
The boy turned smartly and marched back to his patrol along the eastern perimeter fence line. Gabriel clenched his jaw. “What’s he doing here?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a kid. He’s too young. He’s—”
“We need every able-bodied soldier,” Cleo snapped. “This is his future, too. We’ve trained him. He has every right to be here. Though he just screwed up royally. The intruder escaped. Whoever they are.” Her gaze trained on Gabriel. “It better not be one of your people spying on us.”
He saw the defiance in her eyes, the hard resolve, the intensity that burned everything it touched with a consuming fire.
It would burn him, too, if he wasn’t careful.
18
Amelia
“You look lovely, Amelia.” President Sloane greeted her with a prim hug and an airy kiss on each cheek. “You must have an incredible story to tell.”
“Something like that,” Amelia murmured.
A humanoid service bot pulled out a carved, plush chair. She smoothed her dress and sat at the ornate mahogany table. Crystal lights dripped from the domed ceiling. Opulent paintings of former presidents adorned the far wall. On the three remaining walls, pastel colors swirled to the beat of jazz music playing softly from invisible speakers.
President Sloane took her seat at the head of the table. She was dressed in a tailored chartreuse pantsuit. Tall and svelte, she was in her mid-fifties, though she looked younger, lines just beginning to crease her mouth and the corners of her eyes. Her auburn hair was clipped short and slicked behind her ears. She had a brisk, efficient manner. Everything about her oozed competence and authority. “Welcome, my dear. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you for having me, Madam President. This is truly an honor.”
President Sloane gestured at the four other people at the table, who were all watching Amelia with interest. “These are a few of my closest advisers and cabinet, all members of the Coalition.” The President introduced them as Senator Steelman, General Daugherty, and her Chief of Staff, Selma Perez. Vera Castillo-Longoria sat further down the table, her head bent as she typed something into her holopad.
“It is a pleasure to meet you all,” Amelia said politely.
“Likewise,” Senator Steelman said. She was in her late forties, whippet-thin and blonde, her perfectly styled and polished hair cut in a crisp bob to her chin, her makeup precisely applied, her posture ramrod-straight. Her eyes were frank and assessing as she studied Amelia without smiling.
Several members of the president’s security team ranged the room semi-discreetly. A hulking man stood behind her. President Sloane followed Amelia’s gaze and gestured vaguely. “This is Angelo Bale, my head of security. Impressive, no?”
The man’s muscular arms strained the seams of his tuxedo. His oiled black hair was streaked with silver. The shadows playing across the sharp angles of his face gave him a brutal, sinister look. Slowly, he lowered his gaze to meet Amelia’s.
Despite herself, she flinched. Angelo Bale’s beady eyes reminded her of Kane—the psychopathic New Patriot terrorist who’d enjoyed killing, who took pleasure in others’ pain. Who’d taken pleasure in her own.
The memories she’d worked so hard to defeat flashed behind her eyes: Kane and his rough, scrabbling hands, his predatory eyes, his vicious leer as he hovered over her in the captain’s quarters on the Grand Voyager.
Kane had tried to break her. He almost succeeded. But she’d fought back. She’d beaten him, stabbing him right through the eye with the needle of her auto-injector.
Amelia looked away from Bale, drawing a breath she hoped the president didn’t hear. When among wolves…she remembered Cleo’s words clearly. She didn’t doubt for a second there were wolves here, stalking the shadows with beatific smiles set upon their deceptively benevolent faces.
But who were they? Were any of them here right now, watching her with malice in their hearts?
She picked up a linen napkin and spread it over her lap, willing her fingers not to tremble. The table was set with fine china and wine glasses. A cluster of orchids in a glass vase glistened in the dim glow of the crystal lights. A service bot placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of her.
“Mocha latte, correct? Declan said that was your favorite. He suggested we begin, though he will be here shortly. He’s very eager to get started on your bloodwork—”
Selma Perez, the president’s chief of staff, leaned over and whispered something in her ear. She was a thin, stuffy-looking woman with a horsey face, a pinched mouth and watery eyes.
President Sloane sat back, a wide smile creasing her face. She looked friendlier—and kinder—when she smiled. “Forgive my manners. I have to say, you’ve brought a fair bit of excitement and hope into a place in sore need of it. Eat, my dear, eat. You must be famished.”
Amelia was suddenly starving. The service bot whisked the cover from her plate, revealing steaming beef risotto tarts, succulent lemon chicken, and crisp zucchini fritters. The delicious scent of real, freshly cooked food filled her nostrils.
Her empty stomach cramped. Her mouth watered. Grateful tears filled her eyes. “I—thank you.”
She took a bite of chicken, sinking her teeth into the juicy, spiced meat. It was the best thing she could remember eating. Ever. After several hurried bites, she forced herself to remember her etiquette training and set down her fork. “You said my father is here.”
President Sloane nodded. “Yes. And with any luck, he’ll be able to formulate a cure from the antibodies in your blood. How extraordinary that you, of all people, are the only survivor of the Hydra virus, considering who your father is.” President Sloane’s eyes were bright and intelligent, her gaze gentle but with a sharpness around the edges as she studied Amelia. “Simply extraordinary.”
“But—how did he get here? He was kidnapped on the Grand Voyager by the Southeast Asian terrorists.” Amelia cringed, remembering Cheng and the thick, purple scar slicing across his face, the way he’d offered her to Kane like a prize, a spoil of war. Be my guest, he’d said, the last words she’d heard before Kane dragged her from the bridge by her hair. Before he’d—
Her gaze flickered to Bale again, those beady, viper eyes. She swallowed. She had killed Kane. She wasn’t back there, trapped on the Grand Voyager, terrified for her life. She had saved herself, then. This time, she would do everything in her power to save everyone else.
She forced herself to focus on President Sloane, on the here and now. To consider the facts dispassionately, clinically. Her father had been their target, but Cheng and his soldiers had planted explosives on the Grand Voyager, attempting to destroy everyone on board: elite men, women, and children, ship staff, New Patriots, even his own men.
Gabriel had said Cheng was the one in direct contact with the mastermind behind the Hydra virus. The person or persons who had crossed Declan Black, taking care of loose ends while simultaneously using the New Patriots’ attack on the Grand Voyager as a ruse, blaming the bioweapon’s release on the New Patriots.
They were still out there, whoever they w
ere. Nameless, faceless shadows. A shiver of dread ran through Amelia. Maybe she was staring at one of them right now. Sloane had become president because of the Hydra virus, after it infected and killed President Morgan.
It could be her. It could be anyone.
Senator Steelman was watching her intently. General Daugherty bent and whispered something to Selma Perez, their gazes flickering toward Amelia before darting away. The back of Amelia’s neck prickled.
President Sloane wiped her mouth primly with her linen napkin. “This country could not allow terrorists to torture and murder such a valuable leader as the chairman of the Unity Coalition.”
“Once we realized the gravity of the situation, we sent our elite Delta Force unit to rescue Declan,” General Daugherty said, his voice like gravel. He was a solid, thickly built man in his early sixties, his face craggy, his close-cropped beard streaked with gray. He was a four-star general, his uniform decorated with medals, pins, and badges.
“It was a delicate mission, especially with tensions so high, populations all over the world succumbing to the virus, governments destabilizing; chaos, confusion, and blame running rampant—but our brave troops got it done.
“We rescued your father and brought him here,” President Sloane finished. “He’s been working with our scientists on finding a cure for the virus ever since.”
Amelia nodded around the lump in her throat. There were too many competing emotions swirling inside her. She couldn’t even begin to untangle them all.
Senator Steelman leaned forward in her seat. Her dinner was nearly untouched. “I assume you came here because you realized the immunological properties of your blood may be our best chance at synthesizing a cure.”
Amelia nodded. “Once we realized no one but myself had survived, yes.”
“You are correct,” Senator Steelman said. “Others have claimed to be survivors of the virus in an attempt to gain admittance to the Sanctuary, but upon examination, their blood proved to be as useless as everyone else’s. Please forgive Dr. Ichpujani for his skepticism.”
“Of course.” Amelia took a bite of zucchini fritter, forcing herself to chew slowly when she longed to inhale the whole thing.
President Sloane turned to her Chief of Staff. “How soon before Declan will be ready for her?”
Perez glanced up from her holopad. “First thing in the morning, you’ll report to the lab. Our virologists can tell you more regarding the specifics tomorrow.”
“Oh,” President Sloane said, as if disappointed. “Tomorrow I’ll be overseeing a food drop for some of the Outerland survivors in the northern suburbs of Atlanta. In the afternoon, I promise to drop by to check in on you.”
Amelia frowned at the mention of Atlanta. She pushed back the memories of the rats, the fires, Tobias Moruga and the Pyros. Jericho’s death. If she could help it, she’d never set foot in Atlanta again. “What about the rest of the country? What are things like?”
Sloane took a sip of wine. Her expression turned grave. “General Daugherty, you want to take this one?”
General Daugherty coughed and cleared his throat. “There are pockets of survivors all over America. Cheyenne Mountain Complex in Colorado is still functional, along with a few other government and military outposts. There are other countries with functioning governments. Australia and New Zealand were the first to cut off domestic and international travel, so they survived, though they’ve taken losses in the hundreds of millions. Russia survived, of course. Some parts of Canada are still functioning, albeit barely. Pockets of Africa. They know how to survive. Europe has fallen. Mexico and South America. And Asia. The populations were simply too dense. There was nowhere to run.”
Amelia wasn’t surprised. Not after what they’d learned from the survivors at Sweet Creek Farm. Still, the words sent a cold, slithering dread through her. The zucchini turned to mush in her mouth.
“I’m with a group of survivors,” she said. “Two of them are in the containment center outside the Sanctuary. The others are…somewhere else. It’s beautiful and safe here. May they come here as well?”
President Sloane smiled. There was something oily about it, like it might slide off her face. She rubbed her eyes. It was then that Amelia noticed the bags under the President’s eyes, the unhealthy pallor of her skin. She looked weary—exhausted.
And why wouldn’t she be? She was busy protecting the Sanctuary, doing everything she could to keep the surviving government afloat.
Or maybe there were other, more sinister reasons.
“I’m so sorry, Amelia,” Perez said, a glass of wine nearly at her lips, “but that is unlikely.”
“Why? There are still survivors out there—women and children. Why aren’t you looking for them? Why aren’t you bringing them here? You seem to have plenty of space—and food.”
The other Coalition members seemed to be staring at her so hard she felt their gazes like heat on her skin. Their expressions were pinched, grim, hard to read.
President Sloane leaned forward, pushed her plate aside, and folded her hands on the table. Her eyes softened. “I would love to do that, Amelia. I can’t tell you how difficult it has been to close our gates to survivors. But ninety-nine percent of the people outside these walls are contaminated—essentially, they’re reservoir hosts.”
It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “What do you mean?”
“Reservoir hosts may not be symptomatic—they may not get sick themselves—but the virus has already infiltrated their cells. And if they contact other humans, they’ll spread the virus. If we let them inside, we would kill thousands of innocent people and destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to protect.
“We very carefully screen for any potential candidates we can allow inside our gates, but my most important job is to keep my people—the people already inside—safe, first and foremost. That’s one of the reasons every citizen volunteers to receive the monthly antiviral shots our scientists have developed. We’re hopeful that over time, the antivirals will strengthen our citizens’ immune system in case of accidental exposure—which we do our utmost to prevent, of course.”
“We’re a fairly well-oiled machine by this point,” Senator Steelman said with a prim smile.
Amelia felt light-headed. She couldn’t make sense of it all. “But how can—”
“Of course, we do everything we possibly can for those poor souls suffering outside our walls.” President Sloane made a flicking motion with her wrist. “Activate wall-screen. Show last week’s outreach efforts.”
A holoscreen flickered to life on the west-facing wall, in a space between a gilt painting of President Morgan and one of the last-century presidents, President Reagan.
The holo showed a vidclip of President Sloane, Senator Steelman, and General Daugherty on a hoverchopper with several soldiers and figures in hazmat suits. They lowered a huge crate of bottled water and boxed, canned, and powdered food into a clearing. Thirty to forty survivors, mostly families with children, converged on it. The vidclip zoomed in on a young girl of six or seven clutching a bottled water and waving giddily at the camera.
“Screen off.” President Sloane turned to Amelia, her expression strained, her eyes full of compassion. “I assure you, as soon as we’re able, I’ll be the first one on that chopper distributing a vaccine or a cure. But for now, this is all we can do. I have twelve thousand civilians and eleven hundred soldiers I’m responsible for. Do you understand?”
Everything President Sloane said made sense. Were the New Patriots wrong? Had they made a mistake? Or maybe they had their own motives. A benevolent Sanctuary didn’t fit into the agenda Cleo and General Reaver wanted to push.
Maybe everything the New Patriots had told them were lies. It wouldn’t be the first time. Anyone could be lying for their own sinister reasons. She would have to be at her best to untangle the truth from deception.
“I want to do everything I can to help,” Amelia said. “I want to help everyone inside and outside the Sanctua
ry.”
“I would expect nothing less of my daughter,” came a deep, rumbling voice from behind her.
19
Willow
The air was sharp and brittle. Every sound was crisp. The crunch of their boots over snow. The crack of a twig. The soft thud of powdered snow falling from a tree branch.
It was so cold even Willow’s blood felt frozen. She stamped her feet on the snowy ground, her boots crunching a layer of frosted pine needles.
The first several miles, they’d jumped at every sound, but now they were used to the rhythm of the woods, the creak of the bare branches against each other, the soft patter of creatures moving in the snow, the dense trees and the shadows that seemed to dog their every step.
“We’ve been wandering around in the woods for two days now,” Finn said. He’d been complaining all afternoon—good-naturedly, but still. He winced, pressing his good hand to his side. “I prefer a more leisurely pace.”
“And I’d prefer to sip mai-tais on a Caribbean beach,” Willow snapped, “but alas, here we are.”
“You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit,” Benjie chimed in behind them.
“Listen to the kid,” she said with more patience than she felt. They were just now far enough south of the Patriots’ compound that her shoulders were relaxed a bit, the tension in her gut beginning to unwind.
She checked the Smartflex she’d borrowed from the Patriots’ storage room before they’d left; both the GPS and the compass still worked. It was top of the line, plated in smoky platinum and crusted with rubies. In her old life, she could’ve paid for four years of college with this. Or maybe a house with more than one bathroom.
But the old world was long gone. Now she’d be thrilled to have an outhouse.
They’d traveled about twenty miles in two days, which was a lot for an eight-year-old kid and Finn, who was still recovering from his gunshot wound.
