But at least some of us—like me—had a choice. It still wasn't fair.
Curiosity finally got the better of me, and I picked up that green folder Stone had set aside for me. Leafing through it without looking at more than the occasional image, I wondered again if there was any sense to this project. Raleigh Miller had been one of the most brilliant scientists of our time, and his results had brought up nothing. How should I accomplish what he hadn’t?
Turning a page, my eyes fell on another protein gel, similar to the one that was haunting me right now. I knew the neat scrawl it was annotated with all too well, my interest piqued as I recognized Thecla’s handwriting. There was no text, but as I studied it, I realized that it must be a sample she took from Raleigh when she infected him—two, actually, one just after infection, and the other after he died, if I wasn’t mistaken about the labeling being time course numbers—a typical experiment setup. The first lane was clear—the virus and possible vaccine that he had had injected wouldn’t have had time to show up in his blood. The second lane was a mess, completely overloaded with everything. But what was interesting were the other lanes that looked like cleanup steps, until the very last one looked strikingly familiar. Pulling the image from our results out of my lab coat, I put it right there, making the resemblance even more obvious. It looked exactly like the two samples from Nate and me—virus and antibodies.
And, right fucking there, I had my answer.
The idea of a vaccine—letting the body create antibodies to stave off infection—may have been a good one, but the electrophoresis gel with our samples itself proved that it was impossible. I realized now what that last, unmarked lane must be—a sample of zombie tissue. The bands matched up well enough with the serum samples, but a few were markedly missing. I doubted that it was because the virus in its active form was expressing fewer proteins—on the contrary; we already knew that wasn’t the case with the whole deal with the perpetuating activator. No. SDS-polyamide gel electrophoresis had one glaring problem—some proteins just didn’t unfold properly because of the polarity of the amino acids that made them up, sometimes lumping them together rather than creating the nice, long, uncoiled denatured strands needed for this method of separation by size. The fact that none of the larger proteins were present in the zombie sample proved that the proteins were likely permanently coiled due to the activator binding, or some other similar modification.
And antibodies? Antibodies were nothing more than matches to surface parts of proteins. Proteins that were so heavily modified looked vastly different than those exact proteins that weren’t—and I was certain that if I had a means of checking, I’d find that all of my antibodies there would react to the non-modified proteins. I probably had it, in fact, because whatever method they’d used to end up with my antibodies had likely been developed years ago.
So, yes, in an actual twist of irony I was developing immunity toward Nate—but I was still as vulnerable to any zombie out there as if we’d never gotten down to exchanging bodily fluids.
I paused for a moment, waiting for that soul crushing to happen that should come with the realization that we were all doomed for good, but all I felt was a flutter of excitement deep down. If there was no cure to be found, why should I dedicate my life to a futile cause? With one option invalid, the remaining one was obviously the one to choose.
And even if there was a chance of a cure—now that my mind was swaying more heavily in one direction, I realized how little really held me back here. True, I’d loved my job while it lasted—past tense. That woman who gave up everything for the sake of science—a relationship, friends, hobbies, other hopes and dreams—that wasn’t me anymore.
Dr. Brianna Lewis had died on Day Zero, buried under the rubble that used to be the Green Fields Biotech building. And there was absolutely no sense to keep holding on to her.
I still held on to that folder—including that print of the electrophoresis gel with our samples—as I walked out, knowing for sure that this was a world I simply didn’t belong to anymore.
Chapter 27
The sky was only just turning light in the east as I left the lab and crossed the yard to the cantina, but already there were people out and about. I grabbed a bowl and filled it with oatmeal and fruit, intent on getting the most out of this last meal that wasn’t either canned or salted to death. Not bothering with sitting down, I ate it standing up by the door, then ducked back outside to get my pack from my room. There wasn’t much to pack, actually, but I made sure to push both my knife and gun holster into the outside pockets, draping the dark sweater I’d worn last night over it. Should things get worse than I expected, well, I came prepared. But with luck, we’d be out of here in an hour or two, without a weapon drawn or fired. Stone’s folder and the notes that Ethan and Megan had given me were safely stowed away at the very bottom. By the time I stepped outside again—this time leaving through the door and stairs rather than the window—people had started to gather around the town square. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly cheery, but not as glum as it should have been. People were sentenced to exile, if only in deeds rather than words—this shouldn’t have been a cause for celebration.
As I was slowly gravitating toward the left side of the gathering—leaving me at least one direction to run, should I need to—I watched as a group of guards escorted their six very special guests into the middle of the square. Nate looked about as relaxed as if he was taking an early morning stroll—right into a group of heavily armed hostiles out to get him. I would have probably screamed profanities at the top of my lungs. Pia seemed about a step away from that, and when she turned her head to the side, I saw the shadow of a bruise bloom around her left eye and cheekbone. “Go quietly” was not part of her vocabulary—but I really couldn’t fault her for that. The others were somewhere in between those two—except for Burns, who still had a hint of a grin on his face.
What was surprising was that a few more guards—just as heavily armed but not quite that aggressively posturing as the others—shooed the remainder of my group in front of them. Seeing that, I couldn’t help but glance around, waiting for someone to materialize right next to me to drag me forward by my arm any moment now. But no one came.
Stone and Lowe joined the festivities, while Amy remained with the town people, quietly talking to a middle-aged woman next to her, looking none too happy. At least someone here had shown up with the appropriate attitude.
I half expected Stone to drag this out and roll around in his superiority complex, but he kept the first part of the “ceremony” rather brief. Talking in a loud, carrying voice but never taking his attention away from the six his speech concerned, he went over the details he’d dropped the evening before—they would be welcome in any town, but only for a limited time. Food, shelter, and other necessities would be provided for them, and the council thanked them for their service, et cetera, et cetera. Nate glared at him without muttering a single word, and that didn’t change when the zip ties that held his hands behind his body were cut and he was forced down onto his knees, exposing his neck, the muzzle of an assault rifle held right next to his head. Every fiber of my being screamed with pent-up frustration as I watched the guy with the tattoo gun get his gear ready and then set to work. Nate didn’t wince or move a muscle, remaining still as a statue while three deep black, X-shaped marks were tattooed across his neck, and another one on the outside of the back of his right hand, under the knuckle of his pinkie finger. I wondered if anyone would laugh if I called him Xander Cage now. Probably not.
Through the stupor of my half-suppressed memories rose a picture—exactly the same mark, if with just a single X, partly covered in blood and dirt. Now that I knew what it signified, it made sense—we were by far not the first group to go through this, and one of the others must have found their untimely end at the cannibal conclave. I wondered if that signified anything, but in the end, it was the same. I just hoped that the surviving woman who had a similar mark on her hand wouldn’t get into
any problems with the good folks here now.
The moment they were done with him, Nate shot to his feet, making everyone around him scurry away. Yet all he did was walk over to Stone with a blank look on his face to accept the clipboard Stone handed to him, starting to scribble on it without missing a beat.
Andrej was up next, after the guy with the tattoo gun had switched out the needles and cleaned his equipment. At least they seemed to care about basic hygiene, and I couldn’t help but be glad that they had a second set of equipment ready, apparently for those who would only receive one mark. Campbell and Bailey followed, the latter tense as hell—acute needle phobia, it turned out. Then it was Burns, and true to his nature, he actually chatted with the guy who was inking him the entire time, completely unnerving the soldiers standing guard. I winced when it took three guys to bring Pia to her knees—literally—and she cursed and spit the entire time, adding a few more phrases to my ever-growing repertoire of Serbian words. Some of them were colorful enough that under different circumstances I would have laughed.
I really didn’t feel like laughing now.
Once Pia was released and stalked over to Nate, accepting the clipboard from him and practically stabbing it with the pen, silence fell, anticipation heavy in the air.
Stone resumed his role as MC, with Lowe once again gloating in silence.
“You have a choice,” Stone said, speaking to the five guys remaining between the guards, all glowering back at him as one. “You are free to remain here, or select any other permanent settlement of the union. We have gotten word about the settlement you’ve listed as your base. The Wyoming Collective, if I’m right?”
He waited for anyone to acknowledge his words. When no one did, he went on as if nothing had happened.
“If you decide to return there, we will organize a guarded transport for you, but you’re required to remain with them. Any breach will be seen as a violation of the law, punished accordingly, and you will not be given another choice about taking on nomad status. If you require more time, you are free to take it.”
Still no reaction, and Stone’s smile turned a little sardonic.
“Anyone deciding to join your former comrades, step forward please.”
I knew that this was my signal. My stomach was already heaving, but I forced myself to ignore it. None of the guys—from either of the two groups—was looking in my direction, but I could tell from the slightly different kind of tension that they were waiting to see what I would do.
Well, no sense in making this harder on anyone than it needed to be.
Exhaling slowly, I bent down and picked up my pack by a strap, my fingers curling around the sturdy material maybe a little too tightly for comfort. The first step was the hardest, the second not much easier, but by the third I knew that I was doing the right thing. I heard a few murmurs behind me, but that was it. Keeping my eyes fastened on Stone’s back, I stepped farther away from the crowd, feeling terribly exposed. When I was abreast with Nate, I swung my arm to the side, pitching the pack toward him so that it sailed in a perfect arc to land right next to his boots, sagging against his ankle. I didn’t turn my head far enough to see his face, but I was sure that he knew that I’d just handed him two thirds of my backup arsenal. The beretta was now safely tucked away at the small of my back.
Lowe and Stone still seemed unaware of what was going on behind their backs, leading Lowe to open his mouth after all.
“Doesn’t look like your guys are particularly fond of letting you continue to order them to their doom,” he jeered, likely at Nate.
With my hands now free, it was easy to shrug off the lab coat, and I let it drop in my wake, not caring what became of it. Underneath I was wearing my charcoal underarmor shirt that was itself thick enough to likely fend off a biting zombie, with my washed-out My Little Pony tee over it that was loose enough to flap lightly in the breeze. Sadie had spent quite some time last winter drawing with permanent marker on it, adding a punk mane, eyepatch, combat boots, and what I thought was supposed to be a shotgun to the motif. It definitely held some sentimental value.
Another step and I reached up to gather my loose hair in one hand, pulling it into a high bun that I secured with a hair tie. I couldn’t even say why I’d left it down the past days, but it felt right to have it out of my face again. Eating hair in combat—not a good idea.
Then I passed Lowe and Stone, and I gave them a moment for their eyes to go wide. So they really hadn’t expected this.
“It’s called respect,” I told them both. “Something you wouldn’t know the first thing about.”
The moment I stepped up to the tattoo guy, I heard the soft scuffle of boots as Martinez fell in line behind me, the others queuing up behind him.
The guy with the tattoo gun eyed me critically as I crouched down before him, bowing my head.
“You sure about that, doc?” he asked. “No turning back once I start this.”
Gritting my teeth, I looked back up at him, then gave him one of the condescending glares that sometimes even shut Burns up. “I have an IQ of over 145. Trust me when I tell you that I am more than just sufficiently aware of the ramifications of my actions.” Glancing over to where Stone was still staring at me, I couldn’t hold in a derisive laugh. “I made one right decision in my entire life, and that was to choose the right side back in Lexington. And I have absolutely no reason to step back from that decision now.”
“Suit yourself,” the tattoo artist said as I bowed my head again. “Nice shirt.”
“Thanks.”
I locked my muscles as I felt him swab the back of my neck with alcohol, and forced my eyes to remain open as I heard the buzzing sound of the tattoo machine turning on. A first prick, followed by a continuing scratching sensation that made me want to rear up or at least scrape my nails over the afflicted region, but I forced myself to remain absolutely still. It was done in less than three minutes, and even though they seemed endless to me, they were over before I could start regretting my decision.
“Hand next,” the guy said, giving me a weird look when I placed my left hand on the provided low stool. “Girls usually do the right.”
Grinning up at him, I snorted. “I’m the driver. I’m always on the left. If I pull up to your town gate, this is what you’ll see first,” I said, giving him the finger of my left—window-sided—hand. He actually laughed, his eyes twinkling, and didn’t protest further as he set to work. Watching didn’t really make it any better, but I forced my mind to go blank as the black ink sank into my dermis, forming a mark that would remain with me forever.
And I still didn’t regret a thing.
My legs were a little shaky as I got up once the tattoo was cleaned up, but I refused the bandage the guy offered me. Between all the ink the guys were sporting already, I was sure that one of them would know a thing or two about aftercare. The sooner I got away from here, the better.
I didn’t look at Stone or Lowe as I walked over to where Nate was waiting for me, the barest hint of a smile on his face. He simply held out the clipboard to me. There was a paper—with one of those old-fashioned blue sheets to make copies—pinned to it. A list as I saw at the first glance. In Nate’s somewhat horrible scrawl I could read “Lucky Thirteen” at the top of it, with his name following—yet with leaving the first half of that line blank still. The others had signed their names below, and somewhere in the middle there was a struck-through “Chris Bates” on it. When I glanced up at Nate, he gave me a tight smile.
“I thought it was only appropriate. We started this as thirteen, and considering that we’ll likely end this with all names blacked out, it seemed fitting. Don’t you think?”
I nodded, feeling my throat close up, but the lump was already easier to swallow than a day ago. Signing my name right in front of Nate’s, I handed the clipboard back to him. If Pia had wanted that spot, she’d have claimed it already, I was sure.
“So how are we going to do this?” I asked.
“I’m in
command of strategical and combat decisions. You’re in command of commercial and civilian decisions. We each have the right to veto each other’s vote, but let’s try not to grid-lock the entire operation more than twice a week, shall we?”
He actually extended his hand to me, making me snort, but I took and shook it nevertheless.
“Yeah, so not promising anything there,” I said, unable to keep a smile—a little forced, but still sincere—in.
“I said ‘try’ for a reason,” Nate grunted, shaking his head when my smile widened.
“Like you can handle it when I’m not railing at every single thing you say,” I shot back. “You’d get so fucking bored right out of your mind that you’d start some stupid shit just to get a rise out of me. You’re welcome.”
Burns’s laughter cut Nate’s answer short. “Shit, I’ve missed this! Life’s so dull when you’re not bickering all the time.”
I glared at him before I let my gaze drift over to Nate. “I think I’ve missed other things more.” His answering smirk let me know that the message had been received.
And then we waited another endless twenty minutes until the others were done with, a weird mix of tension and anticipation gripping my body, making me restless. I couldn’t believe just how much I was looking forward to swinging myself behind the wheel of the car again, and I was almost hoping that we’d find a reason not to just mow down the next group of shamblers at the side of the road but get out and dispose of them the old-fashioned kind of way.
That probably made me one sick fuck, but then I felt like I was in the right company.
Santos was the last to get his Scarlet Letter, and once he’d signed the list, we got the original for safekeeping while Stone pocketed the copy. Not that it mattered. We also received a somewhat beat-up looking receiver system for the car and a rather long list of frequencies, separated into states. Clearly, we hadn’t been the only ones to come up with that idea—and maybe if we’d been a little faster with it, we might have spared ourselves some grief. Or not. If even our folks at home had joined this insanity, I couldn’t see how we could have avoided it for that much longer. Nate’s lack of protest made a lot more sense now.
The Green Fields Series Box Set: Books 1-3 Page 92
