The Mod Code

by Heidi Tankersley

  I grabbed two bottles, then took one more, just in case.

  “We’re going to need some syringes,” I whispered, closing the cabinet doors and tucking the bottles into my waistband.

  “Check the wall closest to the second door.” I heard Caesar’s fingers thrumming on the counter. His voice sounded tight. “Hurry.”

  “Actually, you’ve got trouble. Two doctors headed your direction.” Caesar cursed. “It’s time to go. They’re coming back. I’m not sure what they’re doing …”

  “But what about the syringes—”

  “Get out, Sage. Now. You’ve got fifteen seconds.”

  I started looking around for a place to hide. “Just let me—”

  “There’s nowhere to hide in that room. You’ve got to get to the closet. Ten seconds.”

  My heart clenched, I stood frozen, torn between options. We both knew full well the vials would be useless without the syringes, and we’d be back where we started. I didn’t have time to risk waiting for the doctors to come back to the lab again.

  I ducked into the corner, to the right of the cabinets that stored the medicines. My feet shoved a blue box that read ‘hazardous waste’ out of the way, and I sunk as far back as I could, wrapping into a ball. I dragged the box back in place after me, though it only covered me up to my knees. If either doctor looked back as they passed, they’d see me in full view.

  Caesar went silent, and I held my breath as I heard the door open. The cabinets blocked my view, but voices came from my right. I saw the doctors once they walked into the center of the room and recognized both of them from the video Caesar showed me yesterday.

  They wore their white lab coats. One of them was laughing, a shorter man with silver-white hair, the one who’d held the syringe to inject Finn. My blood turned cold at the sight of him.

  “I completely understand where you’re coming from,” he looked at the taller one. “The work here is assiduous.”

  The doctor stopped walking when he said his final word, and for a brief moment I thought I’d been spotted. Caesar sucked in a breath. But then, his head turned forward again and he continued moving toward the door.

  The other man, the tall, narrow one with chocolate hair, held a coffee mug in his hands. “I’ve already applied for my transfer back to headquarters. Dr. Adamson is far too difficult to work with. He lets himself get distracted by personal motives. And I’m going to let headquarters know about it. Just look at what happened the other night with his son and that boy.”

  The silver-haired doctor had already pulled open the door. He let his friend exit, and then disappeared into the hall himself.

  I let out an audible sigh.

  Caesar spoke to me through the earbud. “Do you always have such a hard time listening to instructions?”

  I pressed my way to standing, and looked into the corner camera at Caesar. “Only when I don’t want to follow them.”

  “Just find the syringes and get out of there.”

  It didn’t take me long, and within another thirty-three seconds, I had three baggies, pre-packaged with items needed to make the syringes. I tucked them into the back of my shirt, the fabric hugging the packets to my skin.

  “I’ve got an easy vent entry for you. Head south. Coast is clear. Bathroom. Two halls.”

  34

  SAGE

  I made it back to Jack’s room in four minutes two seconds.

  It didn’t look like Jack had moved. Even his head was at the same odd angle as when I’d left him, his chest barely lifting with his breath.

  “I’m here,” I said to Caesar. “Do I have time to inject this stuff?”

  “You’ve raised no alarms,” Caesar said.

  I knelt down next to Jack, heat still radiating from his body. One of his arms hung limply off the side of the mattress.

  “Still alive?” I whispered.

  Only his shallow breathing answered me.

  I grabbed a random bottle from my waistband. I prepped the syringe and swabbed a spot on his upper arm with the alcohol pad included in the syringe packet. I filled the syringe half-full with liquid. As the antibiotic flowed into his arm, my eyes flickered to Jack’s face, searching for any sign of response. He didn’t shift or groan. In fact, he didn’t seem aware I was in the room at all.

  After I emptied the liquid into his arm, I carefully pulled out the needle and sat back on my heels. Nothing happened. Anxiousness rolled through me. Was I hoping for some sort of miracle? It wasn’t like this would work within seconds.

  “Finished,” I said to Caesar.

  “And?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Neither of us wanted to state the very real possibility that none of this would work at all, and that we’d compromised our position in the meantime. I couldn’t shake the nerves that settled in the pit of my stomach.

  “I guess we just wait,” I said.

  “Nice work.”

  “Same to you, Caesar.”

  “You may want to leave the earbud for Jack? For when he comes to?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Over and out?”

  “Over and out.”

  I pulled the earbud out and hid it under Jack’s pillow. His eyelids looked heavy and bruised, his jawbone as relaxed as I’d ever seen it. I brushed back a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead with my finger, and then patted his face dry with the pillow case. Even sick, his face looked as perfect as ever, but it held an innocence to it now, a vulnerability that came with unconsciousness.

  More surprising was the pull, just as strong as when Jack was fully awake—maybe even stronger in this moment, with his defenses down.

  What was drawing me in so forcibly? Making it hard for me to leave the room? Nervousness about his illness? Fear that he might die? Whatever it was, it felt deep—like a current running through me on a cellular level, making me frantic to know he was going to be okay, desperate beyond cognitive understanding.

  I leaned closer, listening to Jack’s breathing, making sure I could hear it, and somehow found myself staring at his lips. The thought of touching them came suddenly. I jerked back, but I knew why I’d thought it. Close to him, I lost awareness of myself. The draw to him took over.

  I shoved the syringe packets and antibiotics under the mattress and stood up, knowing the only way to relieve the awkward feeling in the pit of my stomach was to leave. Once I was a few feet from the bed, Beckett’s face flashed in my mind, and feelings of guilt flooded me. It wasn’t like Beckett and I were together together, and yet, we were together, and we’d been that way for a long time, even though nothing had ever been official.

  I sighed and rubbed my forehead. Don’t think about it now.

  Jack wouldn’t die today. Finn wouldn’t die today. Soon, we’d all leave, and I could sort out these feelings when we were safe again.

  35

  SAGE

  “Jack’s feeling better,” Imogen said over dinner that night. “C told me he had a rough day, but it looks like he’s over the hump now.”

  “Awesome,” I said, but even I heard the deflated tone in my voice, and it wasn’t coming from exhaustion after running eight miles on the beach this afternoon. I was glad Jack was doing better. It came as good news because the last I’d seen of him this morning, he was still unconscious.

  But Jack wasn’t the only one I had to think about.

  And right after I’d injected Jack with the antibiotic, I’d gone up to see Finn. He shrieked at me until I knocked him out with a tranquilizer dart again. No improvement. More of his skin had shifted to scaly patches, more of his hair had fallen out. And he still hadn’t recognized me—not one hint of it in his eyes. How did I really think I’d have him “ready” to leave in four days? I felt helpless.

  Imogen seemed to sense something was off. “It’s your brother, isn’t it?”

  I shrugged, not wanting to break down in the lunchroom. I couldn’t tell her that I was worried Finn wouldn’t be ready. It was Imogen, Caesar,
and Jack I needed to persuade.

  She nodded. “We’re going to get him back, alright? It’s all going to work out. Hey, let’s talk about something else. You need cheering up.”

  I didn’t want cheering up, I wanted Finn out of here as quickly as possible. I just didn’t see how it was possible if he didn’t recognize or trust me. He needed the cognitive ability to place me as a friend, not enemy. Until I saw a flicker of that, he was dangerous—to me and everybody else.

  “How about Jack’s butt? That always cheers me up. What do you think of it?”

  Imogen’s comment jerked me from my thoughts and actually made me laugh a little before I even realized I was.

  I shook my head. “What?”

  “Oh come on, don’t tell me you haven’t stared at his butt yet, it’s too perfect not to notice. Actually, he’s too perfect not to notice in general.”

  The truth was, I had stared at Jack’s butt in the hallway that first day. It was nice.

  “I knew it!” Imogen pointed at me. “I can tell by the look on your face. You have. You’ve stared at his butt.” She leaned back in her seat, satisfied, as if picturing his butt right then. “The butt is my favorite body part, you know.”

  When I raised my eyebrows, she nodded at me. “Mm-hmm. It’s true. What’s yours?”

  Imogen stared at me, waiting for an answer like it was the most rational question in the world.

  “Well,” I thought for a minute. “I guess I really like thumbs.”

  “Thumbs. Are you serious? Thumbs?” She tilted her chin toward me. “I’ve never met someone so innocent in all my life.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “I guess I think thumbs say a lot about a person. If a thumb looks strong, it’s usually attached to a strong person. If you see a perfectly manicured thumb, you’re likely looking at someone perfectly manicured. And then of course, there’s the shape of the thumb itself, how well it blends with the rest of the fingers, it makes a difference in the look of the hand …”

  I petered out, realizing how ridiculous I sounded. The truth was, I had a thing for Beckett’s thumbs. I liked the way they looked. His thumbs were strong thumbs, and because we’d done a lot of talking and working together and a lot of not touching, I’d had plenty of time to stare at them. 1,035 days’ worth of thumb-staring.

  Imogen held a piece of bread halfway to her mouth, her brows furrowed at me like she thought I was crazy.

  “I’m never going to look at thumbs the same way again,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes, and unable to help myself again, I laughed.

  36

  BECKETT

  I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall of my room, and rolled a small piece of cellophane between my index finger and thumb. Nothing like a soggy sub sandwich for breakfast, which I’d eaten over an hour ago.

  It was morning, finally. Thank the Lord. I’d just spent a majority of the night shifting in and out of bad sleep. Unlike the conference room at the mansion, the room at headquarters offered me visual access to a clock. I could see it through the window, hanging in the hall a few doors down from my room. It was 5:47am EST. Middle of the night for the Pacific Ocean. Middle of the day for the Atlantic Ocean. I wonder where this island they have her on is located.

  At 6:59am, Dr. Topless’s heels clacked down the hall. I hadn’t seen the woman since yesterday afternoon.

  She wore the same style of white dress. Violet heels this time. Her head poked in through the open door. “Wake up,” she said. “Splash your face. You’re taking a jet to L.A. where you’ll board a helicopter.”

  Dr. Topless waited in the hall while I used the bathroom as she instructed. Sage was in my head today, more than any other. The idea of getting to her, seeing her today, it was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

  Dr. Topless led me to a black Lexus in the parking garage at basement level. A driver was already behind the wheel. Topless opened the door, and I slid silently into the cool, darkened interior.

  “Safe travels,” she said, and shut the door behind me.

  And with that, she was gone, her hips swaying away from me outside the tinted window, as if to let me know she was needed someplace much more important than this.

  The drive to the airport was silent. The driver refused to make eye contact. At LaGuardia, the private jet waited for me, a smaller unit distanced away from the large commercial planes. The car pulled right up next to it. The driver nodded for me to exit.

  I climbed the stairs into the jet and took my place in one of the tan leather seats. A movie played in front of me. The side tray held appetizers.

  I leaned my head back against the seat, the weight of the past few days pressing down on me, as well as the reality that I was about to see my dad and Jack again.

  I felt responsible. This entire thing was my fault. We should have left Canta years ago, regardless of the threat to Jack’s life. My father wouldn’t have followed through with it. Then I wouldn’t be here in this jet today, trying to get to Sage and Finn. Peg and Jeff and Mrs. Sallisaw would still be alive.

  But Dad might have killed Jack anyway and sent someone else to spy on Sage and her family, and then where would we be?

  Screw it all. Screw the hypotheticals. At this point, what did it matter? There’s no way to tell what would have happened.

  And if Sage did forgive me, and we all got off that island alive, then I didn’t care what the past contained. Not as long as my life from here on out included her.

  If and when we ever stopped running, the only girl I wanted to be with was Sage.

  If that wasn’t possible, then nothing else mattered.

  37

  SAGE

  The next morning, I was determined to make things different with Finn. We didn’t have time for anything else. We’d already passed day one, which meant I was running out of time.

  After the walk to the west wing, I found the door to Jack’s room propped open and his bed empty. His belongings remained strewn about the room—undershirt over the desk chair, drinking water on the desk, tranquilizer gun in the corner—but no sign of Jack.

  My mind went to worst case scenario—he’d gotten real bad in the night, his dad found him, and now Jack lay in one of the lab rooms getting tested. Or, worse—he’d died. No, that was impossible. Somehow, I think I would feel Jack’s presence no longer in the building—and it didn’t feel like that at all. Plus, Caesar would have found me and told me something that serious, and probably would have done the same if Jack had gone to a lab room. So where was Jack?

  I scanned down the row of modwrog cells, checking all the way to the back cages.

  No Jack.

  I gathered the cleaning supplies. At the top of the stairs, I let the door close quietly behind me. Finn sat at the front of his cage by the bars. No growling this morning.

  I leaned against the door, setting down the water hose, the bucket, the dried food. My eyes scanned the empty room. No Jack here, either. Very well then, might as well get to work.

  I scrutinized Finn from across the room. “It’s a new day,” I whispered to myself, gathering the strength to approach my brother. His skin color looked much the same. He crouched, engaged in some activity which involved tapping his hands on the top of his feet.

  My heart ached at the sight of it, and to cover up the pain, I began to list off square roots.

  At the sound the numbers, Finn looked up and stared. My voice faded, and Finn dropped his head and started hitting his feet again. I began the equations again, and he looked up.

  I stepped forward, reciting, even as the excitement bounced around inside my chest. This was the first response besides aggression that I’d had from him.

  Now within two yards of his cage, still spouting off the square roots, Finn tensed but remained seated, still staring at me. I was close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest, to notice the change in his eye color—something new since yesterday—the iris now faded from its chocolate brown
to a dull gray.

  And then, there it was. As I said the square root of twenty-one, a glimmer of something flashed in Finn’s eyes. I could almost see him attempting to make sense of the numbers. He reached for the cage bars, his gaze intent—and as fragile as a china dish. He could be lost again at any moment.

  I stopped talking and the room went completely still, both of us frozen in place, staring at each other.

  “Finn,” I whispered. “It’s me.”

  He tilted his head. For a moment, I thought I really saw him. The old Finn, the one who could cognitively understand me. I held my breath, the connection between us too delicate for air.

  Then Finn dropped his hand from the bar and started hitting at the top of his foot again.

  And just like that, I’d lost him. Air huffed out of my lungs as my shoulders sagged.

  Even still, it was improvement. He didn’t jump or growl at me. If nothing else, that was a start.

  And maybe it was Finn’s lack of aggression, or maybe it was the knowledge that we only had three days left, I’m not sure, but something pushed me over the edge. I was willing to risk—to test the boundaries with my brother. I was going to see what Finn would do if I turned on the water and opened his cage.

  We didn’t have time not to take risks. If we were really escaping in less than three days, and Finn was really coming with us, then the time for “rational” choices had passed. If Finn wasn’t ready, we didn’t leave, and we died. Besides, I’d rather be killed by getting ripped to pieces by my own brother than by some lunatic like Dr. Adamson.

  I started reciting square roots, to keep Finn or myself calm, I wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

  I bent the hose so the water wouldn’t spray when I turned on the flow. Finn watched me turn on the spigot. He didn’t flinch.

  Still repeating square roots, I released the kink in the hose. He stiffened at the sound of water splattering on the concrete. I raised my hand up. It’s okay.