by Kyla Stone
“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 mothe
r 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.
Willow gaped at her. “Wait—is that lipstick you’re wearing?”
Celeste grinned. “It sure is.” She fluttered her long, slender fingers in Willow’s face, her fingernails painted a sparkly scarlet.
“And nail polish? Really?”
Celeste sniffed airily. “There’s no reason not to look your best.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, the world just ended.”
Celeste pursed her perfectly bowed lips. She swept out her arms in either direction. “But it hasn’t. We’re still here, aren’t we? That’s something. That’s an accomplishment we should celebrate, if you ask me.”
“No one asked you,” Willow muttered. She kicked a rock and sent it tumbling into a snowbank melting against the garden shed.
Finn grinned at Celeste. “I think you look very nice.”
Celeste swept into an elegant little bow. “Well, thank you.”
Jealousy flared in Willow’s chest. Why was Finn looking at Celeste? Did he like her? Of course he did. Who wouldn’t? She was tall and thin and beautiful, and Willow was short and dumpy and…ugh, she hated this feeling, like some dark and ugly monster sucking at her insides. She hated that she felt it, hated how small and petty it made her.
She’d survived an apocalypse, damn it. This wasn’t who she was, who she wanted to be.
Celeste shot Willow a sharp look. “At least someone remembers their manners.”
Willow sighed. “What do you want?”
Celeste fisted her hands on her hips. “Y’know, a little kindness wouldn’t kill you. I came out here to help you.”
Willow leaned back against the fence, one eye still on the guards at the gate. “Thanks, but no thanks. Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like in front of a mirror?”
“Willow,” Finn said reproachfully.
“Before you scoff,” Celeste said with a self-satisfied smirk, “I know what you’re doing.”
Willow stiffened. All the casual sarcasm drained out of her. If Celeste decided to tell someone, it was all over. The Patriots would double the guards or lock them back up in the quarantined barracks with the Headhunters.
Then they’d be stuck here, surrounded by enemies, helpless and utterly useless. “We’re not doing anything—”
Celeste gave her a knowing look. “You’re planning to escape.”
12
Amelia
Amelia stood in the center of her containment cell, fighting down panic. She touched her charm bracelet beneath her clothes, searching for the tiny violin charm. She pressed her finger against the pointy edge through her sweater. Breathe. Just breathe.
It didn’t matter. There was no reason to panic. Micah and Silas were right next to her, even though she couldn’t see them or feel them.
They wouldn’t be in here long. It was only a matter of time. She believed that. She had to believe it.
She sank down on the narrow cot. The mattress was sealed with some sort of soft, impenetrable plastic shell. She imagined all the people who’d sat here before her. Scared, alone, worried for children, parents, and friends, possibly sick, possibly dying.
Time passed. Maybe an hour, maybe two. It felt like much longer.
A woman appeared in front of her cell. The woman wasn’t wearing a hazmat suit. She was dressed in a cranberry-red wool skirt and fitted suit jacket. Latina and roughly in her late twenties, she seemed pleasant and well-groomed, her black hair pulled back in a neat bun at the base of her neck.
The woman smiled. “Amelia Black. How wonderful to meet you! Let’s get you out of here, shall we?”
Amelia stood up slowly, her hands clasped in front of her.
The woman stepped up to the biometric scanner, placing her palm on the bottom half of the scanner. She stilled, un
blinking, as it also scanned her retinas. The door hissed open.
The woman held out her arm. Amelia took it politely as she stepped out of the containment cell. “Thank you.”
“My name is Vera Longoria-Castillo. Call me Vera. I work directly for President Sloane and the Coalition.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Amelia said automatically.
“President Sloane is very eager to meet you.”
Amelia nodded mutely, not trusting her own voice. She’d suspected President Sloane was here. Now she knew for sure.
Vera tugged her away from the row of cells. “I’m sure you’re tired and would like to rest. As we speak, a room is being prepared for you right in the capitol, and—”
Amelia halted. “What about my brother and my friend?”
“They’ll join you soon enough, but now—”
“I’m not leaving without them.”
Micah and Silas both stood behind the transparent doors of their cells. Micah’s hands hung limply at his sides, his glasses slipping down his nose. He smiled at her, offering steady encouragement like he always did.
Silas looked like he was barely containing his rage. His jaw was rigid, his gray eyes sparking, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“Oh, honey,” Vera purred, “they’re not immune like you. They’ll be released after the quarantine period. Coalition rules, for the safety of everyone.”
Her throat closed. She swallowed. “I don’t want to leave them behind.”
Vera only smiled wider. A smudge of red lipstick marred her symmetrical white teeth. “I’m sure you understand. President Sloane knows they’re here. She’ll make sure they’re given special priority.”
“But—”
“They aren’t immune, and they aren’t chipped.” Vera’s voice cooled considerably. “If we let them in before ensuring they aren’t infected, we would endanger thousands of innocent men, women, and children.”
Amelia forced herself to nod, when what she really wanted to do was lunge past Vera and the soldiers and rip open Silas and Micah’s cells. But that wouldn’t help anything.
