Chapter Eleven
I don’t know exactly how long we were in the air—probably more than hour, but less than two. The soldiers had put me into a hard seat next to Chad and told me to buckle in with a heavy harness, and then we’d lifted off. I was next to a window, but could see only dark sky when I looked out. If I wanted to look toward the ground, I had to stretch against the harness and lean closer to the window, but it was just slightly less darkness, the land lit up just a bit by the half moon. I couldn’t really make anything out until we crossed the mountains that separate the Los Angeles area from the high desert that stretches to Las Vegas and beyond. I’d made that trip a couple times before with my mom and sister on getaway weekends that seemed a thousand years ago.
When not trying to look outside, I tried shutting my eyes, just wanting the flight to be over. None of the soldiers had said a word to us since we’d gotten onto the helicopter. When I’d asked where they were taking us, having to raise my voice above the engine and the rotors, they’d just ignored me. For all I knew, we were going as far as Colorado or Washington, D.C.—as far as a helicopter could go on whatever fuel it had. And while I kept telling myself this could all turn out just fine, that survivors like Chad and Dolores and Kayla and me would be treated well, I still felt scared. I couldn’t forget how they’d killed Donovan. And I still remembered the angry look on that woman’s face when I’d fled my burning neighborhood; I’d been getting out, and she hadn’t. Her jealousy hadn’t made any sense, but then again emotions aren’t logical. While these soldiers were maybe supposed to be taking care of us, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find them angry and frustrated at having to deal with us, all the while questioning why we didn’t need filters and masks to survive while they did. Why me? Why not me? How much suffering had grown out of people asking those two questions when things had gone wrong for them and right for someone else?
Kayla cried on and off throughout the trip; she was maybe hungry or maybe wet. There was no way to know and no opportunity to mix formula or dig through her supplies to find diapers. Dolores just held her, rocking and cooing and singing Mexican lullabies that I wished I understood. It seemed to help only a little.
Between the noise of the helicopter and the baby crying, it was just about impossible to say anything to Chad without raising my voice, even though he sat right next to me. I didn’t have anything super important to say to him, just wished I could make small talk to help the time go by, and since I didn’t want that kind of thing broadcast to the whole cabin, I kept quiet. At one point, though, as I sat there with my eyes closed, I felt his arm brush against mine—our seats were right up against each other, and they weren’t that roomy. He probably hadn’t meant to nudge me, was just moving his arm to stay comfortable. My reaction was automatic; I moved my arm, too. Not away, but toward. And a second later, we were holding hands.
I felt a little tingle as he squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. We’re going to get through this, I thought. We’re going to get through it together. I still had my worries about our destination and the soldiers’ intentions, but they eased under the pressure of Chad’s fingers intertwined with mine.
Sometime after that, I remembered my backpack with the photo of my family inside. It was still in Donovan’s bunker, sitting in a corner. Now it would sit there forever, just gathering dust. I pictured spiders crawling on it and mice tearing at the fabric for nesting material and my photo inside, zipped up in darkness. I felt terrible about having lost it, and I squeezed Chad’s hand a bit harder without thinking about it. He squeezed back, but it didn’t really help. I let out a couple of big sighs and tried to think of something else.
When I felt the helicopter begin its descent, I opened my eyes, looking first at Chad and then toward the window. Chad gave me half a smile, both reassuring and worried, and I knew he was having the same thoughts as me: we didn’t know what the soldiers had planned for us, but it looked like we were going to find out pretty quickly, and neither one of us was feeling optimistic. Out the window, all was darkness, and when I looked down, the view revealed nothing more than endless desert, barely lit by the moon. I couldn’t see lights or a building or even a road; what we descended toward was a mystery.
We were almost on the ground before I could really see anything—some lights not far in front of us. I couldn’t actually see the lights through my limited view out the window, could just tell we were heading toward something brighter. And a few seconds later the lights revealed a fence that we passed over. Contained within were several military vehicles and then small buildings clustered around a much bigger building. It was low to the ground but vast, spreading out past my line of sight. In a few seconds, I saw we were above a large helipad on top of the building where other soldiers stood waiting to receive us.
“Here we go,” I said, mostly to myself. I squeezed Chad’s hand again and then let go, flexing my fingers and pushing myself up in the seat, ready to unstrap myself once we were down.
The soldiers led us out one at a time—Dolores and the baby first, me last. They didn’t point their guns, waving us along with one hand while holding their weapons at their sides. It wasn’t threatening, but it also wasn’t reassuring. I’d feel better when I could deal with someone not armed; I doubted I’d have that chance any time soon, however.
Three other helicopters rested on the helipad, and I could see a few other soldiers all watching intently as we filed across the open space toward a doorway. All the soldiers wore the same full-body suits as the ones who’d taken us from Donovan’s compound—no immunity here—and though I couldn’t see their faces through the light reflected off their face masks, I could tell that each had his head turned to watch Chad and Dolores and me walk toward the door.
A soldier led us, and the rest flanked us. When we reached the doorway, the leader punched a code into a keypad and the lock clicked. He twisted at the big metal handle, and we went inside. It was all very industrial: gray walls and gray tile floor, fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling. We were in a small room with nothing much there except a set of elevator doors. The soldier punched the call button, and a few seconds later the doors slid open.
We crowded in. I was right next to Chad, pressed close, and I took his hand again. It made me feel better, but only a little bit. The soldier hit a button and the elevator dropped; there was no digital display to show how many stories we went down, but it couldn’t have been too far. Several seconds later, we slowed to a stop.
When the doors opened, it was to more gray walls and floor. The only thing before us was another set of doors. These were big and metal, painted black and yellow, and in their center were the words “Warning: Biohazard” and under that “Authorized Personnel Only.” The soldier who’d called the elevator punched a code into another keypad, and the doors slid open with a hiss much louder than the door into Donovan’s chamber. Inside was a small room with another set of doors on the other side. The soldier motioned us but didn’t follow.
As soon as the four of us were inside, the doors closed with a loud click and then another hiss. Immediately, the doors behind us opened, and we turned to find a brightly lit corridor with ceiling, floor, and walls all painted the same dull gray. Two people stood before us: another soldier with a pistol in his hand, and a woman who I didn’t think was a soldier. Both wore the same white biohazard suits as the soldiers we’d already seen, but rather than carry a gun, the woman held a clipboard. She wasn’t very tall, and I could see she wore glasses under her facemask. Her skin was dark, and I would have guessed she was Indian or Pakistani. When she smiled at us, I told myself it looked like she’d been practicing.
“Good evening,” she said. Her voice was muffled but not as much as Donovan’s had been—better technology, I guessed. “I am Dr. Sharma. I trust the rescue went well?”
Chad and I exchanged glances, not sure how to respond. Sure, the rescue had gone well, if you didn’t count the murder outside the bunker and the lack of all explanation on the part of the sol
diers. I opted to nod meekly, and I think Chad did the same.
“Good,” she said. Glancing at her clipboard, she said, “So we have Scarlett and Chad and Dolores. The baby?”
“Kayla,” I said.
She nodded and made a note.
“The mother?”
I guess it was obvious that neither Dolores nor I had given birth recently.
“She died,” I said. And when Dr. Sharma looked up from her clipboard and gave me a questioning look, I added, “In childbirth.”
Another nod and another note. Then she said, “You’re in a military facility that was designed in part to study infectious disease, germ warfare, chemical warfare and other biohazards. We’re going to do our best to make you comfortable here, but our primary mission is to find a cure for the F2 infection that’s just about wiped us out. Can I count on your cooperation?”
“Sure,” Chad said, a little hesitantly.
“Yes,” I added, not sure I meant it. I was all for helping find a cure, but my cooperation was going to depend on just what they wanted of me. Medical experiments weren’t high on my list of favorite activities.
“Wonderful.” Then she took a couple of steps and put herself in front of Dolores, immediately switching to what sounded like flawless Spanish. I heard her say her name, and was able to pick out a couple of other words, but the doctor rattled off her Spanish so quickly that I got lost almost right away. Dolores nodded as Dr. Sharma spoke, and then she said, “Si.”
And that was that.
With the soldier following us, the doctor led the way along the corridor, past a door marked “1”, stopping in front of another marked “2”. She turned to the door. “Chad?” she said. “If you would…”
He stood there for a second, glancing first at me and then back to the doctor. “What about them?” he asked, not giving any hint that he was ready to move, not doing anything to show that he was ready to make good on his promise of cooperation.
The doctor smiled behind her mask. I think it was supposed to be reassuring, but it just looked condescending instead, as though she really didn’t have time for the little teenager and his chivalry. “Your companions will be fine, all in safe accommodations identical to yours.” She waved a hand toward the door, the smile on the verge of burning out like an old light bulb ready to pop.
I thought about the soldier behind us, not sure of where Chad’s mind was going but ready to follow his lead if he decided against cooperating. Holding my whole body tense in anticipation, I almost jumped when Chad’s hand found mine again. He squeezed my fingers—not hard and determined and readying me to fight, but tenderly, a quick goodbye. A second later, he let go, and we looked at each other, just a quick glance. Then he was gone, passing through the door after Dr. Sharma had punched a code into its keypad.
As soon as the door had shut, we moved on, turning a corner at the end of the hallway. Now the doctor led the way down a long, doorless corridor, our footsteps echoing as we walked. I told myself to pay attention to the route we took in case I needed to find my way out again, but there were no landmarks, and I feared this might be a challenging maze to run if it came to that.
We had reached the end of the corridor and now turned right. Immediately, I saw a door marked “3” and we stopped in front of it. The doctor began speaking Spanish to Dolores, who nodded and said “Si.” I tried to watch the doctor as she input the code for the door, but all I saw were the numbers 5 and 3. She punched others, but the angle of her hand kept me from being sure of what they were. The door popped open and then Dolores was passing through just like Chad had done. She gave me a quick, uncertain smile before going.
“She’ll have things for the baby in there?” I asked.
The doctor flashed her condescending smile again. “We’ll take care of everything,” she said and began walking again.
I knew there would be a door marked “4” coming up and that I’d have to go through it. Unsure of who or what I’d be dealing with on the other side made me nervous, and I wondered how long it would be before I saw Dr. Sharma again. With a million questions in my head but no real certainty about whether I should ask any of them, I managed to blurt out, “Why did they kill Donovan?”
“You would have preferred your kidnapper be shown mercy?”
“I just…there’s so few people now.”
“And killing one seems a waste of precious resources?”
“I suppose,” I said.
“What you say makes sense from a scientific standpoint. If our species is to survive and prosper again, we need to consider maintaining genetic diversity. Every set of genes is thus of value. However, from a tactical standpoint, we also need to consider the type of person who has survived—someone who will help us make the most of our limited resources, or someone who will place a drain on them. Your Mr. Donovan already placed a considerable drain on our resources by insisting we come to him, by insisting that we rescue him rather than volunteering to bring the survivors he’d found to us. The helicopter, the fuel, the manpower…all were wasted meeting his demands. Not to mention the future drain on resources needed to guard the man if we had let him live, considering his propensity for following his own rules rather than those of society.”
As I’d thought, the door marked “4” was on our left now, and the doctor stopped in front of it, turning to face me. “You could have just left him there,” I said.
“He thought of you as his possessions. We had to weigh the risk that he would try following you to our facility,” she said. “We haven’t the time or the resources for dealing with such people now. And, frankly, we don’t have the patience. Mr. Donovan took a risk, an exploitative and self-serving one.” She punched her code into the keypad on the door. This time I couldn’t see the numbers at all because of the way we were standing. I heard the same click I’d heard before. “It didn’t pay off for him. For you, though, and your friends…for us here trying to understand what happened with F2, it may well have turned out to be something of a gift Mr. Donovan gave us. Will you step through, please?”
I didn’t say anything, didn’t even nod, just stepped through like she’d asked, wondering if this was the beginning of blind obedience. It wouldn’t do to be a loose cannon, not when they had all the guns and all the codes for the locks.
The room was dark, but fluorescent lights clicked on the moment I passed the threshold. Motion detector, I thought as the door shut behind me. I turned at the sound, but it was too late. Sharma hadn’t said another word, just locked the door once she’d gotten me inside.
I let out a big breath, telling myself to relax.
“Please enter,” said a computerized voice. It sounded slightly female.
I ignored the invitation, my feet planted right beside the door as I took everything in. The room was maybe twenty feet long by ten wide, all painted and tiled the same gray as the corridor outside. Directly across from me was a row of vertical window shades, all closed, that started about four feet up from the floor. A small table and a single chair were in the middle of the room, and there was a small bed along one wall. Toward the back of the room, not far from the entrance I was peeking out of, there was a partition about six feet high, and behind it a toilet, sink and shower stall.
“Home sweet home,” I said.
“Please enter,” the computer repeated in the same almost friendly tone. I wondered if it would change if I made it repeat a third time, but didn’t wonder that much. I entered.
“Please shower and deposit your soiled clothes in the bin marked Waste,” the computer immediately said. “You will find fresh clothes in the supply closet.”
Again I looked around the room, trying to see a motion detector or camera. There was nothing, at least not anything obvious to me. Still, the computer had needed some confirmation that I was now in the room, or else it wouldn’t have given the new command. That was what it was doing, I told myself, commanding even if the commands came in the politest tones.
Not ready to rock the
boat yet, I followed orders—if a bit tentatively. The supply closet was at the far left end of the back wall, and inside were plastic cups and plates, toilet paper and several other things for hygiene, and a change of clothes sealed in a plastic bag. These I examined quickly—stiff camouflage pants, a khaki t-shirt, socks, underwear, and a sports bra. Everything looked a little big for me, but probably close enough to fit reasonably well.
I felt uncomfortable taking my clothes off, even behind the shower partition, and kept looking at the corners where the walls met the ceiling to try and spot a hidden camera. I couldn’t shake the thought that someone was watching me undress—maybe Dr. Sharma, maybe someone else. I finally decided the best thing would be to get it over with as fast as possible, and so finished getting out of my clothes. I found two towels on a shelf and wrapped one around myself as I gathered my clothes.
A drawer built into the wall had a handle with the word “Waste” on it. It hinged open to reveal a trash chute. I checked the pockets of the jeans I’d worn since being taken from the observatory and then dumped them into the chute, not exactly sorry to see them go. Then I showered as quickly as I could—the first time since the solar house in Hollywood—before drying off and getting dressed.
Patting my hair dry with one of the towels, I thought about cutting it short. That would have been the practical thing days ago, but I hadn’t thought about it—just kept tying it into a bun or fixing a ponytail. It would be good to be done with it. Curious, I went to the supply cabinet again to see if they’d given my scissors or even a sharp knife, but there was nothing. I thought of prison movies I’d seen; just like in those scenarios, my keepers didn’t want any suicides, so they’d left me nothing sharp. Not only were there no shoelaces for me to strangle myself with, but there weren’t even shoes. It was a good thing I didn’t want to kill myself, just my hair.
On the opposite wall was the row of windows, still hidden behind vertical blinds. A control panel was to my left, and at intervals along the windowed wall I saw three boxes built into the wall. Investigating, I saw they were metal and had hinged tops, but they were tightly sealed and didn’t even have an edge I could grip to try and pull one open.
The Girl at the End of the World Page 17
