“And what about you? Shouldn’t you follow your own advice? You attacked that boy in school. Not too smart.”
“You don’t need to worry about me. I come from this.” He nods at his surroundings and I know he doesn’t just mean his room but the streets outside. “I’ve had to fight my entire life.” He shakes his head. “You can’t understand that. You’re different. You’re not violent, not a killer.”
“And you are? Is that what you’re saying?” Without thinking, I slide my hand against his throat, grazing my thumb over the H. “This is you then? You deserve this?”
For a moment, he says nothing. He holds himself still above me, but I get the sense he’s about to spring. Like something tightly coiled, ready to break loose. A muscle feathers the flesh of his jaw, and his eyes burn like charred-gray.
My thumb continues to caress his neck.
“Don’t,” he rasps. The sound is oddly satisfying. I’m getting to him. Penetrating his armor.
My fingers move, exploring, brushing his hammering pulse. Fascinated, my gaze slides over his face, stopping on his mouth. I want to kiss him with a fierceness I’ve never felt, heightened by my loneliness. The constant fear. The earth that won’t stay firm beneath me.
I lift my head off the bed and lean up for his lips. He jerks away with a gasp of dismay and scrambles off me. “Get out of here. Go home, Davy.”
I stand, feeling like the most repulsive girl alive. Rejected in action and words.
And why shouldn’t I feel that way? Suddenly, I see the girls he talked to in the hall at school. Maybe he preferred his girls normal. Normal and unmarked.
He turns his back on me. I stare at him, the stretch of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the dark gold strands falling against his neck. “You think I’m safer there than here?” I demand hoarsely.
The nerves in my neck tingle. It’s almost as though I feel the imprint there, a living thing awake and crawling. My hand goes there, presses against the too-warm skin.
He turns sideways, looks back at me like he wishes I was gone already. A stupid ache fills my chest.
“I’ll go, but it’s no longer my home. Home is safety and I don’t have that any more than you do.”
Before he can answer—if he even intends to—I leave the room. Simon looks up from the kitchen table, hunkered over a bowl of cereal. Milk dribbles from his chin.
He calls out a good-bye, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. Everyone I had is gone. Everyone has turned from me and I can’t even find solace with another carrier.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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* * *
CNN Interview with Harlan McAlister, former classmate of alleged Texas gunman, Kevin Hoyt:
REPORTER: Mr. McAlister, you attended high school with Kevin Hoyt, did you not?
HARLAN MCALISTER: Yes . . . we played football together. He was captain of the JV team before we all found out he was a carrier. It’s all just such a shock. A real shame . . . he was a good football player. Could have gone pro.
REPORTER: Can you tell us a little bit about Kevin Hoyt? What was he like?
HARLAN MCALISTER: Everyone liked him. He was a real leader. I mean, before, you know . . . not after.
REPORTER: Are you surprised that he did something so brutal and horrendous?
HARLAN MCALISTER: Yes . . . well, no. I mean . . . he was a carrier. Once that came to light, we all knew there was nothing he wasn’t capable of . . . right?
NINETEEN
MOM ORDERS PIZZA THAT NIGHT EVEN THOUGH it’s Mitchell’s twenty-first birthday and we always go out for sushi at his favorite restaurant. Mom and Dad usually wink at the waiter and order mai tais for me and Mitchell. This year, Mitchell could have ordered his drink himself.
“Pizza?” I look at Mitchell from the kitchen table where I browse through a magazine. It’s strange having so much time on my hands. I’ve taken to reading Mom’s décor magazines. “You don’t want your favorite spider roll?”
“Pizza is good. Let’s get pineapple and ham.” Mitchell shoots a quick look to Mom and smiles in a way that tells me they discussed this in advance.
“You just don’t want to take me out,” I say. “In public. Afraid Mrs. Doyle is going to be standing in her yard? Giving us the evil eye?”
“Davina, that’s not true,” Mama chides, but her eyes dart to my brother, clearly looking for help.
He sighs and props his hip against the counter. “After last week . . .” He motions to the small television on the kitchen counter that’s still replaying the tragedy. There hasn’t been much new information, but they keep flashing the faces of the four carriers. They look about my age. One or two of them might be in their twenties. Three of the four are imprinted, and the ink collars look so large on their necks . . . bigger and darker in their mug shots. “The Agency hasn’t even let you go back to school yet. It just seems like a good idea to stay inside.”
I nod and cross my arms. “I understand. You’re right. It makes sense. I should just stay a hermit in my home.”
“Davy.” My brother doesn’t look at me in the careful way Mom does. He’s too sincere for that. Too honest. Like the time he told Señora Ramirez the only Spanish he needed to know was cerveza, el baño, and quiero sexo. Yeah. He was that high school boy. “Don’t be a drama queen about it.”
I start to leave the kitchen. “Call me when the pizza is here.”
“Davy, wait.”
I turn, watching as Mom grabs a remote and increases the volume on the television set. The president stands there in the House chamber before members of the House and Senate, waiting for applause to settle. A reporter drones on in whispered tones about this being the second time the president has addressed the nation since last week. I watch numbly, half listening, certain he will wax on about loss and tragedy and prayers for the victims and families. Which is why I don’t fully comprehend his words at first. Not until he mentions “HTS” and “carrier” several times do I begin to process.
“. . . for the protection of this great nation, the time has arrived to give full attention to the HTS threat so that we do not have a repeat of last week’s tragedy.” There is a pregnant pause as the president stares out at the room. “Detention of all carriers has become an utmost necessity. . . .”
“Mom,” I whisper, still staring at the screen, hearing nothing else. “What does he mean?” I understand his words, but none of it seems real. She waves a hand for me to quiet, her gaze riveted to the TV.
“The Wainwright Agency in conjunction with the Department of Justice, Homeland Security, and FEMA are mobilizing as I speak to amass all registered carriers throughout the country and transfer them into suitable locations. No small undertaking, but one that shall help us achieve the ideals upon which this great nation was founded . . . life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. . . .”
Mitchell grabs the television and wrestles it from the wall. Mom screams his name, but he ignores her, howling with rage. I watch, stunned as my brother wrenches it free and sends it crashing to the floor.
I look up from the sparking TV to my brother, his face flushed with rage, chest heaving with exertion.
“I’ll help you,” he pants. “We can run away, Dav.”
“And go where?” I ask, a strange calm coming over me. I’m listed in the national database and I’m wearing an imprint on my neck. There’s nowhere to go. No border I could cross. No plane I could board. Nowhere to hide.
“They can’t do this to you.” Mitchell looks from me to Mom, his eyes pleading with her, seeking support. She stares ahead, her features pale and drawn.
I touch my brother’s arm, sliding my hand down to his. “No running, Mitchell. I’ve got to stay.”
He steps back until he collides with the wall. His face scrunches up and a choked cry breaks loose, rattles from his chest. He slides down the wall until he hits
the floor. I watch as he buries his face into his hands. I feel every one of his jagged sobs like a claw-swipe to my heart.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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PART TWO:
MOUNT HAVEN
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
* * *
The situation of overcrowding must be attended. Please stop sending carriers to this location. Our present population demands relief. I can reach no solution against the rising tide of disease that has befallen this camp. We lost six carriers this month alone, and even a guard died, infected with the same illness that has plagued the camp since we opened. . . .
—Correspondence from director of Camp 19 to Dr. Wainwright
TWENTY
WITHIN TWO MINUTES OF THE PRESIDENT’S address, we receive an automated phone message informing us that we would be contacted soon with information regarding my assignment and that I’m not to leave my residence for any reason under threat of arrest. Funny, that doesn’t even strike a chord of fear in me. Not when I’m about to be forced into some kind of camp for carriers.
Days pass. Mom flinches every time the phone rings on the counter. If Mitchell’s around, he goes still, his eyes fixing on her as she answers. Dad, if he’s even home, quickly flees into another room. The days roll into a week. I move about in a fog. I know they haven’t forgotten about me. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me.
The media shows around-the-clock coverage of carriers being rounded up and forced onto buses. Well, maybe not forced. Most go along with it.
There are a few instances of runners that make it on to the news. One car chase outside Detroit replays every thirty minutes. A carrier tried to escape with his family. He used to be a high school art teacher until he was identified as a carrier and dismissed from his job. I shouldn’t watch. It’s just a blatant ploy to sensationalize what’s happening, but I’m helplessly captivated, watching as the Mini Cooper drives off a bridge and crashes into a gravel pit, killing the entire family instantly. A wife and two small children. They show footage of the burning car. For a split second, you can even see the dark shadows within the vehicle.
All that night, I dream of dying in a car explosion, flames licking at my flesh, devouring me as I fight to get out. The weird part is my family stands outside the vehicle, watching me trapped inside the car, doing nothing to reach me or put out the fire. Mom, Dad . . . they make no move to help me. Even Mitchell. He weeps and pulls at his hair, but can do nothing.
I can’t deny that I feel a bit like that in reality. That my family is doing nothing, merely standing on the sidelines as I go up in flames. They’re passively watching everything happen to me. There’s nothing they can do. I know this. I said as much to Mitchell when he suggested we run away. Still, I can’t help feeling abandoned.
Walking into the kitchen, I find Mitchell watching TV. All evidence of the one he broke is gone. Someone moved a television from a guest room into the kitchen. It’s smaller and sits on the counter. Mitchell balances his weight on a bar stool in front of it.
“Hey.” He looks up, his spoon freezing from scraping the last of his yogurt from the container.
“Hi.” My gaze drifts to the screen and the protestors congregating in front of the White House. An anti-Agency group waves posters and shouts at the anti-carrier group. The anti-carrier group outnumbers the anti-Agency group. Police patrol on horseback, trying to prevent rioting in the clogged streets.
I grab a soda from the fridge. “Isn’t there anything else on television?”
He flips the channel to a local station. Instead of its regular television show, a reporter stands outside Oak Run, a faith-based summer camp in Kerrville where kids learn the Bible alongside how to rock climb. A few of my friends went there. I never did. Mom always sent me to music camps and voice programs throughout the summer instead.
The reporter tells us that the government has requisitioned the camp for carriers. With housing for six hundred campers, staff not included, it’s an ideal setup for all carriers in South and Central Texas. I assume it’s where I’ll be going whenever they get around to collecting me.
I lean on the counter and study the fortified fences with winding ropes of barbed wire at the top. Guards with guns man the front gate and roam the fence line. Several red-colored buildings dot the background, nestled in the hills among thick trees.
It is just one of many new internment camps popping up across the country overnight, rushing to meet the demand. Staring at the screen, I feel my throat closing up.
Mom strolls into the kitchen. “What do ya’ll want for dinner tonight?” She looks at me. “Davy, you could make your delicious French toast?”
I blink at her, hating how she’s acting as though everything is fine. Normal. When it’s so . . . not. “I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Oh.” She looks down at her hands, and I feel wretched. I don’t know how much time I have here. I’d rather spend what’s left getting along. I walk over and kiss her on the cheek.
“Let’s order Chinese,” I suggest, wrapping an arm around her. She relaxes, softening against me.
Her lips curve in a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That sounds good.” I scan her face, trying to memorize it, realizing I don’t know when I’ll see her again—after they take me. The gray is starting to appear at her temples and I realize she’s behind on coloring her hair. She’s usually so on top of stuff like that.
“It will be okay, Mom.”
She nods, and I realize this is as much as we’ll ever discuss about it—about me. Her daughter with HTS.
And that’s okay.
I don’t expect her to save me. I don’t expect anyone to do that. I’m alone in this. Just like Sean said. Whatever happens, I don’t have anyone. I have to learn to live with that.
The knock at the door finally arrives.
Only it’s not Pollock. It’s a woman. Dressed in a sleek pantsuit, her dark hair pulled back into an equally sleek ponytail, she looks like what I imagined a government agent would look like.
With a flash of identification and murmured words I can’t hear from where I lurk in the living room, Mom ushers her inside.
“Davy, this is Ms. Stiles.”
“Agent Stiles,” the woman corrects.
Mitchell enters the room and his entire demeanor changes. He pulls back his shoulders as though bracing for a punch. I notice the way his eyes follow the agent.
She smiles at me. “And you must be Davina.”
“Davy.”
Her smile stays in place. “Davy. Yes. I’ve heard a lot about you. Or read, rather.”
“Really? What have you read?”
“Oh, this and that. You’re an accomplished young lady.” Young lady? Not carrier? Not killer? “Your college essay was particularly good. You have a way with words. I even saw your recording for Juilliard.” She nods in approval. “Very impressive.”
She had access to my college essay? My audition tape? What else did she know about me?
“Can I offer you a drink, Agent Stiles?” My mother, ever polite.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I have several more houses to visit in the area today. I’ll be quick.”
Other carriers? My pulse quickens, wondering if she’s going to call on anyone I know. Any of the carriers from Keller. Sean. Gil.
She opens her satchel and pulls out a few sheets of paper. “This is a contract for Davy to attend a government-managed training school.”
She hesitates, looks at me, then Mom. Like she wants this to sink in before she continues.
“You mean Davy doesn’t have to go to one of those detention camps on TV?” Mitchell gets to the point.
Mom’s face creases in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. . . . H
ow is it different?”
“In lieu of entering into a detention camp, Davy can receive specialized training. Only a select number of carriers are receiving invitations to this program.”
Mom takes the papers, hope starting to wash away her confusion. “What kind of special training?”
“For how long?” Mitchell cuts in.
“Instructors will train Davy and other carriers between the ages of twelve and eighteen to better . . . channel their destructive tendencies. They’ll be given the tools to not only function in society but to serve their communities . . . their countries.”
I can only stare. My heart races. It’s too good to be true. I could be part of the world again. I could belong . . . and serve a purpose. Be more than a dishwasher. More than someone it is okay to abuse.
Mom skims the papers. It’s doubtful she’s even reading them the way her hands tremble. Like me, she probably only hears what the agent is offering me. She clutches the papers like someone might dare to wrest them away from her and steal this future from me.
Mitchell cocks his head. “Why Davy?”
Stiles studies him a moment before answering, “Your sister was an exceptional student. A talented musician and singer. We’re looking for carriers like her that showed promise in their past lives. . . .”
Past lives? Like I’ve died and am now reborn into something else, something less, something bleak and undesirable. A blight.
She continues, “Young carriers who possess special qualities and skills we can optimize.” Her gaze falls on me, and she smiles vacantly. “It is our belief that you can be taught . . . your violent urges redirected into something more positive.”
You can be taught. Something about those words makes me feel like a dog being sent to obedience school. I dismiss the feeling though. She’s offering salvation, an escape from a detention camp.
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