Wild

by Mallory, Alex

  “Good.”

  Dr. Rice was both fast and slow. He didn’t seem rushed, but he managed to listen to Cade’s chest and belly, check his pulse, reflexes in his knees and elbows, and get a peek into his ears and throat before the sunlight shifted. Then he sat down, rolling his stool to the counter to write in the file and ask more questions.

  “All right, says here we need to stick you a whole bunch. When was your last booster shot?”

  “When I was a baby, I guess?”

  “You don’t remember getting updates when you were eleven or twelve?”

  Cade shook his head. MMR, his ghost mother whispered like a nursery rhyme. DTaP, IPV, my sweet little boy. Hib, HepB, Varicella, boo.

  With a wry smile, Dr. Rice said, “If that’s the case, we’re not going to be friends when you leave, I’m afraid.”

  “Then tell me about your zombie shirt now,” Cade replied.

  “All right, but remember, you asked.”

  The doctor grabbed the hem of the shirt. When he pulled it up, a painting of a decomposed face stared out. Bloody, gangrenous flesh, and rotted teeth—behind the fabric, Dr. Rice moaned something that sounded like braaaaiinnns. As quickly as he’d pulled the shirt up, he replaced it.

  His face was flushed, an impish smile dancing on his lips. “I don’t get to do that a lot.”

  Cade smiled because it seemed expected. He wasn’t sure why the doctor thought a corpse face was so funny. Dead bodies were dead. They melted back into the earth, fed new trees that grew from the soil. He could ask Ms. Fourakis about zombies on the way back to her house. Or maybe he could find the answer himself on her tiny tablet phone.

  “All right, my assistant is going to replace your dressings and get your shots updated. Do you have any concerns? Questions for me?”

  “No.”

  “Should we talk about sexually transmitted infections?”

  At that, Cade laughed genuinely. “No.”

  “Sure?”

  “More than,” Cade replied. Retying his robe, he watched Dr. Rice gather his things and head for the door. Just before he left, though, Cade asked, “Is there a cure for AIDS yet?”

  That question broke Dr. Rice’s light demeanor. Just a crack, enough to reveal a curious, thoughtful man beneath the irreverence. Holding the door open, Dr. Rice studied him for a long time. Then he said, “I’m afraid not. Do you need to be tested, Cade?”

  Pulling the robe onto his shoulders again, Cade shook his head. “No. I was just wondering.”

  The door closed with a whisper, and another one threaded through Cade’s memory.

  They got smarter, Cade. Bacteria, viruses . . . they’re clever, clever things. They learn. They adapt. When they figured out how to break our immune system, that was the tipping point. No matter how much we planned and prepared, oh, especially when we did. We taught them to destroy us.

  Tightening his robe against the cold, Cade pushed those thoughts down, as far as they would go.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  THIRTY-THREE

  School was the worst it had been since Dara came back from spring break in an ambulance.

  It was sick how much she missed being whispered about. At least when it was classmates, she knew they were just curious. Barely anything happened in their small town. Of course people were interested.

  Then Jim Albee showed up just off campus. His presence broke the seal. Hunkered in the passenger seat of Sofia’s car, Dara covered her face as they slow-rolled into the parking lot. They had to, because the street was full of deputies and reporters, news vans and satellite trucks.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sofia said. “That’s CNN.”

  “They already know everything! What do they want?”

  Sofia shook her head, waiting for the deputy in front of her to turn his sign from Stop to Caution. Rubbing her own temple, Dara peered out her window. Sofia was right.

  Where the local stations usually milled together, a couple of national stations had set up camp as well. Yellow police tape clearly marked the line: on this side, free-for-all. On that side, trespassing like crazy.

  So far, it looked like the reporters were staying well in free-for-all territory. Which was fine. The lights and cameras were so alluring, students streamed that way on their own.

  “What is their deal?” Dara demanded. “It’s not that interesting!”

  Sounding a little guilty, Sofia said, “I’ve been watching some of it, and you’re so wrong. On TV, it’s the best soap opera ever.”

  “Sof!”

  “Well, it is.” She inched forward. “You’ve got Team Primitive Boy, and they’re hard-core subscribed to the truth. They’re like, he says he grew up in the forest with his parents, then that’s what happened. We like them. That’s our team.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dara wondered if she had any aspirin in her purse.

  “And there’s Team Hoax. Or Team Delusional, as I like to call them. They’re, like . . . okay, get this. One website took the pictures of Cade’s clothes, the ones he was wearing when they brought him to the hospital? And they’re doing, like, these epic Photoshop exposés.”

  “Buh?”

  “These seams prove he had a Singer Sew-Tastic Model 42 Derp! That leather is way too evenly tanned, he bought it online!”

  Still fumbling for aspirin, Dara stared at the chaos surrounding her school. It was like a Breaking News Story play set, complete with cordless microphones and real digital camera grip. Tossing a bitter pill onto her tongue, she swallowed it dry because there was no way she was taking a sip of Sofia’s mocha espresso. She was tense enough.

  Oblivious to Dara’s quiet, Sofia slapped her hands against the wheel. “And oh my god. Team Missing Link. Cade is Bigfoot. Or a Neanderthal. Maybe a Neanderthal Bigfoot. So yeah, those guys. I like them. They’re cryptid-crazy. And, Dare—”

  “Stop,” Dara said.

  “But I haven’t told you about Team National Security!”

  Wrenching off her seat belt, Dara unlocked her door. “The car, stop the car!”

  Sofia did, and Dara flung herself into the bright spring morning. Head pounding, the ache spread faster as her pulse rose. Stalking across the lot, she bounced off a car that was trying to sneak in the exit. Though they honked, she ignored it. Jerking her hoodie up, Dara glowered through her sunglasses as she walked up behind Josh.

  Clapping a hand on his back, she interrupted the interview he was giving. “Can I talk to you?”

  The reporter looked like he might wet his pants. “Wait a second, are you Dara Porter?”

  “No, I’m Taylor Swift,” Dara snapped.

  She walked away, and was glad Josh followed. It’s not like she could make him do it. Inside, she trembled. A sick, acid burn swirled in her stomach.

  Equally angry, Josh shoved his hands deep into his pockets. It’s how he kept himself from waving his hands. Since he was a big guy, that made people nervous and she knew it. Dara felt his tension. It tuned hers even higher.

  When they were fully on school property, she ducked behind an SUV. From there, the reporters couldn’t overhear, or train their cameras on them. She hoped.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Trying to help you!”

  Dara boggled. “What made you think I wanted you to talk to the press?”

  “I’m trying to tell them what really happened,” Josh said. His eyes flashed, and he bounced on his feet. It was an exercise he always did before a match to pump up and tune out. “They’re freaking crazy. They’re making up all this sh—”

  Dara cut him off. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I don’t think they want the truth,” Dara said. Tightening the strings on her hoodie, she peeked around the bumper. There hadn’t been any flashing lights before. Now, the cruisers all had their red and blues going. “I
t’s like . . . it’s like an idea they can build a story on, it has nothing to do with us. Or Cade. Or anything that really happened.”

  Josh slumped against the SUV. Thumping his head back against the windshield, he actually made the truck shift slightly. “What did really happen?”

  “You were there,” Dara said, confounded. Incredulous.

  Grinding his teeth together, Josh closed his eyes. Nostrils flaring like a bull’s, he gave a curt shake of his head then pushed off the truck. Hands loose, he dragged them through his hair, then spread them out helplessly. “I wasn’t.”

  “Josh, you drove. You . . .”

  “Like you said, I was there. And yeah, I drove. I carried that guy I don’t know how many miles. Big freaking deal, Dara. When it counted, when it mattered, he saved you. It sure wasn’t me. He got you out of the way, and I had to hide. I was two feet from that thing on the ground.”

  Words foundered on her tongue. She felt the impact again. The sick twist of her stomach. The bright flashes of pain in her ribs and her knees. Cade flew. He flew and dropped her, and . . . she’d seen Josh on the ground. Flat, facedown. Why hadn’t she thought about this before? In detail? Headache raging, Dara surrendered a helpless look.

  Her memories had already started to set. They were firm, immovable pieces of a play that had shown only once. Heat flashed beneath her hoodie, raising a sudden, unbearable sweat. She wanted to peel down to the skin and just breathe.

  Instead, she said, “Yeah, he pushed me out of the way, but he went back. He knew you were down there. If all he wanted to do was save me, he could have, and he could have run.”

  Offsetting his jaw, Josh said, “Uh-huh.”

  “What is the matter with you?”

  “You really wanna hear it?” Josh asked. He didn’t wait for her to reply. He backed her against the SUV. There was nothing dangerous about him. Crackling with anger, he bit out his words in a low, hard voice. “It used to be my job to take care of you! That’s who I was, that’s what I did!”

  “I don’t need you to take care of me,” Dara snapped.

  Furious, Josh pushed off the SUV. She didn’t get it, and never would. “It’s not about you, Dara. I needed it!”

  “If it’s not about me,” she demanded, “then what difference does it make?”

  Josh stopped short. All the difference in the world, he thought. But he realized he could scream it or whisper it, or write it in poems or in fireworks—she didn’t get it, and she never would.

  “Forget it,” he said.

  He walked away from her and they both felt the break. It was imperfect and jagged, and they pulled away on their own, individual halves. It was the first time he’d left without looking back; it was the first time she didn’t want him to.

  “This is crazy,” Ms. Fourakis said.

  She stood in her own front window, glaring at the intruders in her street. They were worse than kids playing hit-and-run. At least they knocked on the door, then ran away. These guys, in all their slick, too-shiny suits, knocked. And knocked again. And pounded, and peeked in windows.

  “I’m sorry,” Cade said.

  Resigned, Ms. Fourakis joked, “You should be. You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  Cade listed ever so slightly in the chair and gave her a look. She understood why. She’d signed the paperwork to get him what seemed like fifty thousand shots all at one time. Micro-fine needles—it felt more like he’d sat in some fire ants.

  “My very own teenager,” Ms. Fourakis said. She patted him on the shoulder as she passed by, back to her amused self. “How’d I get so lucky?”

  When she couldn’t see, Cade smiled.

  Everyone else around him, even Dara sometimes, sparked with tension. It was constant. He didn’t think they even knew it. But it was like watching animals just outside the ring of his firelight. The ones waiting for him to drop a scrap, or forget to tie up his cooler. Only the people stood much closer. And Cade wasn’t always sure what they wanted.

  Except for Ms. Fourakis. He had nothing for her, and she didn’t care. She still smiled at him, and made him watch movies over dinner. When Branson came, she sat nearby and rescued him from weird questions. She made it possible to relax.

  And she let him play with her toys. Cade turned her cell phone over in his hands. He was getting pretty good at it. Fingers sliding across the surface, he made it bleat and squeal. Then he touched a blue box that didn’t usually make a sound at all. This time, an alarm sounded.

  Ms. Fourakis popped her head out of the kitchen. “Don’t buy anything else from the app store.”

  With a sheepish smile, Cade nodded. It was his fault she had three different campfire icons now.

  Skimming past a familiar sort of drawing, Cade stood slowly. Someone pounded at the door, and in response, he pulled the shades closed. Still holding the phone aloft, he turned it to Ms. Fourakis as he entered the kitchen. “What’s a zombie?”

  “Braaaaaaaaains,” Ms. Fourakis replied. For the first time, something hooked the edge of her smile. She didn’t hesitate before speaking. Instead, the hesitation filled her voice. “They’re the living dead. They get infected and they die, then they come back. And then all they want to do is eat your brains and turn you into a monster, too.”

  Cade poured himself a glass of water. “Are they funny?”

  “No, scary.” Then, Ms. Fourakis backed up on herself. “Sometimes. They’re supposed to be scary, but they’re kind of funny, too. The CDC has a zombie survival guide.”

  A primal spark of fear lit in Cade’s chest. He knew what the CDC was. Where it was, what they did there. That was the place where the fall started. Engineered, but not intentionally. According to Cade’s mother, everyone had good intentions. She included herself in that. Shaking a sealed box in the back of their cave, its contents rattled ominously. There’s the road to hell right there, she said.

  Steeling himself, Cade asked, “So they’re real.”

  “No! Oh kiddo, no!” Abandoning her bag of chips, she slung an arm around his shoulder. Shaking him, gently, she enveloped him in her earthy, herbal scent. “They’re monsters. Imaginary monsters.”

  “Then why is there a survival guide?”

  Ms. Fourakis rasped a hand over his dreads, then let him go. “Because nobody believes the flu can kill you. It’s scary to think about natural disasters. It’s easier to plan for something terrible if the terrible thing is a game.”

  Before he could stop himself, Cade said, “My mother had a plan.”

  Casual as she picked up her chips, Ms. Fourakis rattled the bag and offered it to him. “Did she?”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Deputy Krause whistled under her breath as she walked into Sheriff Porter’s office.

  With a desk full of leads to follow, she probably should have chained herself to the desk. The interest in the Doe case refused to slack off, and every time she got up, she had ten more messages to answer.

  But there was something funny about one of the emails, and she wanted to run it past her boss.

  “How about that?” she asked. Sliding a couple of blurry 8x10s from a folder, she handed them to Sheriff Porter. Enlarged from email attachments, and printed on the office’s near-dead laser jet, the grainy pictures didn’t look especially compelling.

  They could have been taken anywhere, probably by somebody’s grandpa who didn’t realize he had to hold still to get a clear snap.

  Sheriff Porter abandoned his laptop to take a look. “Friend of yours?”

  “Nope.”

  Turning the desk lamp toward himself, Sheriff Porter flooded the photos with light. He leaned over them, spreading them out and scanning each face. Two men flanked a woman and a particularly gleeful baby. Streamers hung in the background, hints of a balloon bouquet, too.

  Something felt familiar in
the snapshot. He wondered if it was just a generic kid birthday. He’d seen so many, they blurred into a single, buttercream-and-chocolate-cake memory. One by one, he blotted out the faces on the picture with his fingertip. Not familiar, not familiar . . .

  When he stopped, Deputy Krause leaned in. “Sir?”

  Sheriff Porter tapped the woman’s face. “Who is this?”

  “Liza Walsh. Had some guy named Jupiter mail these in. He says he thinks that chick is our Doe’s mother.”

  That was it. Sheriff Porter saw it, then. The same oval face and neat hairline. Strong eyebrows and the tip of her head. He’d seen that face, a version of it, in his own basement. On a kid who climbed on furniture and stole books of poetry. Now that Sheriff Porter had a reference, he realized Cade’s expression hadn’t been sullen. It had been reserved.

  Emotion darted through him, both elated and cautious. For no reason except his gut told him so, Sheriff Porter believed this was the break they needed. The lead. A list of tasks filled his head. He had to talk to Swayle and Kelly Fourakis before the media sniffed out the lead. Or before “some-guy-named-Jupiter” sold his story to the National Enquirer.

  “Do we have better copies?” he asked.

  “I can get some.”

  Already dialing his phone, Sheriff Porter couldn’t stop staring at the picture. “Do that, would ya?”

  When a knock came at the back door, Dara was thrilled to ditch her AP history to answer it. The reporters preferred to swarm on the street out front. And since the back fed off the kitchen, she figured she had plenty of weapons in case one of them had decided to push their luck and sneak in from the alley.

  Rising on her toes, Dara tried to look out the half-moon window. Too short to get a good view, she took her chances and opened the door.

  “Hi,” Cade said. Sweat freshened his face, his skin ruddy from exertion.

  “Get in before somebody sees you,” Dara replied. She caught his wrist, hauling him inside. Quickly as she could, she closed the door. Then, she threw all three locks and collapsed against the frame. The quick burst of panic left her light-headed.