Scan

by Walter Jury

  David gives me another nervous glance, but he can’t hide his smile as he walks forward with his offering. I’m having trouble hiding my smile, too, because damn. Even after having her head split open, this girl can turn on the charm.

  She takes the pills and lies back on the pillow, closing her eyes. “I’m so tired,” she says, reaching for my hand. Her grip is pretty weak, but I feel the silent request for me to stay by her side. So I do, and soon her hand relaxes and her breaths become even and deep.

  “You guys have been through a lot,” David comments, pulling a broom from a nearby closet and sweeping up discarded gauze patches and bloody blond locks of hair. “When she became fully conscious, I was worried that she’d suffered a more serious brain injury, because she wouldn’t speak. Then I realized she was just really scared.”

  I remember hearing her laughter as I came down the hall. “How did you get her to talk to you?”

  He stops sweeping and looks at her. “I told her you and your mom were nearby and would see her soon. And then, I don’t know. I started talking about my day. You know, stupid stuff.”

  “Stupid stuff,” I mumble.

  “Yeah. I guess she decided no one with a life as boring as mine could be a threat to her, because she relaxed.”

  “Thanks for taking care of her.”

  “My pleasure,” he says.

  I bet.

  “Did you go to medical school or something?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Ah, no. I wanted to, but we’re not really allowed—” His lips press together in a thin line, and he starts over. “I apprenticed under Francis. He’s the chief medic here.”

  “Is he off today?”

  His bloodshot eyes meet mine. “He’s two rooms down.”

  “Working?”

  “Dying.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  David shrugs. “We all knew it was coming.”

  I shake off the sudden chill that seems to have invaded the room. “He’s been sick awhile?”

  “Yeah. Skin cancer.”

  I think of the guy I passed earlier, the one with the weird lesions on his pale face. “That happen a lot around here?”

  David keeps sweeping, but his shoulders are stiff. “It’s called xeroderma pigmentosum. Basically, your skin can’t fix itself after a sunburn. And yes.”

  I’ve read about this condition. It’s incredibly rare. But around here . . . all the dark curtains on the windows of the cabins and the lodge. The baby carriage with the heavy covering. The people wearing hoods and long sleeves in eighty-degree weather. “And it’s genetic,” I add, starting to feel sick.

  His laugh is dry as a desert and bitter as hell. “Yep. Autosomal recessive. How’d you guess?”

  Christina shifts in her sleep, and I realize I’m clutching her hand tighter than I should.

  In isolating his family to protect them from the H2, Rufus has exposed them to an enemy just as deadly. A stagnant gene pool. Xeroderma pigmentosum is the kind of thing that can spread when your second cousin is also your father, when your aunt is also your mother.

  The Bishops are destroying themselves.

  And I can tell from his pale skin and the way he hides from the sun that David is one of the victims.

  “Why do you stay?” I ask.

  “Because we’re safe here.” He looks back at Christina. “She’s safe here, too.” The longing in his voice is painful. I can see how badly he wants to touch her, how deeply this fantasy crush has sunk its teeth into him.

  I wonder what he would do if he knew what she was.

  I have a choice to make, right now. I can make this guy my enemy, or I can try to make him my friend. I think he’s a good guy, and for Christina’s sake, I nod. “You made sure of that today, and I’ll never forget it.”

  For a second, we look at each other, and I have a strong feeling he’s in the process of making the same decision about me. After a few moments, he seems to have made it. He lowers his eyes from mine and laughs quietly to himself. “No problem.”

  I have no idea what he’s decided.

  He puts the broom away in the closet and walks to the door. “When she wakes up, she can go. She might be dizzy and headachy, but there’s no reason she has to stay here. Just stick close to her. The stitches can come out in a week.”

  This is the best news I’ve heard all day. Maybe we’ll be able to get out of here tonight. “Thanks.”

  David pulls up his hood. “Yeah. I need to go tell Uncle Rufus. He’ll be thrilled.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I guess Timothy didn’t catch you before you came down here. Rufus has decided to host a gathering to celebrate your dad’s memory tonight. The three of you are the guests of honor.”

  RUFUS BISHOP THROWS A MIGHTY IMPRESSIVE SHINDIG.

  It seems like everyone in the entire compound has been working all day to put this thing together. There are paper lanterns strung along the beams over the long tables in the main lodge, centerpieces made out of cattails and a bunch of other meadow flowers, and a lot of food that was probably roaming the woods or swimming in the nearby pond this morning. Apparently they brew their own beer here, too; there are two kegs of it set up on the upper level of the main room, and everybody has a mug in their hands.

  As we walk in with my mom, Christina holds my hand tightly. When I got her back to the guest cabin a few hours ago, she basically told me to get lost, then spent two hours in the bathroom with my mom in what I can only describe as some kind of female bonding ritual. One centered on getting her hair to look normal despite the large white bandage taking up most of the left side. As much as I care about her, I really couldn’t help, so I spent the time strolling around the compound. Smiling and greeting people. Watching and learning.

  The security around this place is nuts, and yet I’m betting half the folks here aren’t even fully aware of it. They only know to stay inside the fence, or else. The system seems as geared toward keeping them in as it is toward keeping intruders out, but it’s difficult to see if you don’t know what you’re looking for.

  Fortunately, I do. I’m fairly sure my father designed the system. I remember seeing very similar plans in his files.

  About a dozen yards beyond the decrepit split-rail fence that surrounds the compound, the actual perimeter defense begins. Powered by the impressive solar array in the clearing, the tree-mounted cameras are at the level of an average man’s chest, sweeping their electronic eyes back and forth in a narrow path, which tells me one thing. It’s not focused on surveillance; it’s an invisible fence, extending from the ground to at least twenty feet up, judging by the movement and angle of the cameras. If someone crosses its path, two things will happen. Alarms and defensive response. I took a chance and wandered along the fence a ways, until I spotted them—almost perfectly camouflaged, high-powered, fully automated rifles. The defensive response around here is pretty lethal.

  The Bishops could bag a lot more than deer with this system.

  Yeah, I learned a lot while my mom was sequestered with Christina in the bathroom. And what I’m learning right now is that my mom’s a genius in more ways than one, because Christina looks incredibly good considering what she’s been through today. Her thick, blond hair is clean and shining and covers the bandage completely. My mom even managed to get Christina a light purple dress, which fits her slender figure pretty well but is a little long for my tastes—though as I watch every male in the room turn in her direction, I’m suddenly really glad for that.

  I put my hand on the small of her back, and she looks up at me. We haven’t gotten a chance to talk, and she has no memory of most of what happened today, including our kiss in the van, and how we worked together to fight off Race and his men. I really don’t know where I stand with her. “How are you feeling?” I ask, hoping she’ll give me a hint.

  “Like someone pl
ayed soccer with my head as the ball,” she says with a brave smile. “But I’m all right.”

  I lean down and kiss her temple, relieved when she doesn’t pull away. “We don’t have to stay long.”

  “Just stay close to me, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  Rufus is sitting at the head of one of the tables, and he lifts his mug in our direction and gestures for us to join him. His curly white hair is in stringy ringlets around his head; it’s pretty hot in here. It might be the roaring fire at the other end of the room, licking at the carcass of a spitted pig. I feel really sorry for the guys who drew the short straw and are having to turn the crank.

  My mother, who has acquired herself a plain blue dress with a straight neckline, introduces “Christina Alexander” before giving me a pointed be careful look and heading over to greet Esther and a pasty guy I assume is Mr. Esther—and who may also be her brother or a first cousin. I shudder, trying not to think of exactly how much inbreeding produces so many cases of xeroderma pigmentosum.

  Rufus greets Christina with a grandfatherly handshake. If I didn’t already know he hates Brayton Alexander with a fiery passion, I never would have guessed by the way he’s treating Brayton’s “niece.”

  “We’re so glad you came through all right, young lady,” he says to her, patting her hand. “Hell of a thing.”

  “David is an excellent doctor,” Christina replies with a winsome smile. She’s wearing her charm like chain mail, and now I get why she wanted to look good tonight. It wasn’t vanity. It was the need to protect herself.

  Rufus nods at her, then glances over at David, who’s manning one of the kegs and has been looking over here every few seconds. “He was always a smart boy. My youngest sister’s son.” He makes a little cross gesture over his chest, which I’m guessing means she’s dead. I wonder if she had the same illness her son has, or if she was just a carrier.

  The music starts all of a sudden, a piano played by a ghost-pale woman and a fiddle in the hands of a boy who looks no more than ten. A guy about my age drags a slightly older girl in a flowered dress into the middle of the floor, and they start dancing.

  I feel like I’ve stepped into some kind of pioneer movie.

  Rufus gives me a nod. “Take your girl onto the dance floor before I steal her away from you,” he says almost cheerfully. Then he winks at Christina, whose fingers curl into my sleeve.

  I try to read her expression. She’s smiling, but even under the warm lights, she looks pallid. “I’m not sure she—”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to dance with me, Tate Archer?” she asks playfully. Her grip on me doesn’t let up.

  I snake my arm around her waist. “Well, since you’re twisting my arm . . .”

  She sticks her tongue out at me as we walk down the stone-tiled steps toward the dancers. It’s such a familiar, adorable gesture, the kind of thing she’s done to me a thousand times across a crowded cafeteria or as she’s running by on the soccer field, and it fills my chest with golden happiness. I swing her onto the dance floor without a backward glance at Rufus. All I care about right now is the girl next to me.

  We join the crowd in front of the fireplace. Most of the dancers are young, either our age or a few years older, and they perform like . . . well, like it’s the only thing they do for fun here. They weave their way around us with agile, rapid-fire steps, smiling and laughing and . . . checking us out. Christina and I are more accustomed to the kind of scene where you just bounce up and down with your arms in the air. Or, really, I am. She’s a bit more graceful. The guys around us appear to be noticing. I see more than one girl looking pouty while her partner stares at Christina.

  I circle my arm around Christina’s back and stroke my fingers down her cheek. “You look beautiful.”

  My breath catches when she raises her head and captures me with her dark blue eyes. In them, I see the fire. Not a reflection of the flames in the fireplace, but the part of her I was so afraid I’d lost to a bullet today. The part of her that strips me down and builds me up at the same time.

  Christina smiles; she seems to know the effect she has on me, and I think she enjoys it. She reaches up and brushes my hair off my forehead. “So do you,” she mouths. Then she pushes away and holds on to my hands while she moves her feet in this boxy step that most of the people on the floor are doing right now. “We’ll be able to show off at prom!” she says, laughing.

  I do my best to keep up, but really, I’m pathetic, which is okay because it keeps her giggling. I’m not usually so off-kilter, but Christina is a powerful distraction. It’s not because she’s gorgeous, even though she is . . . It’s because she’s here, alive, conscious, and for the moment, we’re safe. With all the security here, I have trouble believing Race Lavin would come crashing in. Oddly, right now, prom feels possible, like we could step from this world and end up there, like it wouldn’t be that hard to leave all this behind and reenter our lives from last week.

  The other dancers let us monopolize the center of the floor while they whirl wildly around the perimeter. Christina and I stay close and keep our steps light. Hers falter every once in a while. She’s not confident on her feet tonight, and I keep my arms around her, ready to catch her if she falls.

  But I don’t even get a whole dance with her before the first guy takes his shot. He’s an inch or so shorter than Christina, but about twice as wide. He taps me on the shoulder, then shakes my hand with enough bullshit macho squeeze action to make me want to pull guard like I’m in a jiu-jitsu tournament and teach him a thing or two. Instead, I smile and squeeze back. And okay, maybe I lean over him a bit to remind him what a freaking hobbit he is, but then I sidestep and introduce him to Christina.

  After all, she’s the reason he’s here.

  He invites her to dance, and I ask her, “Are you up to this?”

  She tilts her head and smiles at the hobbit. “Will you take it easy on me?”

  His grin is huge. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He grasps her hand, much more gently than he did mine, thankfully. Then I’m watching him do a waltz or a jig or whatever it is, and she’s laughing and stepping on his feet and he’s staring at her face with a look that reminds me uncomfortably of that dude who was jacking off in his car.

  I remove myself from the dance floor but keep a close eye on Christina, wondering if I need to put an end to the hobbit’s fantasy. Someone pushes a mug into my hand. “I think she can handle him,” says Rufus with a rough chuckle. “Come on up here and keep me company.”

  I follow him up the steps toward the tables, catching a glimpse of my mother chatting amiably with a bunch of red-cheeked middle-aged women who keep turning their heads and raking me with glances that give me chills. The bad kind.

  By the time I get to the table, someone else has interrupted the hobbit’s fantasy, a guy with massive shoulders who looks like he could snap the kid in half. The hobbit hands Christina over and watches with a resentful glare as Shoulders whisks her away. My hand tightens over the handle of the ceramic mug. It feels like we’ve jumped straight from a pioneer movie to the hillbilly edition of The Bachelorette.

  “We raise our boys to be gentlemen,” Rufus says to me. “They just don’t get a chance like this very often.”

  I look over at Rufus, at the merry but razor-edged twinkle in his eye. This is his empire, half a mile wide, almost completely self-sufficient, surrounded by an invisible but lethal fence that keeps the outside world outside. What kind of man makes his own kingdom like this? What drove him to do it?

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  He finishes off his mug and slaps it onto the table. His mustache is all frothy. “About eighty years ago, my grandfather decided to take our family underground. It was after the Cermak assassination, actually. After the H2 made it clear they would come after us in a blatant, public way if we stepped out of line. We’ve be
en a few different places, but here? Ah, maybe forty years. My father sent me away to college, and I worked for Black Box for a while. I came back about twenty years ago, but I stayed involved with the company until I realized how corrupt it had become.”

  He glances at my mug. I take a sip and am surprised at how good it tastes. I take another gulp, and then I say, “So . . . Black Box . . .”

  “It’s a front. A means of income for The Fifty families, as well as a source of power and influence to counterbalance the threat of the Core. But the real action is behind the scenes—our best minds, thinking two steps ahead. Or in your father’s case, four steps ahead. Black Box was intended to be the way we’ll protect ourselves when the Core decide to eliminate us, though some idiots believe that would never happen.” He grunts. “You’re mechanically inclined, like your father was.”

  I shrug. “Sort of.”

  “Don’t be modest. Fred was proud of you. Last time I saw him, he told me you’d invented a liquid-transfer system for DNA assembly using some automated Lego toys of yours.”

  Warmth creeps up my neck. My dad told him about that? “It was just a class project.” One I now hold the patent for.

  He chuckles. “Just like your dad. The H2 were able to take over this planet because they were centuries ahead of us in terms of their technology. They might have lost their tech when they landed all their spaceships in the ocean, but they knew what they were doing.”

  “From what my mom told me, they’ve reclaimed most of the wreckage.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Except for what the Archers found. With his discovery, your dad gave us the power to easily know enemy from friend. He gave us the ability to control our fate.”

  I watch the dancers as I think about that. Rufus wants to use the scanner the same way he thinks the H2 will. I’m not sure I buy the idea that the H2 would breed humans out of existence, though, because what would that change? Most H2 don’t even know what they are anyway, and the human population is dropping every day. And yet, the Core is coming after the scanner like it’s something they desperately need, so I agree with Rufus that they don’t just want it for the sake of having it. They want it to use it.