Lockdown (The Fringe #4)

by Tarah Benner

  Then I was the one examining sick people, taking blood samples, and running tests. I didn’t have time to consider what it’s like to be a real patient. I just learned that the scrubs and lab coats weren’t so glamorous and the medical ward wasn’t that clean.

  Even when I was quarantined with Harper and Eli and Caleb the first time, it didn’t feel like real life. It felt like a bad dream with a really bizarre cast of characters.

  But the gaping wounds in my chest are a harsh reminder that this isn’t a dream, and being a real patient is annoying beyond belief.

  Even though we’re in the isolation zone, there seems to be a doctor or a nurse in our room every five minutes. They rattle in with their carts at all hours of the day covered in green plastic to ask me and Caleb the same inane questions:

  How are you feeling?

  Shitty.

  Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?

  I just got stabbed in the chest.

  Are you experiencing any other symptoms?

  No.

  Do you feel winded? Tired?

  Tired of these questions.

  I know what they’re doing. They’re trying to pinpoint exactly when my symptoms set in so they’ll know how long I have to live. More importantly, they want to know how long it will be before they have a full-blown epidemic on their hands.

  I should cooperate, but I’m just so angry.

  All I can think about is how I spent all my years in higher ed studying and the past five months killing myself to get ahead. Now instead of being a doctor in Progressive Research, I get to be some other intern’s project. Then I’ll be dead.

  “You look good,” says Caleb sarcastically, striding out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

  He just got out of the shower, and he’s changed into a pair of comfy-looking sweatpants and a black band T-shirt with the words “Killer Katz” written in neon lightning-bolt letters.

  “I’m wallowing,” I admit, kicking back my covers with a sigh.

  “You should make them bring you some real clothes,” he says, gesturing to my hospital gown and no-slip socks. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Caleb gestures to his shirt. “This is my favorite T-shirt, and I never fucking get to wear it anymore. I figure if I’m gonna die, I might as well die wearing my favorite T-shirt.”

  I like the way he rolls his eyes on the word “favorite,” and I find myself smiling despite his depressing reason for wearing it.

  “Okay,” I say, pressing the button on my bed to summon a nurse.

  “I was also thinking . . . we should do some stuff we don’t normally get to do. We really missed a prime opportunity the last time we were in here.”

  “A prime opportunity for what?”

  “We’re dying,” he groans, dragging out the last word with wide eyes. “We need to live — it — up.”

  My smile widens, half in amusement and half out of embarrassment.

  Truthfully, I’ve been working hard for so long that I’m not even sure I know how to “live it up.” Celdon was always better at that than I was, and I can’t even remember how many times I passed up a night in Neverland to study.

  “What should we get?” I ask, feeling emboldened by my suddenly shorter lease on life.

  “I dunno. Booze for sure. Maybe some surge.”

  “I don’t think we can ask the nurse to bring us surge.”

  “What about deep-fried cinnamon rolls from the commissary?”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . now we’re talking. But I want some sweet-and-sour eggplant from the canteen. And a cream soda.”

  Just then, I hear the loud beep announcing the nurse’s arrival. There’s a long delay as she struggles with her hazmat suit, and Caleb and I fight a sudden fit of uncontrollable laughter.

  “What is it?” she asks, panting through the mic as she steps into the room.

  “I have some requests,” I say, pressing my lips together as I try to summon a more somber expression.

  “S-sure,” stutters the nurse. Poor thing. She must be new.

  “Can you send a courier to my compartment and dig out my ‘I Survived VocAps and All I Got Was This T-shirt’ shirt?”

  Caleb tries to stifle a laugh, but it comes out as a snort instead.

  “Harper gave that to me,” I mutter.

  “Umm . . .”

  “And my purple sweatpants.”

  “And booze,” Caleb adds.

  “I’m not sure we can . . . get that for you.”

  “We’re on our death beds,” I say in my most offended tone.

  “Uhh . . . well . . .”

  “And some surge,” says Caleb, utterly oblivious to the nurse’s stammered objections.

  “And some fried cinnamon rolls and sweet-and-sour eggplant.”

  “R-right,” says the nurse, looking up at the ceiling as though she’s making a mental list. “I really can’t get you any surge.” She looks extremely stressed out, and I almost feel bad for the girl. “I’d lose my job, and Neverland is shut down anyway.”

  “But you can hunt down a couple cinnamon rolls, right?”

  “I-I’m not sure. The commissary is on lockdown, but . . . I’ll see what I can do.”

  The nurse backs out of the room looking dazed, and Caleb and I collapse into a fit of hysterical laughter. It hurts my chest where I was stabbed, but I don’t care. I don’t remember the last time I laughed this hard.

  After a while, I start to doubt that the nurse is going to come through. But just before dinnertime, she reappears with a plastic crate filled with the most bizarre assortment of end-of-life treats.

  Caleb and I tear into the box, and before I know it, we’re lounging side by side on my bed in our favorite sweatpants, gorging on synthetic beer, deep-fried cinnamon rolls, and some sort of vegetable dunked in sweet-and-sour sauce.

  “Is it sad that this is the most fun I’ve had since before higher ed?” I ask.

  Caleb turns on his side and lays his head on his outstretched arm. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Ever since I got on the Health and Rehab track, all I’ve thought about is scoring high on my VocAps test and then doing well enough to get into Progressive Research.”

  “You never partied in higher ed?”

  “I mean . . . occasionally . . . but only because I felt like I should. And even when I was partying, all I could think was, ‘Every second I slack off, someone else is working to get my spot.’”

  When I look up, Caleb is staring at me with an expression of mock horror.

  “What?” I shriek, feeling embarrassed.

  “Nothing. I just . . .” He looks momentarily lost for words, but I’m not sure if that’s the booze or if he genuinely doesn’t know what to make of me. “I’ve always liked that about you . . . how intense you are.”

  There’s a brief awkward pause, and he adds, “But I never knew you didn’t know how to have fun.”

  “I know how to have fun!” I protest. “I just never did.”

  He concedes with a laugh and then schools his expression as though he’s about to deliver a bad prognosis. “Lemme guess . . . helicopter parents?”

  “No. My parents never tried to control me, but there was always this sense that if I didn’t get into Health and Rehab like they were . . . they’d be disappointed in me.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. You’re saying your parents are in Health and Rehab?”

  I nod.

  “So I’ve met them?” He looks startled. “Sawyer, you could have warned me before I met your parents and made an ass out of myself.”

  “No. You haven’t met them.”

  I take a deep breath and sit up, dreading his reaction to what I’m about to tell him.

  “My parents are on a virtual hiatus.”

  “A what?”

  “In Progressive Research, there’s a special division working on virtual-reality technology to let people take mental vacations.”

  “Like a v
ideo game?”

  “Exactly. Doing things people used to do before Death Storm: surfing, scuba diving, hiking . . . It’s supposed to be more relaxing than a ‘live’ vacation because you’re locked into the virtual environment. You can stay completely immersed for however long you want.”

  “Weird!”

  To my relief, Caleb seems more preoccupied with the idea of a mental vacation than horrified by my parents’ bizarre life choice.

  “Wait. So your parents are . . .”

  “They were the head researchers on the project. They’ve been testing the virtual hiatus they designed for years.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I shrug. “They’ve been immersed in the program since my second year of higher ed.”

  “Are you saying that your parents have been plugged into a video game for the past two and a half years?”

  “Yeah. Their bodies are essentially on life support, but their minds are completely engaged.”

  “Holy shit. When do they come out?”

  “They’re scheduled to emerge at the end of this year. If they’re able to integrate back into everyday life with no complications, they’re going to start testing the technology on a larger scale.”

  “Wow,” murmurs Caleb. He still looks fascinated instead of horrified, which I take as a good sign.

  There’s a brief pause, and then he says, “I wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Take a ‘virtual hiatus’ or whatever.”

  “Why? The technology is so good that you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the fantasy and reality.”

  “I would know,” he says in a confident voice. “They can make those games as real as they want, but there are certain things you can’t replicate.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this.”

  Before I have a chance to ask what he’s talking about, Caleb leans over and plants a soft kiss on my lips. The sensation is so unexpected and shocking that I let out a quiet gasp.

  He pulls back, and those light-green eyes twinkle in an endearing way.

  “I figure we might be dead next week,” he says with a shrug. “I’d be real mad at myself if I never —”

  But I don’t even hear the rest. I take his head between my hands and pull him back in, tasting those soft, tentative lips that I’ve been staring at for months. He kisses me slowly and carefully, exploring my mouth at every angle to see what I like.

  His fingers work their way through my hair, and he tugs on the ends absently as though he likes the way it feels. Then he pulls my hair a little harder — probably by accident — and I feel myself deepen the kiss.

  Everything inside me that’s been so tightly wound starts to unravel. My face grows hot and tingly, and that electricity trickles down my chest and spreads through my limbs.

  My hands cup the back of his neck and then wander down his chest. Feeling bold, I clutch the hem of his shirt and freeze.

  My heart is hammering, but my hands feel clumsy and inexperienced. I’m not the ripping-off-clothes type of girl. I’m the type of girl who gets her head stuck in her own turtleneck.

  But then I think, Fuck it. I’m going to be dead next week anyway.

  I slowly start to pull his shirt up — almost like a sneak attack — and my chest aches as the movement tugs at my stitches. Caleb must read the pain in my expression, because he yanks it the rest of the way over his head.

  That was easy.

  I stare at his bare chest for half a second. He’s got a round sticker on his chest that allows the doctors to monitor his vital signs remotely. I’ve got a matching one in the exact same spot, but I’ve also got a big bandage taped over my chest.

  When he moves to help me out of my shirt, I hesitate.

  “Don’t,” I say, all the while wishing he would.

  “What is it?”

  “Look at me,” I sigh, gesturing to the bandages.

  “I want to,” he says, staring into my eyes with disarming sincerity. “I don’t care about that.”

  I don’t say anything right away. My heart is pounding, and we’re both breathing hard.

  Then I nod. Caleb grins, and it’s a wide grin that lights up his entire face and makes his eyes crinkle around the edges.

  Just like that, all my shyness evaporates. I dive in for another feverish kiss, and my shirt gets lost on the floor.

  I’m not even in pain any more. Caleb is running his hands all over me, carefully avoiding my stitches, and when he pulls back, he’s got this intense look in his eyes that makes everything slow down.

  He gives me another long, lingering kiss, and I pull him closer so I can press every part of my body against his. That sends him into a frenzy, and I feel as though my heart might beat right out of my chest.

  “This isn’t — just because — we’re dying,” Caleb pants between kisses.

  “I know.”

  “I wanted to kiss you — that day — in the shower.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He chuckles, and I feel the vibration rumble up my own chest. “You were upset. And I didn’t want you to associate our first kiss with that girl getting shot.”

  That statement is sweet in a way I can’t explain, and I feel the slight warmth in my stomach morphing into an urgent heat.

  He laughs again. “Stupid, right? Now you’re going to associate it with us being infect —”

  He falters as we both realize that there won’t be a time in the future to associate our first kiss with anything. I can feel the tears prickling in the corners of my eyes, but I pull him closer and cut them off with another kiss.

  I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen tomorrow or in five days’ time. I don’t want to spend the rest of the night feeling sorry for myself.

  For the next few hours, I don’t want to be a dying girl. I want to know what it’s like to live.

  twenty-eight

  Eli

  Even though I haven’t been around Owen in years, I can still look at his face and know exactly what he’s thinking. Right now, he’s thinking I’m about to cast him aside and send him back into the desert alone.

  When I walk in, his eyes swivel over and fix me with a disappointed expression I only saw a handful of times from Dad growing up. He’s lying on the bedroll with one arm over his forehead, his mouth tight and his eyes narrow.

  “I guess this is it,” he says, sitting up and slapping his hands on his knees.

  I don’t say anything right away. Part of me is still hoping he might give me an out — some excuse not to lie to him so we can use him to get to Malcolm.

  “It is what it is, Eli.” He shrugs and looks up at me with regret in his eyes. “I can’t change what happened, and I can’t take back whatever part I played in it.”

  “I know.”

  “Then what do you want me to say?” he sighs. “That I regret it? That it eats me up inside? I do and it does. But that’s no good to anybody. I can’t stop this thing. There are too many people involved. Malcolm’s men are gonna come for you, and when they do, I’m not gonna be here.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “What do you want, Owen?” I ask finally.

  “I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to walk out of here knowing you still hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  Owen’s expression lifts slightly.

  “I’ve wanted to, believe me,” I add quickly. “None of this should have happened — the virus, the killings — but we can’t change the past.

  “The way I see it, I have two choices: I can stay here and get killed, or Harper and I can take our chances out there.”

  Owen stares at me for a moment and then clears his throat. “I thought —” He breaks off. “I thought you didn’t want to leave.”

  “I didn’t,” I admit. “But I just talked to Harper. She’s scared. She was at 119 after the outbreak. She’s seen what this virus can do. It’s only a matter of time befo
re somebody out here starts showing symptoms, and then we’re all gonna be infected. We can’t stay here.”

  Owen scrunches his eyebrows together, looking confused. “So . . . where you gonna go?”

  “I was hoping we could go with you,” I say, glancing at him and then quickly averting my gaze. “We won’t last out there on our own — not with so many of your people around.” I tilt my head toward the open desert. “We’ve never been out there longer than a week.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.” I let out a deep breath. “Maybe you and I will reconcile . . . maybe we won’t. But at least we’ll have some time. If we stay here, we aren’t going to have much more of that.”

  Finally, Owen looks up and fixes me with that steely blue gaze of his. “Is this for real?”

  I nod.

  “You want to leave this place? The food, the clean clothes, the safety . . .”

  “Look around! Does this place seem very safe to you right now? Yesterday we were attacked, and tomorrow we’re probably going to be on our way to infection.”

  I pause, preparing myself for the big sell. “I love her,” I murmur. “I can’t watch her die. I think that would literally kill me.”

  Owen studies me for several seconds. I can tell he’s trying to gauge whether or not I’m serious about this and calculating the risks we’d pose to him.

  “I can’t make any guarantees,” he says. “It’s going to be dodgy for a while.”

  “I know.”

  “If I take you out there, I’m in charge. You don’t know what you’re doing. I do.”

  “I know.”

  “You can’t just run off half-cocked.”

  “I know,” I growl. “I was a lieutenant, Owen. You think I got there by not being able to follow orders?”

  “Well . . . you’re not a lieutenant anymore.” He nods at my baggy orange jumpsuit.

  “Unrelated issue.”

  “Whatever. I’m just saying . . . you already tried to shoot Malcolm once. If you or your girlfriend bring the others down on us, it’s my ass on the line, too.”

  “I know.”

  “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”

  I nod, feeling sick all over. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to lie to Owen, but I never imagined I’d feel this terrible about it.