“You mean, if Carrie gets better,” Tucker muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind. I’m glad you and Greg didn’t find anyone at the barn,” Tucker said. “Those guys will kill us if they know you squealed on them.”
“Yeah.” Tucker had been quick to forgive Zach, but Delaney wouldn’t be.
The boys settled back. Normally Zach would have been thrilled at the chance of an extended sleepover, but he felt fidgety and he didn’t know why. The quarter-sized moon cast long, creepy shadows across Tucker’s floor.
“Do you think Carrie will die?” Tucker whispered.
Zach sat upright. “No! Don’t ever say that again.”
“But Chris said her brain is swelling, and she’s going to die. My dad said that we should be praying hard for her. He said we should pray for all of us, so we don’t die, too.”
“He did?”
Panic seized Zach’s chest. He couldn’t remember much of his childhood, but his parents’ deaths felt like yesterday. People kept telling him they would be okay. They wouldn’t let him see them because they swore they’d get better soon. Then they were gone. And now Greg wasn’t letting Zach see Carrie. Maybe Greg was lying, too. Maybe Carrie was going to die, and Greg was keeping Zach hidden away at Tucker’s.
What would Zach do if Carrie died? Live with Amber?
He grabbed his shoes. “Don’t tell anybody.”
“Where are you going?” Tucker said, sitting up.
“I forgot something at home. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“But it’s dark.”
Zach didn’t answer. He was already sliding open Tucker’s window.
* * * * *
Greg lay on Carrie’s moonlit floor, mind swirling even several hours later. The disease. The rebellion about to be stomped out. His own arrogance assuming Oliver had drafted a marriage license.
The guy bought her house.
Getting her picture had taken both men. They had propped her up against the wall and begged her to keep her eyes open for more than two seconds. She didn’t have enough sense to ask why they were torturing her. Thankfully, she still wore her mom’s blue blouse, helping the picture look a little more official.
Still, she looked like death.
Once Oliver took off, Greg had lain next to her mattress. He could barely see her shadowed form in the darkness, but he continued to hold her ice-cold hand. She no longer shivered. In fact, she was too still except her breathing which had become quite rapid in the last hour. He listened to every shallow breath, driving himself mad with worry.
It felt like his life was on repeat. Different women. Different illnesses.
Same outcome.
A sound downstairs brought his head off the carpet. Carrie’s back door slid open. Oliver wasn’t supposed to be back until morning, so hopefully this was good news.
Greg stood and stretched, and then he peeked out Carrie’s dark window. The moonlit driveway was empty.
No patrol car.
Not Oliver.
Another movement downstairs. Somebody sneaking around. Had he been asleep, he would have missed it, but as it was, his heart kicked into full throttle.
Somebody was breaking into Carrie’s house. A patrolman doing a silent raid? Vagrant wanderer needing a warm place to sleep? Homeless psychopath looking for a beautiful woman to cart off?
The adrenaline combined with a surge of rage.
Greg felt his way to the hallway and crept down the pitch-black stairs. Footsteps padded softly through Carrie’s kitchen on a direct path toward him. Greg pressed his back to the staircase wall and waited, wishing he had a club, bat, or something besides two clenched fists.
A dark shape started up the stairs.
Greg raised his fist to strike but suddenly stopped. The intruder was small. Too small. It almost looked like…
“Zach!” Greg barked, grabbing the kid’s shoulder. “What are you doin’ here?”
Zach jumped a foot and let out a blood-curdling scream, piercing the silent night. He bolted out of Greg’s grasp.
“Carrie!” Zach yelled. “Carrie!”
Greg chased him up the stairs and caught hold of his ankle. Zach went down, screaming her name even louder. Greg clamped a hand over his mouth, ready to give Zach a verbal lashing, but it was too late.
“Zach?” she called out groggily.
Carrie’s voice broke Greg’s concentration. Zach kicked free and scurried up the last steps. Greg followed. From Carrie’s doorway, he saw Zach’s dark shape throw himself over his sister’s body, breaking into hysterics.
“Zach?” she repeated more coherently. “What’s wrong?”
The young teen couldn’t even control himself enough to answer. He just sobbed into her blankets.
Greg’s instinct was to drop-kick him all the way back to Tucker’s. Another person exposed. But listening to the agony rip through the kid’s body, reasoning returned to Greg. Amber was right. They’d already been exposed. Plus, with Zach living in this house, technically he could get his yellow card, too.
Not that they had money to treat him.
With a deep sigh, Greg traipsed back downstairs and searched for a candle. By the time he returned, Carrie was stroking Zach’s thick hair.
“What happened, Zach?” she asked, near to tears herself.
When Zach still couldn’t answer, her sunken, tired, and squinting eyes moved to Greg for an explanation. Greg shrugged. Certainly a little startle—or even a big one—couldn’t have provoked this much emotion.
“Carrie,” Zach finally said, taking huge gulps of air between sobs, “you can’t…you can’t die, too.”
“What?” she said.
“They said your brain…and Greg wouldn’t let me see you, and…and…” That got Zach going again.
Carrie tried to glare at Greg. She had no clue that she was on a downward spiral induced by a government plague, and Greg couldn’t bear to tell her.
He left the candle in the hallway to ease the strain on her eyes and crossed the room to sit by Zach. Carrie rubbed Zach’s back but kept her pained glare on Greg. She waited for him to apologize and say he’d overreacted, to tell Zach she’d be fine. Greg refused, especially seeing how pale she looked.
“I’m just sick, Zach,” she whispered.
Zach wiped his nose on his sleeve. “But they said Mom was just sick, too. And then she and Dad, they…” He started sniffing again. “People said, ‘Go away, Zach,’ and I never…I never got to see them, and now Greg said I couldn’t come, and…and…” He buried his face in her blankets again and wailed.
The picture in front of Greg flipped. Carrie wasn’t Zach’s sister. She was the kid’s mom—or at least as close as he had to one.
Greg’s chest constricted, feeling Zach’s pain afresh.
“Sorry,” Greg whispered. “I didn’t realize.”
Carrie nodded tiredly.
Though he dreaded her reaction, it was time she understood the gravity of the situation.
“Zach,” Greg said, “Oliver is takin’ Carrie to the hospital in the morning.”
“What?” Carrie said at the same time Zach said, “Really?”
“It’s done, Carrie,” Greg said firmly. “No more fightin’ on this. Oliver will take you, and that’s that. It’s time to get you some meds.” If they even had medicine for this.
She closed her eyes and huffed every word. “I’m. Just. Fine.”
So fine that it took her a minute to open her eyes again.
Zach lifted his head. “Carrie, you have to go. Chris told Tucker that you’ll die without medicine.” His Adam’s apple bobbed, sending more tears down his freckled cheeks. “You can’t die, too.”
She gave a small sigh and stroked his hair again. “Fine. If it will make you feel better, Zach, I’ll go.”
Carrie tried to glare at Greg again, but Greg only felt relief. At least the kid had been good for something.
Turning, Zach looked up at Greg. “Can I sleep here tonigh
t, Greg? I promise to be real quiet. I won’t wake Carrie up. I swear.”
Greg had no fight left in him. “Sure, kid.”
Zach rested his head on her legs. Carrie’s eyes closed, too, but her pained grimace remained, making Greg wonder how it felt to have your brain swell. She continued to stroke Zach’s thick mop of hair, so Greg knew she hadn’t drifted off yet. It only took Zach a few minutes—seconds practically—before his breathing deepened into sleep. Lucky guy. Greg felt like he’d never sleep again.
“My eyes,” Carrie whispered, nearly inaudible.
“I know,” Greg said. “Just rest them. Here. I’ll blow out the candle.”
But before he could stand, she said, “They won’t focus.”
He froze.
She peeked one eye open at a time, blinked several times, and then shook her head.
She was losing her vision?
What other long-term effects would she have if they couldn’t get her help soon? You didn’t mess with the brain without it messing up other things. How long before her vital organs shut down? And what if Oliver couldn’t get her citizenship finalized?
If this had affected a healthy twenty-three-year old this much, what would it do to his grandma and the others?
He felt ill.
“Did…” Carrie took a slow breath. “Did Oliver take my picture?”
“Yeah,” Greg said. “We needed it for your yellow card.”
“Green card?”
She still thought she was the wife of a patrolman. Since she was awake anyway, Greg decided to work on that pained line between her eyes.
Sitting close to her head, he started massaging between her fevered brows. “You up for a story?” he whispered.
He felt the tiniest nod, so he told her everything. The papers. Being a homeowner. Even the little he knew about this G-979 virus and President Rigsby’s strategy.
“So you have to go tomorrow,” he said. “No negotiation.”
After a long pause—so long he wondered if she’d drifted back to sleep—she said, “A cure?”
A knot formed in his gut. Every nerve in his body went cold. Her eyes peeked open and found him above her in the darkness.
“There better be,” was all he could manage.
Shifting, she rubbed the side of her head behind her ear.
“Let me do that,” he said. “There?”
He tried to rub the spot she had, but she grabbed his hand and pressed it flat against her skull. Hard. Surprised, he followed her lead, hoping the extra pressure would alleviate the pain and not cause worse damage.
“Not married,” she said after another minute.
“Nope, so feel free to propose to me anytime, Miss Ashworth. Anytime at all. It’s killin’ me that everybody else is goin’ to the hospital, and I’ll be stuck here.” Although marrying Carrie wouldn’t work either since he was “dead” now.
“Trade you places,” she whispered.
His breath caught. “In a heartbeat.”
He traced her hot brow down her cheek to her jaw. Fire and fever followed. Leaning over, he kissed her dry, cracked lips. “Don’t leave me, Carrie girl. Alrighty?”
“Ditto.”
He frowned, remembering his promise. As a special operative, he could probably get her into the hospital without paperwork—or money. One call, one lie, and he would have it all back. Every perk.
Why fight for the greater good if you lost your last reason to live?
Carrie peeked an eye open.
The guilt ate at him. How could he rejoin Rigsby’s side knowing what the president was capable of? Knowing McCormick was in on it? Knowing that Kearney plus all the rebels could be dead already?
With a sigh, he said, “Don’t worry. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
That seemed to relax her, and her breathing started to slow like Zach’s. But before she could nod off, Greg reached over and grabbed the glass of water.
“Wait,” he whispered. “Before you fall back asleep, you need to drink somethin’.”
She groaned.
“I know, but you have to. C’mon. I’ll help you up.”
He nudged Zach awake, and the two of them eased her into a sitting position. Greg held her around her waist, letting her head rest against his arm.
“Ow,” she moaned, grabbing the back of her skull. “Ow.”
“We’ll be fast,” Greg said, lifting the water. “You just need a little—”
A sudden scream burst from Carrie’s lips.
She wrenched back.
Greg caught her before her head smacked against the wall. Eyes wild, she grabbed her stomach as a choking sound bubbled in her throat. It only took a second to realize what was happening.
“Zach,” Greg said, “grab a bucket!”
Zach stared in horror as Carrie suddenly vomited over the blankets.
“Zach!” Greg yelled.
Jumping up, Zach flew out of the room. Greg grabbed Carrie’s hair out of the way as she vomited again. Hardly anything came out—she’d hardly eaten—but she kept heaving over and over until it was nothing but air. Eight times. Nine. He held her tightly around the waist to keep her steady, praying with every ounce of his soul that it would stop. That it wouldn’t turn to blood.
When the retching changed to coughs and gasps for air, he knew he had a small window. She needed to be horizontal. He had to relieve the pressure in her head, but her pillow had been soiled. Mostly acidic water, so he flipped it over.
“Lie back,” he said. “Easy. Just ease down.”
Tears streamed down Carrie’s face as she lay on her pillow, cradling the back of her head.
“It’s okay.” He huddled close, stroking her face as his pulse hammered through his veins. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s okay.”
Her tears flowed harder, ripping at his heart. She looked terrified. He felt it. His hands shook like mad as he stroked her skin—skin that was no longer hot but cold and clammy. Zach stood by the flickering candle, bucket in hand, a picture of sheer terror in the hallway.
“Here, Zach,” Greg said. “Put the bucket by me, and then get me a wet rag.”
Zach was only too happy to leave again.
Carrie still clutched the back of her skull. She was rocking slightly on the pillow, watery eyes clenched shut. She was breathing fast, crying, and nearing the sobbing stage, which wasn’t good. He knew from experience with his mom that crying caused more vomiting, and he was desperate to calm her down.
With face inches from hers, he stroked her hair, her cheek, her forehead. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” he whispered, hoping she couldn’t feel his trembling hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” He said it twenty more times before her breathing finally slowed and she was calm again.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
His insides still shook, but he forced a smile. “No more drinks for you, Miss Ashworth.”
A bad time to tease. New tears leaked down the bridge of her nose. He wiped them as his own eyes filled.
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he lied again.
Nodding, she squeezed her eyes shut, still clutching the back of her head.
Greg took a slow, shuddering breath and looked around. The top blanket got it the worst, so he rolled it up and tossed it into the corner. When Zach brought the wet rag, Greg cleaned up the rest, including some on his own shirt. There wasn’t much, less than there should be, but his hands still felt unsteady as he worked.
What would he do if he couldn’t even get water in her?
He tossed the rag onto the soiled blanket and sat next to her again. Zach draped himself over Carrie’s legs, burying his face in her blankets as he cried a high-pitched squeal in the dark candlelight. As Zach cried, more silent tears slipped down the bridge of Carrie’s nose.
Greg curled himself around her head, half on the mattress, half off. She grabbed his hand and pressed it to the back of her skull. He didn’t know if it would make it worse. He didn’t know if he should make her drink w
ater anyway. He knew nothing other than in that moment, as the two Ashworths cried soft, terrified tears, his heart felt like it was being shredded.
And he had the overwhelming urge to slit President Rigsby’s throat.
“Amber,” Carrie whispered. “Zach. You have to take care of them for me, Greg. You have to—”
“They need you,” he said before she could finish. “You’re gonna take great care of them when you recover.” Because anything else was unacceptable. He should have eased her worries that her siblings wouldn’t be left alone and neglected, that he’d care for them however he could, but right now she needed every reason in the world to keep fighting. “Just hold on a bit longer, alrighty? Just a bit longer. Please.”
She nodded.
He knew when she drifted off to sleep because her breathing settled into a slow rhythm. But the muscles in her face never relaxed and her hand never left his, keeping pressure behind her ear. He should have tried to sleep, but he stayed curled around her head in the dark as he started to count each and every breath, braced for it to be her last.
fifty-three
OLIVER GRABBED CARRIE’S yellow card, fresh from the laminating press. “Thank you, Ashlee,” he said.
Ashlee shut down the computer, leaving a single lamp and the dim emergency fluorescent overhead as their last light sources.
“Your friend should be all set now,” Ashlee said, “but let’s double-check to be safe.” Standing, she tightened her bathrobe. “Here. Let me see the card.”
Oliver followed her to the verifying machine. Carrie’s new citizenship card lit up green. His insides swelled with relief.
Another hurdle cleared.
“I owe you,” Oliver said.
More than he could ever repay.
Ashlee waved that off. “Don’t worry about it.” Then she admired the odd picture of Carrie in the corner. “You still haven’t told me who this Carrie girl is—or why David is so interested in her.”
He understood her skepticism. Poor Carrie looked like a druggy he’d pulled off the streets. Ashlee had pestered him with questions all night, and so far he’d kept his answers vague. He’d said that Carrie was a former illegal who inherited some money, so he helped her purchase a house. Only now she was sick, but she hadn’t had a chance to get her citizenship yet. But still, at the root of her question, Ashlee wanted to know why Oliver had been acquainted with an illegal in the first place—or why he cared now.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 81
