“Where does he live in the housing?” he said, undeterred.
“About halfway down United Drive,” Ashlee said, “in the middle of about fifty other patrolmen. But I have no idea what his house number is. It doesn’t matter anyway. He won’t be there. You know he won’t. You can’t go.”
“But you can,” Dylan said. “Why don’t you find out if Jamansky’s story is legit? Prove to us you’re on our side now.”
Ashlee looked surprised, but she only nodded. “You’re right. It should be me. I wouldn’t have to go to Sugar Grove, though. If I can access my computer in Shelton, I’ll know exactly where Oliver is.” She teared up again. “I owe him that much.”
“No way, no how,” Greg said. “You’re not goin’ back to your job or Sugar Grove.”
“Why not?” Dylan said. “She’s willing.”
Greg pointed. “Have you seen her face?”
As one, the adults studied the government clerk. Ashlee dropped her chin again and played with a gold button on her green uniform. Her right cheek was still splotchy, and her neck bore red marks in the suspicious shape of a man’s fingers.
“Ashlee’s in more danger than any of us,” Greg said. And what he didn’t add was that if Jamansky forced her to talk again, there was a lot more she could divulge. Now she knew names, faces, homes, that Greg was alive, and Carrie didn’t believe a word Jamansky had said. “She risked her life to warn us. She can’t go back.”
“But…” Ashlee said. “Where do I go then? I can’t go to my parents’ house. David will look for me there. And all my other friends work for the government.”
Greg folded his arms. “Then stay here. Carrie offered for you to stay at her house.”
“What?” Ashlee said at the same time five other clansmen did.
But immediately Carrie’s little sister ran over to her. “Oh, yes!” Amber said. “Stay with us, Ashlee! We’ll keep you safe from your jerky boyfriend.”
Storming through the long grasses, Dylan grabbed Greg’s arm. “You can’t just let someone into our clan without a vote, especially someone like her.”
“Fine.” Greg turned back. “Anybody opposed to lettin’ Miss Lyon stay with us?”
The group looked too stunned to vote.
Greg didn’t care.
No vote was the same as no objection.
“Great. Welcome to the clan.” He turned back to Carrie’s little sister. “Go to my grandpa’s garage and see if you can scrounge up some regular clothes for Ashlee.”
Amber was hyper as she pulled Ashlee Lyon out of the group. “Oooh, you can come with me to Braden’s,” he heard her saying. “You have to meet him. He’s totally dreamy, but he’s mine so don’t be getting any ideas.”
Greg sighed. At least one thing was resolved.
As for the other…
“So…we’ll post guards starting now,” Greg said, “and sleep everybody at the two legal houses to be safe. Technically both are germ fests, but it’ll have to do. Healthy people sleep downstairs, and sick people up.”
The group seemed to agree.
“What time did that chief of patrols say he would be back?” Sasha asked.
Just thinking of Jamansky made Greg clench up all over again. The smooth tone of his voice. The haughtiness. “It’s nice to know where you live, Carrie. And you live so close, too. I’ll come back tomorrow—I’ll even bring you dinner. Szechuan chicken. Sound good?”
Whatever revenge Jamansky might be planning for Oliver, whatever schemes he had for getting their clan, the guy was still interested in Carrie.
“Around six,” Greg said darkly. “Let’s put one guard down the main road for early warning, and another at the north entrance. If there are any issues, we immediately evacuate Logan Pond. Who wants the first shift?”
seven
AMBER KNOCKED ON THE Ziegler’s front door. Ashlee Lyon stood back on the sidewalk, clutching the pile of ragged clothes they’d found for her: men’s Chicago Cubs sweatpants and an old t-shirt. It was pathetic that Terrell didn’t have more choices in their stash, but Ashlee insisted she didn’t mind. How could she not, though? The woman was gorgeous, with glossy-blonde hair that had been curled with a real curling iron, perfectly filed nails painted bright red, and mascara that had smeared some with all her crying but was still magnificent. Amber had never been old enough to wear makeup before the Collapse. After the less-than-friendly reception by the pond, the beautiful township clerk looked more concerned about meeting more illegals than she did about her demoted appearance. Silly woman. Braden’s family would love her.
Love.
What if Braden noticed how pretty Ashlee Lyon was? She was in her mid-twenties, maybe six or seven years older than Braden. Hopefully old enough to keep him from getting distracted.
Amber knocked louder. Through the side window, she spotted Mr. Ziegler coming down the hallway, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Hi, Amber,” he said, opening the door. “What can I do for you?”
Amber clutched the small box. “I have medicine for Braden,”
“You do?” His eyes closed as if in prayer. “That’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” Calling over his shoulder, he said, “Kristina! Amber brought the cure!”
Mrs. Ziegler came stumbling up from the basement. “Greg got the medicine? How?”
How had the news not spread to them? Neither of Braden’s parents had gone to the adult meeting, but even then, people seemed to know about Greg’s hospital find. Braden’s parents must be quarantining themselves, too.
“Long story,” Amber said, “but Braden needs shots every six hours for the next week.”
“Actually,” Ashlee Lyon corrected from behind her, “it’s every twelve hours for the next five days.”
Mr. Ziegler leaned sideways to see out the front door. When he spotted the woman in the dark green uniform, he took a step back. “Who is she?”
“Oh, this is Ashlee Lyon, Oliver’s friend,” Amber said, smiling. She almost added, Oliver’s new girlfriend, but figured that was a bit premature. But if her hunches were right, Ashlee Lyon had already moved past David Jamansky. The little interchange Amber had witnessed between their nerdy patrolman, Oliver, and the township clerk had been cute. They both thought she’d been asleep in the back of his car on their mission to get Carrie’s citizenship, but she hadn’t been. She’d watched Ashlee lean over and kiss Oliver’s cheek in thanks. And Oliver’s reaction had said more than words ever could.
Ashlee Lyon was way hotter than the nerd deserved, but Amber couldn’t be more thrilled. Nor could she wait to tell Carrie, who would be even happier since Oliver had chased her for long enough.
“But…” Mrs. Ziegler said, looking pale, “she works for the government.”
“No, it’s fine,” Amber said. “She’s here for asylum, or whatever it’s called. She’s actually helping our clan now, like Oliver did. Only she’s basically a nurse. She knows all about this plague thing.”
“I’m not a nurse,” Ashlee Lyon corrected. “I just work in the township office where they trained me about these shots. All legal citizens are receiving them now, so I’ve already done several.”
“Then shouldn’t you do it?” Mr. Ziegler said.
“No, I’m doing it,” Amber said. “She’s just going to watch.”
Mrs. Ziegler rubbed the back of her neck with a worried glance at her husband, which only soured Amber’s mood. She couldn’t wait to reach adulthood. Maybe then Braden’s parents would take her seriously. After all, she was going to be their daughter-in-law someday. They could at least pretend to like her.
“I’ll make sure she does it correctly,” Ashlee Lyon said.
“Look,” Amber snapped, “we really don’t have time to sit around and chit-chat. Braden’s dying, so if you don’t mind…”
Braden’s parents finally swung open the door.
“By the way, Mrs. Ziegler,” Amber said as they headed up the stairs, “you don’t look too hot yourself.”
&nbs
p; “It’s just my head,” Braden’s mom said, clutching the railing as she dragged herself up the next step. “I’m fine.”
“That’s how it started with Carrie,” Amber said. “A headache. Neck pain. Greg stole extra shots for anyone else who comes down with it. Maybe I should give you a shot, too.”
If she was nice.
“Don’t worry about me,” Mrs. Ziegler said. “Just help my son.”
Amber had been in Braden’s room many times over the years. She, Maddie, and Lindsey used to hide in his closet since it was the deepest and darkest place in the house—plus it drove him crazy. Torturing Braden had once been her favorite winter pastime. But then Braden had shot up, filled out, and become unbelievably gorgeous. Amber hadn’t been in his room since the two of them became a couple. His walls were covered with peeling Star Wars stickers which he hated now, but she thought they were adorable.
Creaking open the door, she saw him curled up on his floor. He’d pulled his Millennium Falcon blanket tight around him even though his room was hot and stuffy. As she crept closer, she noticed his summer tan had faded to a sickly yellow, his cheeks looked sunken, and light-colored stubble lined his jaw. Seeing him so miserable sobered her up.
What would she have done if Greg hadn’t stolen the medicine? What would she have done if Braden had died—or Carrie, or any of them?
Kneeling next to the love of her life, she ran her fingers through Braden’s sandy-colored, sweat-damp hair.
“Hey, good lookin’,” she said, trying to coax his perfect, turquoise eyes open.
No response.
His hands felt like ice, but the rest of him—arms, neck, and face—burned fire-hot.
Amber looked over her shoulder. “Has he been drinking water? Greg said it’s important to keep them hydrated.”
“We’ve been trying, but he’s been so sleepy,” Braden’s dad said.
“Can you help him?” Mrs. Ziegler asked in a small, frightened voice. “Is it too late?”
“No. Carrie was worse than this, and she’s already getting better.” Although Amber didn’t mention Carrie’s lingering issues.
What if Braden lost his hearing or vision?
Thankfully, Braden was young and strong. He would get better faster than the others. He’d be fine, smiling, and back to normal soon. He would. He had to.
Goodness, why was her heart pounding so hard?
Probably because she never dreamed eight people in their clan would have died over the years. Her parents. Greg’s mom. Richard’s first wife. And those illnesses hadn’t been this severe or this…engineered. President Rigsby wanted them dead. He couldn’t find them, so he sent this virus instead. He was a murderer of the worst kind because he pretended like he wasn’t even behind it.
A few weeks back, she had sat with Braden in the clan cemetery, counting the graves. He had promised to never let her die young, he had promised to keep her safe, but he never made the same promise for himself. Now his brain was swelling. The brain! How could that not cause major issues?
Eyes burning, she stared down at the white box of syringes.
What if she was too late?
“Are you okay?” Ashlee Lyon whispered behind her.
“Yeah.” Sniffing, Amber opened the small box and pushed up Braden’s sleeve. Heat and fever followed.
“Wait.” Ashlee Lyon grabbed her hand. “Where’s the rubbing alcohol?”
“The what?”
“Didn’t the nurses give Greg alcohol swabs so the injection site wouldn’t get infected?” Ashlee whispered urgently.
“It will be fine.” The last thing Amber needed was for Braden’s parents to freak out even more than they were. Besides, she’d already given six shots without sterilization. They’d all gone fine.
“At least get the air bubbles out. Like this.” The township clerk flicked the syringe several times with her bright red fingernail, making a soft thunk in the room. Then she pushed the stopper up until a tiny bit of medicine leaked out. Amber really hoped those steps weren’t vital. If so, Carrie, May, CJ, Richard, Terrell, and Rhonda Watson were in trouble.
“Just straight in,” Ashlee Lyon said, handing it back. “Perpendicular to his arm in the upper part of the muscle.”
“Okay, okay,” Amber said.
Refocusing, she pushed the needle in. Braden sniffed awake at the sharp sting. Amber quickly slid the needle back out and rubbed the injection site.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
His wild turquoise eyes searched the room until they found her, kneeling above him. He blinked several times, squinting against the soft evening light. “Amber?”
“Hey,” she said, relieved that his eyes could still focus.
“Heya…gor-geous…” His words were slow and slurred, but a corner of his mouth lifted. It was the saddest, most tired, most pathetic smile he’d ever given her, but it warmed her heart. It only lasted a moment before he winced. “My head…”
“I know.” She raked her fingers through his hair again. “But don’t worry. I came to save your life. You’ll be better soon.”
“It’s about time.”
His eyes drifted closed. His breathing deepened soon after, hopefully returning him to a painless place.
Amber stood and faced his parents. “I have some bad news.”
Mrs. Ziegler clutched her stomach. “Did it not work?”
It had been all of thirty seconds. Amber fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m sure it will work fine. We just have to move him—move all of you, actually. You can’t sleep here tonight.”
At their cries of dismay, she explained their unexpected visitor.
“We have to get him all the way to the Trenton’s?” Mrs. Ziegler said, looking even more worn down.
“No, just to my house since we own it now,” Amber clarified. “Some people are using their water wagons to move the sick people. I brought ours if you want. It’s on the sidewalk.”
“Okay.” Braden’s dad rubbed the back of his head. “Any chance you ladies can help me get him down the stairs?”
Mr. Ziegler grabbed Braden from behind, hands under his arms to carry the bulk of his son’s weight. Amber and Ashlee Lyon each took a leg and got the task of walking backwards down the stairs. They struggled with his weight but made it halfway down the stairs when Braden suddenly moaned in pain. He kicked out the leg Amber held. She tripped, cried out, and toppled down two steps. The others struggled to keep hold of him.
“Faster!” Mr. Zeigler yelled.
Amber quickly grabbed Braden’s leg again and started back down.
They set the love of her life in the all-too-small wagon. Braden’s head slumped back, arms flopped over the sides, but he no longer moaned. As his dad wheeled him down the sidewalk, Amber watched his ashen face for any signs of life.
When they reached her house, Amber said, “Sick people have to go upstairs.”
A daunting prospect.
Braden’s dad dropped the wagon handle and wiped his brow. “Can’t we put him somewhere else? Maybe the corner of the living room?”
“No. He has to go upstairs,” Amber insisted. And what she didn’t add was that Braden was going in her room where she could watch over him all night long.
Mr. Ziegler sighed. “I better find Greg to help.”
eight
CARRIE WOKE TO THE SMELL of soft smoke. With her good ear, she could just make out the crackle of fire in her downstairs fireplace. She’d never known Amber to start breakfast on her own—she’d never known Amber to even wake up before her—but it was a nice gesture.
The first rays of dawn seeped through the thick blanket covering her window. Yawning, Carrie stretched, grateful to have slept so soundly. She could feel her strength returning.
Sitting up slowly, she tested her balance. The room tilted some—or maybe she just felt lopsided with her bad ear—but she was able to stand relatively well, so she worked her way into the bathroom.
Bright morning sun streamed in through the bath
room window, stabbing her vision. Once her eyes adjusted, she made the mistake of looking up. The mirror, honest as ever, showed a pale woman with ratty, tangled hair, and a wrinkled blue blouse that looked like it had been through the war. She hated that, of all people, Greg had seen her like that. Thankfully—and surprisingly again—the bathroom water bucket was full. No nagging or anything. Amber really had done some growing up the past week.
While Carrie still didn’t have the energy to haul in water for a bath, she decided to work on improving her appearance, and with it, maybe her health.
She plugged up the sink and poured cold water into it. Then she grabbed a rag and started sponge-bathing. Her mind wandered to her yard, hardly believing it was hers now. Unlike May’s backyard, Carrie’s backyard sloped down to the pond, which would make growing food challenging. With two huge gardens, their clan would have plenty of excess crops to sell or trade. They could even raise goats and chickens.
Her heart swelled at Oliver’s gift. Not only had he given her a home, but part of her mom back as well since Carrie’s mother had been the true green thumb. But restoring their yard to its former splendor would have to wait. May’s garden took priority since it already had crops. It was probably overrun with weeds, and she had no clue when it had last rained. It was the first time in six years she hadn’t tracked the weather.
When her skin felt cool and clean, she went to work on her rat’s nest. Bending over brought the dizziness back with a vengeance, but she dunked her hair in the sink and scrubbed her scalp with the government soap Terrell traded on the black market. The cold water was refreshing. The cleanliness felt divine. By the time she wandered into her room and dressed in her stained jeans and drab yellow t-shirt, she felt more like herself than she had in a while.
She reached behind her mattress for her weather journal to see when it had rained last. Strangely, the journal wasn’t there. Turning, she scanned her room and spotted it on the floor next to the folding chair Greg had occupied during her illness. She cringed, picturing him reading all the pages of cloud patterns, rainfall amounts, and her own numbering system to guess temperatures.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 92
