Inhuman

by Kat Falls

  “Oh.” The vision I had of my dad being shot by a firing squad … He must have had a similar one of me — one that had played in his mind for years. For the first time since the jumpsuits had hauled me out of Orlando’s party, I felt my guts unknot a bit. Now my father’s silence made sense. If I only could talk to him and tell him about Director Spurling’s offer, then he could put aside that worry.

  “How can I get a message to him?” I asked Dr. Solis.

  “You can’t. All we can do is wait for Mack to come out of hiding.”

  “Wait?” I didn’t have time for that. Correction, my dad didn’t.

  “You’re welcome to stay, like Everson, like me,” the doctor murmured. “Stay because of a parent.”

  What was he talking about?

  “Like you, I’m here for my father.”

  Dr. Solis looked old enough to be my grandfather. Could his father even be alive? “Is he living in the Feral Zone?”

  “No, no, he died many years ago. He was a doctor too.” Dr. Solis sank lower in his chair. “He left Cuba the year he finished medical school. He had to go; to stay meant death. But for the rest of his life, my father thought about his countrymen — the cubanos who hadn’t gotten out. They didn’t fare so well. So when the exodus came, I couldn’t cut and run. I’d taken on the burden of his guilt.”

  “What did your father have to feel guilty about? You said he would have died if he’d stayed in Cuba.”

  “Yes, he had to go, just like those who left during the exodus. Fleeing death is perfectly reasonable.” He gave me a wry smile. “Reason has its advantages. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much for insomnia. Or heartbreak …” His voice faded as his chin sank onto his chest. The Lull had finally kicked in. I hoped that sleep would bring him some relief from his exhaustion and sadness, even if only temporarily.

  I picked up the map and traced the circle around Moline. If I were to cross the last bridge — a very big if — I would then have to walk three miles up the riverbank to reach Moline. Three miles in the Feral Zone …

  I folded up the map and returned it to my dad’s bag. What was three miles? Nothing. If the road was flat, I could jog it in under an hour.

  Suddenly a howl, long and pained, cut through the corridor. I swung around to stare at the closed door, heart jumping in my chest. Did I want to know what that was? No, I did not. But if I planned to cross the river — and I realized I did — I should know what I was in for. I snatched up the messenger bag, pulled the cap over my hair, and slipped out of Dr. Solis’s office.

  I followed the keening sound down the hall to a door, open just a crack. Inside, the infected guard, Bangor — red faced and sweating — struggled against the leather straps that bound him to a bed. In the far corner, a guard hunkered in a chair, his hands over his ears, his body turned toward the window like he wanted to dive through it. I didn’t blame him. Bangor seemed to be having a seizure, with his throat muscles bulging and eyes rolling. What if he bit off his tongue? They should have left the muzzle on. He let out another savage howl, followed by a jumble of sounds — almost words — that sent me backing down the hall.

  Voices around the next corner were heading my way. I darted into a dark room marked “Supplies.” I made a quick scan of the rows of metal shelves and then returned to the door. But as I peeked into the hall, hands grabbed me from behind and twisted my arm up my back.

  “Crappy reflexes for a guard,” a harsh voice whispered in my ear.

  Contorting, I tried to see my attacker, but he forced me to face the wall. I swallowed my scream. Better to contend with one man than bring a whole slew of guards down on my head. I stopped struggling as well. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t going to let me go until he wanted to. Begging wouldn’t help — that much I remembered from self-defense class.

  “I’m not going to report you,” I said in the calmest voice I could muster.

  He tsked. “That was too easy. Most guards don’t promise that until after I’ve tied them up.”

  The scornful way he said “guards” meant that he wasn’t one. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I said, “I’m not a guard.”

  “Right,” he scoffed. “You just dress like one?” His breath warmed the side of my neck as he leaned closer. “And smell like — Hey, how come you smell like a meadow?”

  “Get off me!” I shoved my elbow back, hitting what felt like ribs.

  Spinning me around, he pulled the cap from my head. “You’re not a guard.” He smacked the wall beside me and the lights snapped on, bright and blinding.

  As my eyes adjusted, the first thing that struck me was his lack of a shirt. Since line guards did not waltz around showing off an acre of sun-kissed skin, he clearly didn’t belong here any more than I did. I raised my gaze and lost my breath.

  Hopefully he’d put my open-mouthed silence down to having startled me. Then again, with that face, he had to be used to gawkers. Sculpted lips, aquamarine eyes — an artist could put a sword in his hand and paint him as the archangel Michael. Fierce and beautiful.

  “Feral got your tongue?” he asked.

  Yes — if being from the Feral Zone meant that he was a feral. Wait, was he? He didn’t seem to have any claws or stripes or hooves or —

  “Breathe, rabbit. I’ll only hurt you if you do something stupid.”

  I cleared my throat. “Define stupid.”

  When his lips pulled back, I flinched, only to realize that I’d amused him. “Have you been locked in a tower your whole life?” he asked. “There’s not a mark on you.”

  Was he making fun of me? Probably, since he had to be around my age and yet was showing some serious wear and tear: Scars crosshatched his ribs and arms. Another edged his left eye. A few were the results of crude stitches, but the rest … claw marks? Scratches? Who cared?! I snatched my cap from his fingers.

  “You know it’s illegal to impersonate a guard,” he said.

  “Like you’re going to report me.” I didn’t know where to look. I wasn’t used to talking to half-naked boys.

  “That goes both ways.” His mouth held the hint of a smile, but then he strolled away, lithe and unself-conscious, his pants riding dangerously low on his hips. They’d been slashed off below the knees — probably by the same knife that had done the hack job on his light brown hair. He crouched by a dirty green knapsack on the floor, stuffed to overflowing. After trying several times to zip it up, he resorted to dumping out some of the contents. I angled closer and saw pill packs, syringes, moldable casts, and sterilized packets of silica gel.

  My anger flared. Having worked in a rescue shelter I knew just how valuable those supplies were. “You can’t steal from an infirmary!”

  “Maybe you can’t.” He zipped up his knapsack and rose. “I’ve got it down to an art.”

  He stood within a foot of me — close enough that I could smell the river on him — and looked me over, slow and deliberate. As much as I wanted to retreat, I smothered the impulse. Running from a stray dog just triggered it to give chase. And this guy was all street dog — definitely stray. “How did you get across the bridge?” I asked.

  “Trade secret.” He swung the knapsack onto his back and headed for the door.

  “Wait, are you going back to the Feral Zone?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Can I follow you?”

  He swung around, surprised. “No, you can’t follow me.”

  “I won’t get in your way.”

  “Looking at you gets in my way.”

  I wrinkled my nose. He was making no sense at all. But I had a feeling I knew how to speak his language. “I’ll pay you to take me to Moline.”

  His eyes narrowed with interest. “Pay me how?”

  “How much do you want?”

  “How much of what?”

  Was he being dense on purpose or along with those scars had he taken a few too many blows to the head? “How much money do you want for escorting me to Moline?”

  “Money?” His grin softene
d the precise angles of his face. “That’s good. Silky, the only thing I can do with paper money is burn it or wipe my —”

  “Got it,” I said quickly. “You don’t need money.”

  “What’ve you got to barter?”

  I pulled off my father’s bag and peered inside. “A flashlight, matches —”

  “How about a sleeping bag?” he interrupted.

  I slumped. Of course, something like a sleeping bag would be valuable in his world. “No.”

  “Perfect. Share mine tonight and I’ll take you to Moline in the morning. Deal?”

  My lips parted, but words failed me. He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be. “You’re a pig!”

  “Absolutely not.” He extended his arms as if offering himself up for inspection. “I am one hundred percent human.”

  “That’s debatable,” said a voice from the doorway.

  I turned to see Everson with a gun in his hand. With relief I took a step toward him, only to be jerked backward, hard. A tan forearm stretched across my ribs. The guy’s naked chest was pressed against my back. With a cry, I tried to pry his arm off, but then a cool line touched my throat. His knife.

  Everson’s alarm froze me into place. “Rafe, right?” His too-calm tone amped up my panic another notch. It was the pitch I used when trying to soothe a snarling stray. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “Jerk, right?” Rafe said, sounding sociable, though his arm tightened across me. “Shut up and get in the closet.” He tilted his head toward a door on the far wall.

  Everson might have been taller and broader, but I had no doubt about which of them was more dangerous.

  “Let the girl go first.”

  “Why?” Rafe asked. “What’s she to you?”

  Everson glared at him. “Let her go.” He set his gun on the floor and held up his hands. “And you can walk out of here. I won’t stop you.”

  “Heck of a deal. Here’s my counter….” The pressure of the knife against my throat vanished.

  Releasing my breath, I started to pull away when a flash of pain seared across my forearm.

  “You son of a —” Everson beat a fast path into the closet. Once he was inside, Rafe dragged me over as well. Stumbling, I stared at the blood beading up on my arm.

  He’d cut me. With a knife. Who did that?

  He flung me against Everson, sending us both sprawling against the shelves at the back of the closet. “She’s all yours,” he said, and slammed the door shut.

  Everson leapt up and grabbed the knob just as there was a loud scrape from the other side. The knob turned futilely in his fist. Crouching, I peered under the door and saw two legs of what must have been a leaning chair propped under the knob.

  “Have fun, you two,” Rafe mocked, and his footsteps faded away.

  In the dim glow from my dial, Everson did a quick search of the shelves and tossed me a gauze pad. “Press it to your cut. It’ll slow the bleeding.”

  I gingerly did as he said and was rewarded with a throb of pain. Trapped and bleeding. Just when I didn’t have a minute to spare. “Who was that scumbag?”

  Everson ran his hands over the wall on either side of the door. “A thief who’s turned Arsenal into his own personal Quickie-mart.” He gave up patting down the wall and crouched beside me. “The light switch must be outside the closet.” He nodded to my arm. “Show me.”

  I lifted the bloody wad of gauze and bit back a cry. That savage had sliced a nasty three-inch cut into my arm. What passed for civilized over here? Not eating your neighbor?

  “Could be worse.” Everson snagged a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from a shelf.

  “That’s comforting,” I grouched. At least my tetanus vaccination was up to date.

  “You could’ve gotten knifed in the gut, like the cook’s assistant. His mistake? Walking into the pantry while Rafe was cleaning it out last month.”

  Okay, yes, that was worse. But I still wasn’t happy about having an open wound this close to the Feral Zone.

  “Can your dial go brighter?” He ripped open a new gauze pad.

  I lifted my dial, remembering only then that it had been recording the whole time. This was going to make a heck of a movie — if I survived to edit it. With a tap of my finger, I made the screen glow with emerald light — not as bright as a flashlight, but enough to see by.

  Everson crouched next to me where I was sitting against the door — all the other walls were lined with shelves. He gently took my forearm and tilted it. I winced as he poured peroxide over the cut and watched as he neatly wiped away the excess froth with gauze. His movements were steady and efficient as he bent over my arm to bandage it, I’d always thought crew cuts were ugly — still did — but I was tempted to brush my palm over his hair just to see how it felt. Soft or bristly?

  He sat back and caught me staring. I tugged my arm away and pretended to try to activate the dial’s call function.

  “It won’t work as a phone,” he said, standing to reshelve the supplies. “The patrol jams the signal. We’re not allowed to have dials or cameras — nothing that can record. Actually, I should confiscate that.” He walked toward me, and I clutched the dial protectively. “But lucky for you, I’m only a guard on the outside.” He stepped over me to get to the door.

  “What are you on the inside?” I asked.

  He started pounding, trying to attract someone’s attention. Guess I wasn’t going to get an answer.

  After a while with no results, he gave up. “I brought Jia here so the medics could work on the guy. I left her asleep in one of the empty beds.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I need to get her to the orphan camp before someone finds her and sends her back across the bridge.”

  “Is she okay? Not … grupped?”

  He sank down beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “She tested clean. So did the man, according to the medic. But it might be too late for him. He lost a lot of blood.”

  And here I’d been feeling resentful about the passing time. Yes, every hour mattered if my dad was going to escape execution, but for the man who’d been mauled, minutes meant the difference between life and death. The air in the closet suddenly tasted stale.

  I tugged down my sleeve to cover the bandage, even though I was starting to feel sweaty. “How come we know nothing about what’s going on over here?”

  “Titan makes sure of it.” He leaned back, one leg outstretched, not seeming to care that we were trapped in a cramped closet together. “All of our communication is monitored — radio calls, letters. And those are just to other bases. We’re not allowed to talk to civilians while we’re stationed east of the wall.” He glanced at me, a hint of a smile on his lips. “So, I’m incurring some serious infractions right now.”

  Was he flirting with me? Not a chance. Robots didn’t flirt. “What about when you go home? What’s to stop you from talking then?”

  “Our mission is categorized critical-sensitive. If a guard reveals anything about what he did or saw over here, he’ll be court-martialed.”

  Sitting with our shoulders and legs touching felt strange. Awkward. Maybe line guards got used to living up close and personal on the base, but I sure wasn’t used to it. I rarely brushed against anyone other than my dad and Howard. If I slid over, would Everson notice? Would he care?

  I rubbed my damp palms on my pants, but stayed put. Why risk offending the only line guard on my side? “How come no one noticed the mutated humans running around before the wall went up?”

  “It didn’t start happening until a few years after the wall was finished. During the first wave, if you caught Ferae, you went psychotic and died within days. We’re seeing more of the nonlethal strain now because when the host survives, he goes on to infect more people.”

  “Okay.” I crossed my legs and twisted to face him. “But why’s the patrol keeping that secret? So what if we know that people don’t die from Ferae anymore, that they … mutate?” I choked on the word.

  “It’s not just the patrol. People
in the government know, but they contracted Titan to secure the quarantine line, so they’re following Titan’s protocol.”

  “And they’re all keeping quiet about the ferals because … ?” I pressed.

  “Think about how fast the exodus happened. A lot of people left without being able to get ahold of family members in other cities and states. By now, they’re assumed long dead. If people start to think there’s a chance their relatives are still alive, they’ll want to go looking for them. They’ll try like crazy to get past the wall and make it impossible to keep the quarantine line secure.” Everson shot me a look. “When you’re worried about someone you love, you don’t care about anyone else’s health — sometimes not even your own.”

  Ouch.

  I sat back against the door to avoid his gaze. He had a point, but as soon as we got out of this closet, I was going to cross the last bridge. I’d just have to deal with the guilt … and the ferals. Suddenly something Everson had said in the office came back to me. “If Dr. Solis has eighteen strains of Ferae, does that mean people can mutate into eighteen different kinds of animals?”

  “Fifty. You can only get infected once, but there are fifty strains of Ferae, each carrying the DNA of a different animal. Until Dr. Solis has a sample of all of them, he can’t even begin to develop a vaccine.”

  “If he doesn’t have them all, how does he know there are fifty strains out there?”

  Everson looked at his long fingers, which dangled off his knee. “You know where the virus came from, right?”

  I nodded. I knew our country’s history. “Titan created it in a lab. They were going to add cool animal hybrids to the mazes in their theme parks.” I couldn’t help sounding excited about it — it did sound fun — but Everson slanted a cranky look at me. “And then some fringe group bombed Titan’s labs,” I went on, “and the infected animals escaped. In reparation, Titan built the wall.”

  “The wall was a PR move,” he scoffed.