Don't Turn Around (22 page)

The look on her face, though—Peter still had nightmares about it. He’d known something was terribly wrong.

They’d torn out of the driveway. It was the week before Christmas break. The trees outside were strung with lights, and frost covered the ground. Peter had stood in the doorway for a long time, arms wrapped tight against the cold, watching the space where their taillights had vanished.

That was the longest night of his life. Peter woke up on the couch, where he’d tried to maintain a vigil, fully dressed with a kink in his neck.

No message on the home line or on his cell, which kind of ticked him off. Had they actually forgotten about him? What was happening?

Peter had drifted around the house all morning, unsure what to do. He had no way of getting to school, and wasn’t sure if he should go, anyway. His parents weren’t answering their phones—that almost scared him the most. He spent the morning feeling terrified and abandoned.

Bob finally showed up around lunchtime. Peter charged down the stairs, ready to give him hell about not calling. But when he saw his father’s face, he stopped dead. His dad was fanatical about his personal appearance; the family joke was that it took him longer than Priscilla to get ready.

That day, though, he looked awful. Old, haggard, hair sticking out in all directions, beard growth shadowing his cheeks.

He waved Peter into the living room with a slight motion, as if he could barely summon the strength to move his arm. They sat on the couch, and he said bluntly, “Your brother’s sick.”

Apparently Cody had been so busy between classes and his work-study job that he hadn’t recognized the symptoms. By the time he did, it had been three weeks since Jeremy had gone to class.

That same night, he was checked into Boston Medical. When Peter saw him the next day, he’d almost turned to his parents to protest that they were wrong; this couldn’t be Jeremy. He was gaunt, eyes glassy. Hair thinning and falling out, and a blank expression on his face. He didn’t even seem to realize they were in the room.

The worst part was that he was strapped to the bed.

“It’s so he doesn’t hurt himself,” Priscilla had explained. Her face was calm but preternaturally pale, and there was a waver in her voice. “They walk around sometimes, and they’re worried about him accidentally pulling out the IV.”

After that, Peter went to the hospital every day after school. They made him wear a mask to lower the risk of contamination, but as soon as the nurse left the room, he always pulled it off. It itched him, and besides, there was no proof that PEMA was airborne.

Peter would sit there until sundown, messing around with his laptop after finishing his homework. He played around with the local networks, testing his skills against first the hospital’s firewall, then the city of Boston’s. His grasp of hacking techniques grew progressively stronger. The entire time, he maintained a running patter. Sometimes he talked about all the cool stuff they’d done with Cody, some of his fondest memories. Other times he’d explain the steps he was employing to hack into something. At the beginning, he’d talk a lot about the things they’d do once Jeremy got better. Get tickets to Fenway. Maybe go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras—that was supposed to be awesome. Run away to Mexico for spring break without telling their parents.

None of it seemed to matter. Jeremy rarely responded. Day by day the bedding consumed him, chewing off pieces until his shape beneath them dwindled down to nothing.

Three months to the day after he was admitted, Jeremy died.

It had been an unusually rapid progression of the disease, so much so that Jeremy’s doctors asked for permission to study him, like he was some kind of frog in biology class. When Priscilla and Bob agreed, Peter had stormed out of the room in a rage.

Not that they’d even found anything useful. Or if they had, they hadn’t shared it with Peter.

After Jeremy died, Peter went into a downward spiral. He quit sports, his grades slipped, he even stopped showering every day. The worst part was that his parents didn’t even seem to notice or care.

Then, right before summer, Cody showed up at school. He was waiting by the curb when Peter slouched out. “Yo, Pedro!” he called out.

Peter was half-tempted to pretend he hadn’t heard him. Cody trotted over, though, and grabbed him in a hug. Cody was like that—openly affectionate, in a way that Peter’s family never had been.

“How you holding up, man?” Cody asked, probing Peter’s eyes.

“Fine. What are you doing here?”

“I realized it had been a while since we hung out,” Cody said breezily. “Wanted to see if we could grab a burger or something.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Did my folks call you?”

“No,” Cody said, sounding genuinely surprised. Peter examined him—Cody had never been a good liar. His gaze was open, clear. He was telling the truth: This hadn’t been Bob and Priscilla’s idea. Peter couldn’t decide if that made him feel better or worse.

“C’mon, Pedro. I’m buying.”

Peter shrugged, then followed him down the block. Their favorite burger place was a few blocks away, a popular after-school hangout named uBurger. He hadn’t been here in months—as soon as he sat down, he remembered the last time. It had been with Cody and Jeremy, during Thanksgiving break.

“uBurger with guac, right?” Cody asked.

“Not hungry,” Peter said, scraping a nail across the Formica tabletop. There was something crusted on it, either ketchup or barbecue sauce.

“Sure you are.” Cody got up and went to the counter. Peter watched him order, exchanging banter with the counter girl. He came back with a tray loaded down with burgers, fries, and sodas. Cody slid into the booth across from Peter, then passed over a burger and fries.

“I said I wasn’t hungry,” Peter said peevishly. He knew he sounded like a whiny little brat, but he didn’t care. The more he thought about it, the more pissed off he got. Where the hell had Cody been the past few months? He hadn’t seen or heard from him since the funeral.

“I’ll eat it if you don’t,” Cody said, unwrapping his own and tearing off a chunk. Peter watched him chew contentedly.

It was nearly impossible to faze Cody. One time at a party, a kid from another school showed up drunk and high and made a scene while trying to drag his girlfriend out. Cody had stopped him, separating the girlfriend and getting her back in the house while he barred the way. Then he just stood there while the guy unleashed a tirade of racial epithets in his face. Cody didn’t respond, and the calm, relaxed expression on his face never changed. They could have been discussing the weather.

Finally, Jeremy stepped forward and punched the guy, knocking him out.

Peter realized he’d never seen Cody angry. In fact, he’d barely even displayed emotion at Jeremy’s funeral.

“Sorry I haven’t been around much,” Cody said, regarding him as he took a sip of soda through the straw.

“I don’t care,” Peter said.

“Sure you do. You’re pissed as hell, I can see that.” Cody smiled at him. That was the worst part: He had this way of disarming you. If he smiled enough, you almost always forgot why you were angry with him in the first place. “You’ve got a right to be, too,” he continued, his expression turning serious. “I was avoiding you and your family.”

“Why?” Peter asked, even though he kind of already knew.

“It hurt too much. Especially seeing you. You look a lot like him,” Cody said, looking pensively out the window. “I thought a lot about you, though. Wondered how you were doing.”

“You could have called,” Peter said dully.

“I know. I’m sorry, man. Really.” Cody reached out and covered Peter’s hand with his own. It made Peter a little uncomfortable, the way Cody’s sudden outpourings of affection always did, but he didn’t pull away.

“It’s okay.”

“Nope, it most definitely is not okay.” Cody shook his head. “Not cool at all. So here’s the deal. I want us to try to hook up regular, make sure we keep track of what’s going on in each other’s lives. That okay by you?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“It’s gonna get better, Peter.”

“How do you know that?” Peter demanded. Cody didn’t shrink under his glare the way he’d expected. He met Peter’s gaze, eyes level and calm.

“I just do,” Cody said. “Jeremy’s gone, and I miss him like hell. But you and me, we’re still brothers. That doesn’t change.”

Initially Peter figured that Cody didn’t mean it; he just took him out for a burger as a token gesture. But he persisted, inviting him out to shoot hoops one Saturday, or to a movie on a Monday. Cody had an insanely busy schedule, but he made a real effort to fit Peter into it.

It had probably saved him, Peter now realized. His parents were so out of the loop they never even asked where he went or what he was doing. They never knew that he and Cody had stayed in touch. Despite the fact that he’d been Jeremy’s best friend, it seemed like they’d completely forgotten about him. Hell, sometimes it seemed like they’d completely forgotten about Peter. Without Cody, he might have simply fallen through the cracks.

But slowly, he started caring about stuff again. His grades went up. He started dating, going to parties. By the time sophomore year began, he was feeling like himself. And then he’d met Amanda.

As Peter finished the soup and brought the bowl back into the kitchen, he tried to pinpoint what was bothering him. Cody was coming through, the same way he always had. He’d taken them in, no questions asked. Believed both of their crazy stories. And even though he was clearly half-dead from exhaustion, he was staying up late to comb through files to see if he could help them.

And Peter kind of wanted to punch him for it.

He paused in the doorway, watching them. Noa’s hair was shoulder-length and black, the color of a raven’s wing. So dark it didn’t look like it could possibly be natural. Her head tipped forward as she looked at the screen, so that the drape of her hair hid her face.

Peter still couldn’t get over how matter-of-fact she’d been while relaying everything that had happened. Man, if he’d woken up naked on a table in a warehouse he would have completely flipped out. But Noa held herself together and got out of there. And every time the guys came after her, she’d evaded them.

He hadn’t even managed to get away from Mason at the library. Listening to her story, he’d felt pathetic.

He wondered what her life had been like before she woke up two days ago. She hadn’t shared any of that, just said that she was a foster kid.

One thing he was sure of: Noa didn’t look like she had PEMA. And he’d seen it enough to know. Jeremy had died in a PEMA ward. As the disease grew to epidemic proportions, since they couldn’t trace how it was transmitted, as a precautionary measure they locked infected kids up in separate hospital units.

Most didn’t start out as badly as Jeremy. They’d still be mobile, shuffling around in circles or pacing while clutching an IV on wheels. They’d desperately barrage the doctors with questions when they came through on their rounds, then force themselves to sound upbeat while grieving relatives sobbed.

It was almost worse for them, because they realized what was happening. Every so often, toward the end of visiting hours, a low wail would start. It would begin with the ones who knew, a stream of pleas and cries and bartering that was quickly joined by those who had already lost the part of their mind capable of reason. Soon most of the ward would be shrieking, everyone joining in out of some primal animal empathy until it became a deafening chorus of anguish.

Peter would sit there frozen, listening. There would be a lot of opening and shutting of doors, nurses bustling around injecting tranquilizers into IVs. Slowly, one by one, the voices fell silent.

He shook off the memory. The point was, Noa didn’t look sick. And no one with PEMA would have been able to eat the way she did today, either. They always ate very little, or nothing at all.

“Anything?” he finally asked.

They both looked up with surprise, as if they’d forgotten he was there.

“A lot, actually,” Cody said with a smile, recovering. He blinked and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Man, what time is it?”

“Nearly nine,” Noa said without looking up.

Cody groaned. “Crap. I gotta be up at five to work a shift before rounds tomorrow. Any of that soup left, Pedro?”

“I can make more. You want some, too?” he asked.

Noa just shook her head. A slight flush rose on her cheeks, though, and he felt badly about inadvertently calling attention to her weird food thing. “All right.”

“I’ll get some notes together while you make it,” Cody said. “I think I’ve got a handle on what they were trying to do.”

Five minutes later they were sitting back in the living room. Cody had spread the papers out in separate piles. The printer had finally fallen silent. Noa stuck to her pillow on the floor, so Peter was alone on the couch again. He crossed his arms over his chest, watching as Cody blew on a spoon to cool the soup.

“You put something in this?”

“Just some spices,” Peter said.

“Spoiling me,” Cody said with a grin. Turning to Noa he said, “You ever have this guy’s oven-fried chicken?”

Noa shook her head.

“Best damn chicken I ever had.”

“Anyway,” Peter prodded. He was a little self-conscious about the fact that he liked to cook; it was something only a few people knew about him.

“Anyway,” Cody said, taking the hint. “Pestilitas Macra Adulescens, commonly known as PEMA. First case was seen a little over seven years ago. Since then it’s affected almost a hundred thousand adolescents, and that number just keeps growing.”

“We know all that,” Peter said impatiently.

Cody raised an eyebrow, and he fell silent. “So based on what I’ve seen so far, the folks at AMRF were researching PEMA.”

“By experimenting on kids like me,” Noa said bitterly.

“They’re a little vague about that in the papers,” Cody said. “They keep referring to test subjects by numbers, not names—that’s the weird thing; the way they filed their data is off.”

“Off how?” Peter asked.

“Off in that half the people working on Project Persephone don’t seem to know that the test subjects were humans. They were collating data that was provided to them. A lot of what you’ve got here are just abstracts.”