Monument 14: Savage Drift (Monument 14 Series) (21 page)

He’d have a terrible headache from being sedated and would be thirsty.

I sprint through the courtyard. Dawn is breaching the horizon now, bringing a peachy light to the courtyard.

I don’t care about being seen. I have to find Mario.

I burst into the lobby.

Still empty.

I push into the Men’s hall. People are up now, a few coming out of their rooms.

“Hey! Look who’s here,” says one of the lowlifes I had fought my way through.

I weave my way down the hall, looking in the rooms.

Someone puts a hand on my arm.

“Union is looking for you,” Patko says. “You’d better get out of here.”

I shrug him off.

“Has anyone seen Mario?” I yell. “The old guy who takes care of us?”

“Ain’t seen him,” says the maggoty one. “But I can take care of you good, rabbit.”

I push past him and head back to the front hall.

Not there.

Where would you go, Mario? Where would you go?

Maybe Plaza 900. Head for a crowd, try to find someone to help him. Try to get help from Cheryl, maybe. Or get a drink of water.

*   *   *

I make my way to Plaza 900.

“Hey!” a guard yells. “What the heck?”

“Sorry,” I yell, trying to sound meek. “My friend’s missing.” And I keep running.

The guard lurches to his feet, starting after me slowly, but gaining momentum as his bulk accelerates.

I hit the front doors to Plaza 900. Locked.

I pound on them.

A sob tears out of me.

Mario is injured and somewhere on campus and it is my fault.

The guard comes into my peripheral vision. “You’re not allowed to be out, miss. You’re gonna get in trouble.”

“Please,” I plead. “My friend is old and he got turned out of the clinic and I think maybe he’s in there.”

“Well, you’ll know when it opens, won’t you?” He grabs my arm and pushes me toward the Virtues. “Which one are you from?”

“Please,” I beg him. “He’s old and alone and hurt.”

I see a spark of conscience flash across his eyes.

“And he’s very kind. Please let me try to find him.”

“Aaugh, go on. I didn’t see ya,” he says, and turns his back on me.

*   *   *

I spin away from him and head around the other side of the building.

There have to be more doors going in.

I see two steel-gray doors. One of them is ajar.

A white truck is pulled up near the double doors.

A white-uniformed man brings out four flats of dinner rolls.

I nod to him, like I am somehow supposed to be there, and dodge inside.

“Hey, miss!” he calls.

And then I am in the giant kitchen. It smells like old Sloppy Joes and there are patches of grease on the counters and floor. The steel counters are cleaned off only in spots. Trash is on the floor in places and food, too. It looks like the kitchen staff are doing the best they can and failing. Like all of us.

*   *   *

Mario isn’t in the kitchen and he isn’t in the dining room. I am looking along the floor and in the corners.

I ignore the “heys” and questioning glances from the workers.

I can’t find Cheryl, but see another one of the ladies who liked Mario. What was her name? Josefina? No.

“Have you seen Mario?” I ask her. “The man I come in with—”

“No,
m’ija
, he missing?”

I nod.

She hugs me. Says something comforting in Spanish.

I tear myself away from her.

I have to find him.

Mariana, I remember. That was her name.

I go to the lobby of Plaza 900.

Not there. Not in the restrooms, Men’s or Women’s. I look in the stairwell.

Someone must have taken him in, I tell myself. He must be in the room of some good-hearted person and maybe they’re sending word to the kids right now.

I start back across the courtyard. That has to be it.

Maybe he is in our room right now, while I am tearing around the campus, overreacting.

*   *   *

I enter the front hall of Excellence and a man grabs my wrist. It is a bald, fat man, one of the men who had assaulted me before.

“Girly, your grandpaw showed up.”

“Where?” I ask him, spinning around, grabbing his sweaty hand in both of mine. “Please tell me!”

“Ladies’ room,” he says, jerking his head toward the two restrooms off the front hall.

“Thank you!” I shout as I push away from him.

*   *   *

My poor Mario is on the floor, under a vanity counter right next to the door.

His body looks shriveled and tiny. Weak and endangered.

His head is lying on the floor. There is a little stain, made from drool and blood, near his mouth.

“Mario!” I say, too loud, and then I regulate my tone. “Oh, Mario…”

He is very hurt.

He needs quiet, and in the stillness, now I hear his breath. The inhale strains but the exhale is worse. Windy. A wheeze.

How, how, how could they have let him go?!

I kneel down.

“Mario, Mario,” I murmur. Tears run down my cheeks. I brush them away. I put my hand on his shoulder.

I see his arm has been set in a light cast.

He opens his eyes.

“Ha,” he croaks. “Josie.”

He closes his eyes again.

I put my hand to his forehead and then his face. It is cold and the skin feels papery and loose.

“I’m going to take you back to the clinic,” I whisper.

He wheezes.

“Thirsty.”

I get up and, of course, I don’t have a cup. I rinse my hands at the tap. The soap is long gone.

I cup a little cold water in my hands.

I kneel again, my bruised knees on the cold tile, and try to get the water into his mouth.

His lips against my fingers feel dry and thin.

His breath smells like old blood and I can’t stop crying.

“I can carry you very carefully,” I say.

“No,” he says, and he looks at me. In his eyes, he is telling me he means it.

“Josie,” he gasps.

“Yes, Mario?”

“The doctor told me…”

A gasping inhale, the wheezing exhale.

“The experiments.”

The experiments? What? He draws another breath.

“Experiments people go.”

“The people they send away for medical experiments?” I ask, trying to do the talking for him.

He closes his eyes, yes.

“Army takes ’em.”

He is trying to warn me about letting Venger send me away.

“I know, Mario. I won’t let Venger send me there, I promise.”

He purses his lips.

“You Sam Rid.”

What?

“You Sam Rid.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mario.” I cry. I want to tell him how much I love him. I want him to live. “Let me take you to the clinic!” I beg.

“Listen,” he says, his blue eyes snapping.

“U-S-A-M-R-I-I-D.” He spells it out.

“Okay,” I sniffle.

“Where they do tests. It’s in Maryland.”

I get chills then, my flesh creeping up my arms, all the goose bumps rippling up my limbs, climbing toward my heart.

Mario is telling me to let Venger send me away, because whatever that string of initials is—it is in Maryland, close to Niko’s family farm.

His dying thoughts are to get me free.

“Get sent there.”

“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

I lay down on the floor, so I can be right facing his face.

He smiles at me.

His face is the only thing I see now, and I know mine is the only thing he sees, too.

It is cold on the floor and Mario is dying. I try to get as close as I can. I want to give him some of my body heat.

“Good girl. Always good.”

My eyes are leaking onto the tile now.

“Mario,” I say. “Thank you. You saved me. You did it. I’ll go to USAMRIID. You got me free. Okay? You saved me.”

His breaths are slowing, stretching painfully. A long, weak rasp.

“Do you know that? Do you know that you saved me?”

His eyes aren’t on me now. They are focused somewhere past my head.

I see bubbles of blood in his mouth, coming up to the front of his lips, starting to make their way down his jaw.

I dab at them with the hem of my shirt.

“No, Mario, don’t go,” I cry.

“Good girl,” Mario tells me.

His lips say, “Always good,” but there is no sound from his voice.

And his breath hisses to nothing and he is gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

DEAN

DAY 34

Now I was without a gun.

And that made me feel just fine.

Maybe you’ll think I was stupid to give it away, when we were still in danger. In danger at every moment. But, see, you get used to the danger. You never get used to killing.

I guess I reached the point where I’d rather die than take a life.

If you’re still thinking I’m dumb, then I ask you—would you have gone to retrieve it?

Would you have gone down into that dank, bloody hole and pried it out of a dead man’s hand?

I didn’t think so.

*   *   *

We moved into Rinée’s house. It was pretty messy, from her mother’s strange and desperate packing effort. But there was a lot of food. They were a Costco kind of family and had a very well-stocked pantry.

“Anyone feel like beans?” Jake said, holding up a can that must have been two gallons big.

He was in better spirits now.

The idea of being in an actual house was pretty uplifting, I have to say. And Rinée was delighted to be home.

She wriggled to get out of Astrid’s arms and went toddling through the house.

“Yook! Yook!” Rinée said, bringing Astrid item after item. A sock, a sippy cup, a stuffed Chihuahua. And Astrid would say, “Yeah, a sock.” “Nice sippy cup.” “Uh-huh. A doggie.”

Astrid looked totally exhausted. The added task of taking care of Rinée seemed to be draining her last reserves of energy. She sat down on the couch and let her head roll back.

Then Rinée came back into the living room. I was starting to put away the items strewn across the floor. Rinée held up her two hands and said, “Mama?”

“Oh,” Astrid said. “Sweetie … Mommy’s not coming home for a while. She’s not coming home.”

“Awesome!” Jake said, coming in from the kitchen, holding a box of ice cream sandwiches. “Who wants a Fat Boy?”

“Mama?” Rinée asked again.

“She’s not coming home. I’m sorry,” Astrid said, then she broke into tears.

“Hey, you okay?” I went to her.

“I’m sorry,” Astrid said. “I hate girls who cry and here I am, a breakdown an hour.”

“You need some rest.”

“I’m having those cramps again.”

“How bad?” I asked.

“Like before.” She wiped her tears away. She tried a half of a smile, but looked miserable. “Maybe a little worse.”

“You should go lay down,” Jake said. “Me and Dean will watch Rinée for a while.”

“Yup. We’ll get the place cleaned up, too. And make some lunch.”

“Yunch?” Rinée asked. “Yunch?” And she marched off into the kitchen. Jake followed her, asking her if she’d like a Fat Boy ice cream sandwich.

“The pace has been too much,” I said, rubbing her shoulders. “You need rest. We’re somewhere safe now. When Rinée’s dad comes back, let’s ask him if we can stay here for a few days so you can get your strength back.”

“And if he doesn’t come back?” Astrid asked, saying what we both were thinking.

“Then we stay as long as we like. And we’ll find you a doctor. Make sure everything is okay. Get those vitamins.”

*   *   *

Astrid went up and took a shower, put on some of the dead mom’s stretchiest clothes, got into her bed—the whole thing. I encouraged her to do it. Surely the dad wouldn’t mind.

*   *   *

By the way, Jake?—not so helpful with Rinée.

The moment I entered the kitchen he said to me, “Dude, she’s got a mess in her pants.”

The diaper did smell—horrible.

And as I changed her (there was a changing table in the downstairs bathroom), he stood at the door saying, “Oh Lord, I’m gonna be sick!” and, “That is FOUL.”

It was pretty disgusting, but I didn’t want her to get a complex about her body. I mean, it’s all natural, right? So I held my breath and wiped her down and got a clean diaper on her. It was possibly on backward, but it was on.

After I scrubbed my hands with antibacterial soap (twice), Rinée took me into the playroom, a little room to the side of the kitchen. There was a little wooden pretend kitchen in there with tin cups and plates and some food made out of painted wood.

I sat down on a tiny chair next to a tiny table and Rinée went about bringing me different things to “eat.”

Jake was kind enough to make a stack of tuna sandwiches.

He and I wolfed down two each while we watched the TV.

No. News. Of. Drifts.

It was crazy. All we saw was more footage from the East Coast about the falling temperatures and the makeshift transportation system and more rioting at the gas lines. All old news.

Rinée had a quarter of a sandwich and some apple slices.

She kept asking for more apple and saying, “Moy ean? Moy ean?” “Ean” was her word for either apple or eat.

Astrid was conked out upstairs, so Jake and I divided her sandwich between us and ate it, along with the rest of Rinée’s. There were four more large tins of tuna in the pantry, so I thought it was okay to eat Astrid’s food. I planned to cook her something warm, anyway, when she woke up. There was some chicken in the freezer I set on the counter to defrost. If only I had Batiste here, he’d have prepared a feast. But I would do okay on my own. Maybe chicken with rice and cream of mushroom soup. There was some in the pantry and it was really hearty meal—comfort food and also hard to screw up.

We washed down lunch with a half gallon of Grovestand orange juice.

It felt so good to sit at a kitchen table with sunlight streaming in through a window and open up a fridge and take something out and eat it.

Rinée started yawning and literally rubbing her eyes—I didn’t know kids actually did that. I thought that was just from overacting in the movies.

I carried her up to her room.