Outbreak (35 page)

The clock hits eighteen hundred, and a new message appears in my inbox from an unknown user. I open it.

The message is completely blank except for a long link. I already know it’s malware, but I don’t have any choice but to click and let it download onto my computer. The malware does its thing, and a tiny red light illuminates the top of my monitor.

A shiver rolls down my spine. I imagine some tech guy like me watching from Constance headquarters. He verifies my identity, and another message appears in my inbox. 

There isn’t any text — just an attached file. I click on it, and it immediately starts to download. A video appears, filling half my screen. It’s a still shot of a lower tunnel, but the nondescript walls and doors make it impossible to tell which section it’s in. The tunnel is completely empty, and the camera pans slowly from one door to the next.

A low monotone voice comes over my speakers, speaking in a rhythm that seems designed to put me to sleep.

Imagine a world where the last vestiges of humanity have been wiped off the planet. Your friends are gone . . . your colleagues are gone . . . you are gone. There’s no one left to remember Celdon. There is no one left to remember the horrible atrocities that destroyed the last remaining pockets of civilization . . . no one left to remember the sanctuary of the compounds . . .

I roll my eyes. Constance has a flair for the dramatic, but at least it’s personalized.

The threat is very real. While the board focuses on the horizon, where thousands of hostile survivors are plotting the compounds’ destruction, we must turn our attention inward to more subtle threats we face on a daily basis . . .

These threats start small, but when magnified over days, years, and generations, they are poison to the order and stability that ensure the survival of the human race. 

Acts of defiance, no matter how small, weaken the compound. When order unravels, the people you once trusted can be the biggest threat to your life and the future of humanity.

Constance has sent me twenty-four videos so far, and each one has been more of the same: Defiance in the compound weakens the compound. A weak compound is a threat to the survival of the human race. Constance saves humanity. Long live Constance.

My first order of business as Constance’s newest lackey? Make better videos.

Through all the gloom and doom, I feel my eyelids start to droop. I reach for an Energel, but my hand just nudges half a dozen empty tubes, sending a few clattering to the floor.

I’m exhausted, but I can’t fall asleep. If I miss one of Constance’s reeducation lessons, they’ll see that as a lack of commitment. They’ll think I’m a slacker, which is exactly what I don’t want. Slackers can’t be trusted, and I need them to trust me completely.

To counteract the effects of the narrator’s dull voice, I do a quick scan of the security feeds. Constance would definitely not approve of my extracurricular espionage, but I already feel as though I’m betraying Harper, and I refuse to drop the ball on the one thing she asked me to do.

She would
kill
me if she knew I’d joined up with Constance, but I have to know what happened to my mother. 

I don’t blame Harper for lying to me. The lie was much kinder than the truth. But if my mom really is out there somewhere, I have to find her.

To gain access to that information, I just have to go along with Constance’s brainwashing program and behave myself. Once I’m in, I can find out
exactly
what they know and stay one step ahead of them if they try to take Harper off the map. 

I just have to be convincing.

Watching footage of the Fringe isn’t doing much to keep me awake. There’s not a drifter in sight — just abandoned buildings, rusty cars, dirt, and tumbleweed. 

But then the window changes to a new feed, and three figures appear in my peripheral vision. I freeze the feeds so the view doesn’t change and enlarge the window.

Three men are walking down the street at a brisk pace. Two of them look alert and confident, but the third is definitely acting shady. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and keeps glancing around as if he expects to be jumped at any moment.

His eyes bounce from building to building in a scanning pattern, and I realize he’s checking the corners for cameras.

He knows.

The men stop at a building just out of the camera’s line of sight. The other two seem to be speaking to someone standing in the doorway.

The third man’s gaze travels higher, and then suddenly he freezes. I don’t move or breathe. It feels as though he’s looking right at me.

Somebody calls the man to the door. He steps up and raises his sunglasses so they can see his face. When the person in the doorway verifies his identity, the shady guy puts his sunglasses back on — but not before I get a good look at him. 

He looks just like Eli.

My heart starts pounding harder. Owen is alive, and now there’s video evidence. Not only that, but the camera got a clear shot of his face. Anyone who knows Eli would think this man was his twin, which is going to raise a lot of questions I’m sure Eli doesn’t want to answer.

I have to warn Harper, but there’s still another twenty minutes left on my reeducation video. Then I’ll have maybe fifteen minutes before the next file arrives.

The red light is still glowing at the top of my monitor, which means someone in Constance is still watching me. They don’t fuck around when it comes to monitoring their protégés.

I wonder how long it will take for someone to see this footage and notify Jayden. It’s possible they have other things to worry about, but Harper made it seem as though finding the drifters’ leaders was Jayden’s number one priority.

I try to talk myself down, but I can feel the clammy sweat breaking out all over my forehead. I need to get a message to Harper and Eli.

I tap my fingers impatiently on the desk, waiting for the video to come to an end. Owen and his companions have already disappeared into the building.

What an idiot.
I’m sure Eli warned him that he needed to act dead. And what does he do? He wanders right into range of the surveillance cameras. 

Suddenly, I hear a dull beeping coming from just outside my door. Someone is letting himself into my compartment. 

With a lightning-fast stroke of keys, I clear my monitor of every window except the reeducation video.

Less than a second later, my door flies open.

I’m on my feet by the time the intruder rounds the corner, and my fists clench automatically when I see Devon’s smug face.

“Good evening, Celdon,” he says in that falsely bright voice.

“Devon,” I snarl. “Did knocking go out of style, or do you just want me so bad that you’re letting yourself into my compartment now?”

The second I blurt it out, I know it was a mistake. Devon’s creepily polite façade wavers, sending a ripple of anger down his smooth, tan face. It happens so quickly I could have missed it, but I know instantly that I fucked up
big time
.

“I’m not sure where this hostility is coming from,” says Devon. “We’re on the same team now.”

“I know . . .”

“When you agreed to join us, you promised to put the bitter, angry Celdon to rest and focus on becoming a better version of yourself.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, trying and failing to sound sincere.

Devon sighs and shakes his head. “This is really unfortunate. You’re deep in your reeducation now. We should be getting past this cynicism and negativity.”

The guy looks so genuinely upset that Constance hasn’t been able to break me of my angry, fucked-up ways that I almost feel bad that I’m not taking this shit seriously . . . almost.

 Then I remember I’m trying to infiltrate a psychotic, eugenics-happy cult. It’s probably a
good
thing that I’m having a hard time adjusting.

I’m so busy trying to arrange my expression to look contrite that my brain doesn’t immediately register Devon’s hand reaching into his pants pocket.

“Don’t worry,” he says, fiddling with something at his side. “We’ll get you up to speed.”

“Oh, yeah? Good, because —”

I never finish the sentence. Devon throws out an arm with unexpected speed and aggression and whips me across the face with a long, stiff object.

White-hot pain flares over my skin, and I double over before I realize what he struck me with. Fighting the painful throbbing sensation spreading from my cheek to my ear, I squint up at the long silver instrument in Devon’s hand.

“We generally . . . try to avoid the use of force,” he huffs, drawing his arm back again and whipping me across the other cheek.

A strangled yell escapes my throat, and now my entire face is on fire. I take a deep breath and force myself to stand, glaring up at Devon.

“It’s all right to be angry with me,” he says. “But this is for your own good.” 

It sounds as though he’s reasoning with himself to justify striking me. What a nut job.

“I’m your benefactor, and part of that job is holding you accountable.” He meets my gaze with a creepy look of determination in his eyes. “Celdon . . . I’m going to hold you to high standards because I believe in your potential.”

He breaks into a crazed smile. “It’s time to go.”

“Go where?”

“Just a little field trip.”

“But I’m not done with the video.”

“We’ll make sure it picks up right where you left off,” he says. “Since you’ve . . .
fallen behind
in your assimilation, we need a physical intervention.”

Cold dread seeps into my stomach. I’ve been here before, only I wasn’t trying to convince Constance that I wanted to be one of them. I was their prisoner, and they tortured me for days.

I can’t go back there again. I won’t.

It isn’t the pain that scares me. I can handle the pain and the insults and the humiliation. But I need to get a message to Harper, and right now Devon is standing between me and the door.

This is definitely going to delay my “reeducation.” Hell, it’s probably going to earn me a week in their torture room and twenty extra brainwashing videos. But I can’t risk being stuck in the bowels of the compound with no way to get a message to Harper.

Letting out a wild battle cry, I launch myself across the room at Devon with all the force I can manage. Devon’s a little bigger than me, but I’m taller. And even though he sees it coming, he can’t get out of the way fast enough.

My hands clamp down on his throat, and the momentum from my leap knocks him backward.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had much practice choking people with my bare hands.

I lose my balance, and we both crash into my beautiful glass coffee table. The sharp edges cut into my skin. Blood trickles down my arms and stains my slacks, but the fall isn’t as painful as I would have expected.

Maybe the adrenaline is numbing the pain of the glass poking into my skin. Or maybe it’s because Devon is receiving the worst of the lacerations as he squirms underneath me.

Then he lets out a guttural noise and swings out — hard.

For an overgroomed pretty boy, Devon packs one hell of a punch. I feel his fist crash into my cheek — bone against bone — and the shock and heat travel all the way down my face. I wind up and throw out my fist, feeling the power and a slight twinge of pain shoot up my wrist as I make contact.

Devon lunges to the side, and shards of glass cascade off his shoulders and back as he tries to buck me off. 

Then I feel a sharp throttle to my gut, and Devon uses the opportunity to grab my neck and head-butt me.

There’s no cartoonish
boink!
sound when our skulls collide, but for a moment, the room goes all blurry. There’s a crackle of pinks and yellows in my vision before I fall forward onto my hands and knees.

Glass is cutting into my palms, but they’re already so slick with blood that it barely registers.

Devon is no longer sprawled in front of me. All I see is the sparkle of bloody glass and the blur of carpet.

By the time I hear the
crunch
behind me, it’s too late. Devon’s arm encircles my neck, and his other fist puts pressure on the back of my head. 

For one horrible moment, I feel my air passages close as he squeezes the life out of me. I smack his arm and jerk around, but Devon doesn’t let go.

I keep fighting as the darkness closes in, but there’s no air left in my lungs.

My last thought before passing out is that I really,
really
should have asked Constance to teach me their kung fu moves before I fought Devon Reid.

twenty-eight

Harper

The next two days are the longest of my life. 

We aren’t allowed any more visitors. When we arrived, the quarantine crew stuck little monitors to our chests, which means the doctors don’t need to come by to take our vital signs. Apart from each other, the only human contact we get is the nurses who serve our meals. 

Health and Rehab confiscated my interface when we were quarantined, so I can’t message Celdon to see if there have been any new developments on the Fringe.

But the worst part is not knowing if we’re infected. Every little sniffle or cough sets me on edge. The constant boredom makes me tired, but fatigue could also be a symptom of the virus. 

When Eli tosses and turns in his sleep, I worry it’s because he’s feverish — not that he would tell me. He hasn’t said more than a dozen words to me since we’ve been locked up together. He won’t even look at me.

Then there’s Caleb. He’s the only real source of entertainment we have. If I haven’t taken well to confinement, Caleb should be
institutionalized
.

Less than two hours after we were locked in the room, he came up with a plan to stay busy and keep from going crazy. He requested an interface for reading, but they just sent up a tablet and cut him off from the compound network, which meant none of us could use it to communicate. I guess the board didn’t want to risk us telling people we may have introduced a deadly virus to the compound. Go figure.