The Last Uprising (Defectors Trilogy) (28 page)

I smiled gratefully. “You have no idea.”

He grinned back, showing all his teeth, which stood out against his windburned lips and ruddy face. “Yeah. Godfrey said you had back-to-back PMC attacks and just got hit by a major horde of carriers.”

I nodded, thinking of Roman lying unconscious upstairs. He had no idea what was going on or who was here, and I felt a little leap of affection in the pit of my stomach when I thought about how he would disapprove of the westerners’ cheeriness.
 

“How many of you were killed?”

“Too many,” I sighed.

“I’m sorry.” He nodded at the bandage around the back of my neck. “The carriers give you that?”

I nodded. “The one that bit me was early stage, though. I should be fine.”

“You’re a lot tougher than you look.” He sounded genuinely impressed.

I shrugged. “It’s not the first time a carrier took a bite out of me.”

He smiled, but it did not quite meet his eyes this time. I was getting the awkward feeling that maybe he really did think I was insane.

“Do you have carriers out in sector . . .?” I trailed off, testing to see if he would supply the name of the sector or confirm what Greyson had said.

“Oh, we’re still independent of the New Republic,” he corrected. “Our settlement spans all across the Rocky Mountains.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded. “It’s the worst kind of guerrilla warfare for the PMC. They aren’t good in the mountains. We’ve managed to secure a pretty sizable territory.”

“All the way to the West Coast?”

He shook his head. “Colorado. Most of the Southwest was hit really hard during the outbreak. Utah and Nevada are no man’s land. Illegals and carriers are dying off. SoCal is a different story . . . total carrier country.”
 

I smiled at his use of slang I hadn’t heard since before the Collapse.

“We do a little better where we’re at near Estes Park. The carriers have natural predators up there.”

“What?” I asked, feeling dense.

“Mountain lions . . . black bears.” He made a gnashing motion with his teeth as though he were ripping the skin off a turkey leg.

Soon all the newcomers had been served, and I returned the pot to the kitchen and settled in the empty chair between Shriver and Godfrey.

“Where did you come from?” I asked Shriver.

“Ida asked me to go west after everybody scattered. She knew we would need to rally every rebel from east to west to take down World Corp. She had a lot of contacts in the Rockies, so I headed out there first.”

I nodded and noticed that Shriver was searching my face.

“So . . . are you back with us?” Shriver asked, the edge in her voice cutting through her careful wording. “Last time I saw you . . . you were a poster child for World Corp’s brainwashing experiments.”

I grinned. Shriver didn’t sugarcoat anything — a trait I’d always appreciated. “Yeah. Most of my memories are back. I’m all in.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Being around Amory at camp was like attending your own fucking funeral: awkward and depressing.”

I laughed, wanting to change the subject. I didn’t like thinking about the way Amory must have felt after my rescue. “What’s it like out west?” I asked.

“Quiet. They’re worried about surviving the winter, not fighting off the PMC. They also don’t get the big hordes like we do out here.”

“And these guys are the only ones who wanted to come?”

“Oh, no. More are on their way. We’re supposed to radio that we made it safely.” She smirked. “You all must have done a number on the PMC. We had to avoid about ten checkpoints between here and Kansas City alone.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “You’ve made them nervous. But they won’t be away long. They’re just waiting until they have a good tactical strategy. They want to avoid drawing the fight north at all costs.”

“Why?”

“They’re losing control of the communes. Between that and trying to contain the carrier breach, well . . . they’ve got their hands full.”

“I still can’t believe Rulon did that.”

“Believe it. Soon there won’t be a corner of North America that’s safe. Joke’s on World Corp, though. Aryus didn’t plan for these massive hordes to form. He thought the carriers would die off too quickly for that, but since the mutation, they’re living a lot longer. They’re adapting — latching on to one another for survival.”

That was a horrific thought. I wasn’t sure our forces could handle another horde like the one we’d just faced.

There was a rustle behind me, and Amory appeared at my shoulder. He smelled like antiseptic and latex gloves, which made me worry instantly.

“Hey, Shriver,” he said. “Do you think you could give me a hand? It’s Roman. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

“It’s been a while since someone’s asked me for a second opinion,” said Shriver, getting up excitedly and following Amory out of the room.

I turned to Godfrey, a little confused.

“She’s talking about Doctor Carson,” he muttered. “Real piece of work from CU Denver.”

I looked down the table to the man Godfrey was nodding at. His dark hair was turning gray around the temples, receding into his skull, and he wore round glasses that gave him a buggy, know-it-all look.
 

There was something off about the way he was speaking across the table and eating — never gesturing or moving his mouth more than was necessary, as though he were listening and forming judgments rather than engaging.

“He’s known for his carrier research — premigration and postmigration. But he’s also the resident doctor in his camp. It’s put Shriver’s nose a little out of joint.”

I grinned in amusement at the thought of Shriver sharing her med tent with anyone, but I was more than a little curious about the doctor.

“Godfrey says you do carrier research, Doctor Carson,” I said, drawing his attention from across the table.

He turned, the corners of his mouth rising incrementally. “Indeed I do. I’ve got less to work with than before, and I’m afraid the facilities aren’t what they were before the Collapse.”

“Well . . . we’ve got plenty of dead ones in the woods if you want to take a look.” I couldn’t quite keep the bite of challenge out of my voice. There was something off about this man.

The doctor looked a little startled at this turn in the conversation, but his expression cleared smoothly.

“It doesn’t help me much to study expired subjects,” he said, taking a tiny bite of his food. “I’ve been focusing my research on the amygdala and the temporal lobe of the carriers. We’ve seen this type of aggressive, antisocial behavior in psychopaths, though not to this extent.”

“Really?” I asked, feeling a little sick.

Dr. Carson nodded. “We’ve also been studying how the virus’s progression breaks down the body. We’re concerned that the stages don’t accurately reflect the . . .
severity
of the virus.”

I glanced at Logan, who had stopped talking to Greyson and was listening with interest.
 

“How do you mean?” I asked. “I don’t think anyone would argue the virus isn’t severe.”

He laughed — a cold, hollow sound that made my insides curdle. “True. But once carriers reach stage four, there really isn’t anything we can do. Even if you could stop the virus from eating away at their brain, the nerve damage, decline in organ function, and the deterioration of their spinal cord would be irreparable. We have not seen any survive longer than twenty-four days once they reach this stage.”

“And what about the stage-three carriers?”

Doctor Carson grimaced. “That’s where we find the stages to be misleading. World Corp believes the virus can be completely cured as long as it is administered before stage three.”

“And you disagree?” I said, my eyes darting to Logan.

“Yes. Based on the data we’ve gathered, a stage-three carrier that receives the cure will live, but the effects of the virus are irreversible. In my opinion, it’s misleading to say the virus can be cured. Of course, I haven’t had the opportunity to study anyone who’s received the cure, but judging by the brain activity I’ve observed in earlier-stage individuals, a return to healthy brain function would never be possible.”

“So what then?” snapped Logan from across the table. “What happens to them?”

Doctor Carson regarded her with curiosity but did not seem put off by her poisonous tone.

“Based on what I’ve seen . . . I would say any individuals who have been infected with the virus for any reasonable period of time would suffer permanently from violent, unpredictable, antisocial behavior. They would be, in essence, a sociopath.”

Logan slammed her hand down on the table, causing the silverware to rattle. “A sociopath?”

“Yes,” said the doctor. His expression was neutral. Clearly, he had no idea what he had just stepped in. The others sitting around them had lowered their voices to listen.

“That’s enough,” said Greyson through gritted teeth, who was glaring down the table at Doctor Carson.

“I’m sorry . . . I hope I have not caused offense. I myself have had many friends succumb to the virus —”

“And have any of them
lived
?” snarled Logan. “Have they lived with this psychopathy?”

“Not yet,” he said, his expression turning grim.

“Well, I have. I was infected, and I’ve had the cure.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the doctor. He didn’t look abashed. He was staring at Logan with a mixture of interest and amusement. “It is possible, I suppose, with the appropriate rehabilitation . . .”

Logan’s mouth curled in disgust. “Rehabilitation?”

“With your permission, I’d love to study your case to see how you progress in your transition back to functional behavior. With many convicted felons, we’ve seen great progress being made —”

“Shut up,” growled Greyson. “She isn’t a convict. And you aren’t
studying
her. You know nothing about her or people like her who’ve survived. You said it yourself.”

“I do apologize,” said the doctor. But his tone and expression did not match his words.

Greyson wasn’t having it. “Maybe you should worry a little less about hypotheses and a little more about what’s going on in the real world,” he said nastily.

Logan wasn’t glaring at the doctor anymore. She was looking at Greyson with a mixture of gratitude and adoration.

Doctor Carson was studying Greyson with fresh interest. “You were in the prisons in Sector X, weren’t you?”

“Oh, I suppose you’ve studied actual felons, too, then?”

The doctor threw Greyson his empty smile. “No. I just noticed the way you keep glancing at the doors out of this room. Having this many people in such a small space makes you nervous. You’ve grown your hair out too long, which leads me to think you’re thumbing your nose at the PMC. You’re undocumented, but your HALLO burns say you’ve had a run-in with World Corp. Now, I can only think of one reason why you would have escaped undocumented.”

Greyson opened his mouth to retort, but the rest of the rebels were getting up to leave. They would be bunking at the Hoopers’ farm and returning in the morning to discuss our strategy against the PMC.

Doctor Carson shot us another cold smile and followed his companions back out into the hall.

“I should go see if the others need help moving the dead carriers,” said Greyson, getting up to leave.
 

I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was trying to rein in his temper and regain his dignity. I knew Greyson was ashamed of the time he’d spent in Chaddock — if for no other reason than the fact that he would be considered a felon for as long as World Corp was in power.

Logan followed him out into the hallway and grabbed his arm — a bold move, considering he was trying to shrug off the fury the doctor had unleashed.
 

Greyson turned to her, looking wounded and surprised. Logan’s face was as light as I’d seen it since I’d been rescued. She leaned in to Greyson, who looked momentarily speechless, and planted a soft kiss on his lips.
 

“Thank you,” she whispered, reaching up on her tiptoes to touch her forehead to his.

Greyson’s mouth fell open, and his eyes grew round and warm.

Then, without another word, Logan pulled away and darted toward the stairs, leaving Greyson standing frozen in the hallway.

After a while, the chatter in the dining room died down, and the house was filled with the sleepy yawns of rebels from the west saying goodbye and heading out to the Hoopers’ farm.

I trudged up the stairs, feeling the weight of my muscles with every step. My entire body ached, but with the rebels’ arrival, all I noticed was the relief I felt.

Roman’s door was closed, and all the other rooms were silent. As tired as my body felt, I was too wired to sleep.
 

Moving lightly so my feet would not disturb the squeaky floorboards, I crept up to the second landing, where I saw the light emanating from the bottom of Amory’s door. My heart sped up a little, though I didn’t know why I was so anxious.

I ran a shaky hand through my hair, conscious that I hadn’t really paid any attention to my appearance in the entire time Amory and I had known each other. Back in Columbia, I would have obsessed over my clothes and hair and makeup every time I saw him. My mind would have raced, always searching for the right thing to say, and I would have kicked myself any time my voice hitched in his presence.
 

But it wasn’t like that with Amory. The words tumbled out of me before I could think, and I talked to him as easily as anyone I’d ever known. I might wish I looked cuter around him most of the time, but the attraction between us was deeper than that.
 

Things that had felt so important then seemed insignificant now.
 

I knocked softly, my skin tingling from the memory of our last encounter. The door opened immediately, but he looked surprised to see me. A huge grin spread over his face as he stepped back to let me in.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.
 

Was I imagining it, or did he look nervous, too?

“Much better,” I said, trying to suppress the slight waver in my voice.