The Modified (The Biotics Trilogy, #1) (34 page)

“Where are we going? Better yet, are we supposed to be here?” I ask, anticipating someone catching us at any moment.

“Don’t worry, I got permission. And Galileo told me where we’d be safe to travel. I think we both need some fresh air. Besides, Malcolm says it’s safe since there’s been no Bringer attack for a couple of weeks now. He also gave me this little device just in case we run into any trouble. Malcolm said just press this button and we’ll be surrounded by soldiers.” Landon finally takes a breath as he punches in the code on the data pad to the left of the door.

The first thing I notice as the door opens is the rain has stopped. There are a few steps leading up to ground level in front of us. At the top of the stairs, we see a wide low-lying wall positioned in front of a dilapidated building. Landon pulls me over to the one of windows on the building and we peer inside. There are tables and chairs strewn about an area that resembles a cafeteria.

“Malcolm said this used to be a part of a boarding school, and this building was called the Dayroom. See those buildings over there?” He points to the right, “Those were dorms the students lived in. He said these buildings are all that’s left of this air base.”

“It’s crazy to think that this place was once full of people. Now look at it…doesn’t really give much hope for the future, huh?” I ask, looking around at the barren wasteland that surrounds us. “I wonder what it looked like when my brother was here?”

“Hey, I got an idea,” Landon says, changing the subject. He clearly knows that all of this is bothering me.

Landon jumps up onto the wide low-lying wall, and then pulls me up to join him. The full moon that hangs overhead casts everything in a soft glow. Landon shrugs out of the raincoat he was given and places it down on the wall. He gestures to the makeshift blanket and I slip out of my raincoat as well. Adding my coat to his, making the “blanket” bigger, I lie down and Landon comes to my side while taking hold of my hand. He leans over and kisses me gently at first, and then when I grab him and pull him closer, he deepens the kiss. We finally separate, both of us a little breathless. He returns to his position next to me, and I listen as his breathing returns to normal.

“Landon?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we’re safe here?”

“Yes. I don’t think your father would’ve sent us here otherwise,” Landon replies, stroking his fingertips through my hair.

“I just wish Malcolm would’ve given us more information. I get the feeling he’s keeping a lot from us.”

“He’s a military man, Kenley. He’s that kind of guy that only lets you know what he wants you to know. We’ll find out everything in time, don’t worry,” Landon explains.

“I hope so.”

“For now, let’s just live in this moment,” he says while giving me a light squeeze.   

We both lay there looking up at the stars with the raincoats acting as a barrier between the wall’s damp, cold surface and us. The stars in the sky are so vibrant and plentiful since there aren’t any major city lights to keep them from our view. It reminds me of the view from Old Man Gary’s farm. I can almost hear the wind sweeping through the long grasses. I long for the smell of flowers instead of the rain soaked air I’m currently breathing in. The memory of Joey and me playing the star game seeps into my mind and I become overcome with emotion. The starry sky becomes blurred as tears fill my eyes.

“Hey…Landon?”

“Yeah?”

“Want to play a game?”

Landon releases a content sign as he takes a hold of my hand. “I’d love to.”

----
About the Authors
  ---

Carol
and
Adam Kunz
make up the mom and son author duo,
C.A. Kunz
. They thoroughly enjoy writing about things that go bump in the night and action-packed dystopian romances while drinking massive amounts of English breakfast tea and Starbucks coffee. The author pair c
urrently reside forty-five minutes away from each other in the sunny state of Florida. If you would like to find out more about this duo,
The Modified
, or
THE CHILDE series
, please visit the links below:

Author Website-

http://www.cakunz.blogspot.com

Facebook Author Page-

http://www.facebook.com/cakunz11

HERE

Ella James

Copyright
©
2012 by Ella James

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

PLEASE DO NOT PIRATE THIS BOOK. PIRACY SUCKS.

CHAPTER ONE

The day it happened, things were regular enough.

Halah, Sara Kate, and Bree had spent the night—a chilly October Friday we’d talked through until the sun rose, pink and soft across the Rockies. I awoke to Sara Kate’s knee in my back, sharp enough to poke a hole through my favorite Cream t-shirt. Halah and Bree were curled up on the floor, Halah’s pink subzero “hotsack” tossed over the Miley Cyrus bag Bree’s grandmother had given her the previous Christmas—the year we’d turned 15. Halah called the bag Miss Miley, and at sleepovers at Sara Kate or Halah’s house, I usually fought Bree for her.

This morning, Halah’s curly head stuck up, and her hazel eyes met mine. We grinned, then pounced on Bree, chanting “Miss Miley, Miss Miley, Miss Miley!” till Bree lurched up, her curvy body raining fragments of the popcorn we’d all munched and, later, crunched into my rug.

“Shhh
hhh
!” That was Sara Kate, lumbering up and glaring at us. She was never a morning person, and she’d been even less one since she’d started hanging out with Ami McVea of the multi-colored dreadlocks and
Turn Off Your Radio
(KILL THE MACHINE) bumper sticker. S.K. hadn’t actually told me this—I was only her best friend, after all—but I’d overheard her talking to Ami after orchestra practice, saying something about midnight rides, and I happened to know from my college cousin West that Ami and S.K. had been sneaking out on weeknights, riding into Denver to go to (what else?) indie music shows.

“You’re riding with the big dawgs. This ain’t no rusty banged up Beetle,” Halah drawled. She had the most ridiculous faux Old West accent ever, and she was referencing Ami McVea’s VW bug. We—the quad—had called ourselves the big dogs in years past, although I couldn’t quite remember why. 

Bree ambled over and barked in Sara Kate’s ear. S.K. batted her off, then slid out of my bed and pulled a Pop Tart out of her overnight bag. Halah braided Bree’s hair, and S.K. painted her toenails with my electric lilac polish, and I straightened my room and made us waffles, which we ate on the downstairs couch, watching
Jeopardy
re-runs that Halah killed, ’cause that girl made awesomesauce out of random facts, despite what she wanted our school to think. (Re: brainless, badass, and beautiful). 

Half an hour later, the four of us stood in the pebbly indention of my driveway, a time-shorn path through the rough grass that dusted the foothills of the mountains.

I looked at Bree and Halah, a unit within our unit, best friends just like S.K. and I. “You guys be careful.” I smiled tightly. “Halah, spare Bobby the crotch shot.”

Bobby Malone was this senior who’d cheated on one of Halah’s cheer teammates—Annabelle Monroe, the blonde cheerleader archetype. Which is why he was also the bull’s eye in the day’s paintball meet-up.

Halah grinned wickedly. “I’m not going for his crotch, Milo. I’m going for his little tiny
balls
.”

“That’s disgusting.” Bree’s nose scrunched.

“Keep her out of trouble, mkay?” 

Bree shrugged. She had a piece of popcorn smashed under her breasts.

“I want pictures,” S.K. called, as Hal and Bree set off.

“Only if they can’t be used against us in a court of law,” Halah called back.

They drove away, aiming for the far-off fence at the front edge of Mitchell property. Hang a left, and they’d be on a gravel road that ran below the massive Front Range, just a tiny ribbon if viewed from the top of the peaks, up by turbines.

Mitchell Turbines.

Mitchell Windfarm.

Home.

S.K. was never much for goodbyes, and after all, we didn’t know that’s what this was. That bright gray morning was just an ordinary Saturday, on an ordinary weekend in our junior year at Golden Prep, the only private arts high school on our side of Denver.

“Have fun with Bambi,” she said, and tossed her black hair, like the glossy, perfect mane annoyed the heck out of her. (For the record, it really did).

“Have fun with Jackie Chan.”

That would be her Tae Kwon Do instructor, a big, smiling hottie whose actual name was David.

S.K. arched one brow. It jutted up over the frames of her black, square-ish glasses.

“Sayonara,” she said.

And that was that.

My plan for the afternoon involved a dart gun, a tracking bracelet, and my beat-up copy of
The Great Gatsby
.

I had a seasonal reading plan I’d stuck with each year since fifth grade:
Walden
in the spring,
Pride & Prejudice
in the summer,
The Great Gatsby
each fall, and
Wuthering Heights
every winter (my dad's dad, Gus Mitchell, had been a tenth-grade English teacher). I liked to imagine the rock-strewn, fir-dotted fields that rolled out toward the mountain range as my moors. In the privacy of my favorite woodsy spot, I savored my cold-weather reading with a gusto that made me feel like a walking liberal arts student cliché.

With
Gatsby
in my pack and the dart gun in my gloved fist, I drifted through the fields, watching fir needles tremble, tracking birds as they rose and fell, formed flocks and scattered. They’d be leaving in the next month, before it got too cold for anything sans fur.

I wondered if my herd of mule deer would already be there: by the creek that threaded through the northeast edge of our land. I hoped not. If they were waiting, I couldn’t sneak up on them. Encroaching winter made it especially important that I tag the last of the year’s fawns—
now
. When the snow came, their grazing patterns changed. The creek would ice over and the herd would scatter, seeking out the Bancrofts’ hot springs or one of the freeze-proof waterfalls just north of our property, on the land owned by Mr. Suxley.

As I walked, arms stuck in the pockets of my dad’s giant hunting coat, I thought back over the night. I was a cataloguer of events, but like too many other times lately, I felt like I didn’t have enough to file. I seemed to be moving at a different pace from all my friends. Halah—Halah with her unabashed love of Martin Lawrence movies and her closet full of oversized softball t-shirts—had shot off, three light years ahead of me. She had a senior boyfriend on the wrestling team, and she didn’t have a curfew.

Bree was just…Bree. I didn’t even have a scale for how she and I compared. While I thought about everything ad nauseum, Bree never seemed to think about anything that wasn’t practical. The week before, she’d spent half of lunch on her phone trying to find the area’s best dry-cleaner.

And then there was S.K. Sara Kate, my best friend. My other half. My favorite person on the planet—other than my Dad, who wasn’t on the planet anymore. S.K. who’d gone with (guess who?) Ami to ComicCon the weekend of my birthday. Who’d recently decided she needed more time to herself. “I’m getting too stressed out by all this
stuff
.” Stuff being me. The quad. Our fun.