The Ward (38 page)

Quickly, Kent looks up. Soft all of a sudden. “I’d like some too.”

Here it is
. This is what my gut was warning me about. Knowing he’s not going to like why I’ve got to say no makes my blood pump a little bit faster—everything is so fragile. We can’t do this without him.

“First off,” I say evenly, “it isn’t made yet. Callum’s working on that as we speak. Second, it isn’t going to be dosed per person. Callum knows exactly how many people there are in the HBNC wing, and he’s making one whole batch that he’ll give to me. The cure will get dosed properly in the rationing pipes. If you take out even a tablespoon, that’ll be one less drop for everyone else. And then the meds may not work.” I look at Terrence, hoping for some backup, but he can’t help with this.

Kent jerks back, then strides up to me. Gets in my face. “This is brack and you know it.” The muscles in his neck ripple out, clenched tight.

“It’s n-not,” I stammer, and look around, but no one has a life raft to throw me. “I’m sorry.”

The tension in the Vault puts everyone quiet.

Jones and Ter stand, ready to leave, but I don’t think anyone wants to end on that note. And no one wants to go up against Kent either, so I’m on my own.

I wish I could tell him different. We’d made progress, armshake and all. Why is it that everything I decide ripples out in ways I’d never imagined? Even the good choices, if those exist, have a way of hurting someone. Sorrier than he’d believe, I watch him pass through the archway made of femurs.

His whole body’s hardened like a boulder—for a moment I worry that he won’t help us anymore. Quickly, so he can hear, I say to the others, “Callum will show you guys how the cure works once you guys get there. I’ll comm you the address.” I tap my wrist before everyone steps out into the night.

The city is quieter than before, the revelry’s died some, but not that much. It seems everyone’s got their windows open tonight, hollering between apartments or sitting in fire escapes. It’s a night unlike any other.

I follow the guys out onto the narrows, expecting Ter to be waiting for me so maybe we could talk. But he hasn’t—I’m alone.

I’m not alone
.

Waiting, back up against a building, is Kent. He’s holding in his rage, I can see that clearly. Whether or not he lets it loose all depends on my answer—and I still can’t tell him what he wants to hear.

“One more time, I’ll ask you,” he growls. I look at him and step away. Didn’t know his black eyes could get any blacker, but that’s what they do. The look he gives me could cause earthquakes. Put a 9.0 on the Richter.

“I—I can’t,” I stammer, my back pressed against brick.

Kent throws his fist into the building—I jump to the side. He’s an animal, roaring away his anger, but under it, I can hear something else: he’s sad. Plain and simple. He kicks the narrows, storms away, and I slide onto the planked sidewalk, feeling guilty even after all that.

When I can’t handle the sound of my heart in my ears any longer, I force my feet to lift me.

They hammer against the wooden sidewalk.

They don’t wait to see if more guilt catches up.

43

8:50 P.M., SUNDAY

N
o one will recognize me
.

I bring the scissors to the final, frizzed-out black corkscrew that’s left on my head. The last man standing. The kinky lock falls to the floor, a fuzzy caterpillar, and joins the rest of the wiry mess that’s piled up there.

The last thing I do is nick off the fuzzy patches that stand taller than their neighbors, brushing against my fingers when they shouldn’t. Then—

I’m done. Finished
.

I exhale. I drop the scissors in the sink and rub my scalp clean. Stowaway strands float off in shaggy, black clouds. And then, between my feet . . . I see the bathroom floor.

And I choke.

It’s a crime scene. Except, instead of blood, my curls. Clinging for dear life to every possible surface—the toilet seat, the towels, the shower curtain. My hair is the victim.
I’m
the victim. All of that is me. Little pieces of myself, dead on the floor.

I want them back
. I know I’ve trash-talked those fuzz balls before, but I was wrong. You don’t get more than one Trademark Characteristic, and mine’s gone.

I pull my eyes away, tell myself that hair grows. Remind myself why I did it, who I’m doing it for. A lifetime supply of hair-dyeing sessions and eye rolls, and getting to hear Aven say “good skill” before every race.

But it still hurts.

Then I look up.

And if I thought the crime scene was down there, I was deeply mistaken.

Gripping the porcelain sink, I gasp. My heart falls down a dozen flights of stairs.

I wish I didn’t care, but . . .
whoa
. Tears brew behind my eyes and I have to blink them away so I can examine my handiwork. Who gave a sixteen-year-old the scissors anyway?

I tip my chin to the side, brush my hand over my scalp and down to the nape of my neck.

My head . . . it’s so much rounder than I thought. Darker, too. And my forehead. I have a really, really wide forehead. I never knew that.
Am I ugly?
I never thought I was, but whoever’s in that mirror, it isn’t me. She’s hardly a she at all.

But then I see my eyes—actually
see
my eyes—and I wonder why that feels new. It’s probably an optical illusion (less hair, more eyeball). They look darker. Like the leather of my drowned Hessians. Yes, they still sort of look half-closed, but in an entirely new way.

Very come-hither.

I like them
, I think, and as I do, I realize how funny it sounds in my head.

I’ve always had these eyes.
Has Derek noticed these babies
?

The thought dissolves straightaway, though. Leaves me heavy. Even the writhing is gone. In its place, something still. Noiseless. Dull and worn-down, like broken glass churned up by the Strait. Nothing sharp, nothing raw. He’s no longer Derek, whoever that was.

He’s an obstacle. Same as Kitaneh.

Taking one last glimpse in the mirror, I tip up my chin at the girl I don’t recognize. She’s stronger. She’s not weak in the knees.

Not for a guy who’d cheat on his wife of a few centuries.

He’s older than the Statue of Liberty, for crying out loud.

I step out into the main room. Callum scans me like a portrait, from all angles.

“It’s gone,” he says at last, gulping back his shock. Then: “It’s perfect.”

Perfect?
For a moment I think it’s a compliment—I feel the blood as it beelines for my cheeks. And then I realize what he means. . . . It
is
perfect. No one will recognize me.

He walks to his desk and lugs over another rubber sack. Smaller this time. Black. “Turn around,” he says, his voice suddenly serious. I do, and he tucks my arms under both straps. “There you go. Enough for the entire wing.”

This sack isn’t heavy. Certainly not as heavy as the red one. But I feel the weight of it with every cell in my body. My muscles want only to put the thing down. I’m wrong, it is heavy.

Too heavy.

Not too heavy. Aven’s in there
.

“Do you want any more soup?” he asks, pointing to the bowl of rehydrated broth I left sitting on the moldy mattress box. He had it ready and waiting for me when I got back, and I just about kissed his feet. “And don’t forget to fill up your canteen before you go. I don’t know how you’re still standing, to be perfectly honest.”

Now he reminds me of Benny. Rolling my eyes, I touch the closed cut at my temple and then examine my arms and legs. I shrug.

From a chest of drawers pushed up against the far wall, he pulls out a folded pair of light blue scrubs.

“Here. It won’t get you in, but it’s something. Avoid the main entrances—the receptionists get updates from the DI and they’ll have seen that you’re wanted,” he says, pushing the pile into my hands. “I wish I could come with you. . . .”

“You’ve got to make the cure,” I say, punching him in the shoulder. I hardly know what I’m doing when I catch myself pulling him in for a hug. It’s like my arms just horseshoe-magnet themselves around his body. “We’re a team. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way in.”

Callum laughs, nervous, and pats my back. Just as I start to wonder when he’ll be comfortable around me, it happens: the muscles in his shoulders unwind; his chest loosens.

He relaxes.

“This is it,” he promises, chin resting on the top of my shorn head. “You’re the only one who could pull it off. It’ll work.”

I don’t know what to say back. . . . I refuse to let failure sound so easy, so possible, by saying something weak like,
I hope so
. But I’m not about to go jinxing it by saying,
You’re right
, either.

Silence, then
, I think.
He’ll know my answer’s in the silence
. And without knowing when or how this trust came about, I let his breathing, steady and sure, give my heart the rhythm it can’t seem to find on its own.

44

9:30 P.M., SUNDAY

W
ard Hope Hospital’s windows glow like animal eyes. A beast that’s eaten Aven, and I have to kill it from the inside. I check my cuffcomm and run a hand over the base of my skull, warming myself. A sheen of sweat has gathered on my scalp, lost in whatever’s left of my hair.

Thirty minutes—I’ve got thirty minutes to get the serum into the right spot in the filtration system before evening rations.
I better find a way in fast
. If I waste too much time, I’ll be caught by the night attendant.

As I jog closer to the staff-only entrance, I spot an emergency transport sub bubbling up to the surface, red-and-white lights blaring as they spin. A shiver slides behind my ears and I jump back, out of sight behind a garbage Dumpster along the boardwalk.

Brack
. The sub’s drawing too much attention.

I’d hoped to find a nurse on a cigarette break or something. . . . It’ll do, though.

Crouched low behind the Dumpster, I slide my way closer to the sub. Its rectangular airlock hatch opens, and a Bouncer lifts himself up, onto the dock. Must be an HBNC emergency—they’ve found someone who’s contagious.

But the Bouncer moves slow. Takes his sweet time, like he’s got no place to be.

Only one reason why he’d be doing that—whoever else is in that transport sub has got no place to be either.

‘Cause they’re dead.

Not at all their good luck . . . but definitely mine.

I jog toward the submobile and climb onto it, then down into the hatch.

Sure enough, I see a stretcher with a white sheet laid over it. That’s when I rethink that bit about luck. There’s nothing lucky about this. Lifting the sheet, I gag—

It’s a man. Older. Frail and slight, except that his chest has ballooned out. He looks like a pregnant woman, but one whose baby formed over where the lungs should be.

Wriggling myself onto the stretcher, I position the sack between my knees and I lift the man’s arm. When I touch his skin, it’s still warm, and my whole body cringes. Swallowing the acid from my stomach, I try to shift his torso. Pretty quickly though, I realize I can’t. He’s too heavy.

I reach for the sack and slide back off the stretcher. Though I’d rather go facedown on the stretcher, if I do that, I’ll never be able to get the sheet over us. So I loop my arms under his shoulders and shimmy myself under him. With the sack positioned behind his kneecaps, I lay my back on the stretcher.

Last, I shift the rest of the man’s limbs so he’s directly over me, and even the sheet over the both of us.

I’m gonna vomit. . . .

It’s his weight, the way it presses down on me. And his hair. I can feel each strand shake against my nose when I move. I can’t breathe. I don’t even want to—the man may not have the scent of death on him yet, but I can smell it anyway. I’ve got too good of an imagination. My stomach fights to free itself from my body. I close my eyes, try to will away the nausea.

Against the submobile’s roof, the clang of footsteps.

More clanging as the Bouncer makes his way down the ladder. The foot of the stretcher jostles in his hands as he lifts me and the dead man up through the airlock. “Heavy guy,” I hear him grunt as we go higher.

At the top, the stretcher starts to move sideways—he must be pushing it onto the dock. And then, after a few more moments, the light through the sheet goes bright.

We’ve been wheeled into the hospital . . . through the hospital. The Bouncer doesn’t stop.

Now, the dangerous part. I keep myself so still, I feel like I could be dead along with the man.

No one better decide to examine him, or they’ll be mighty surprised.

I hear a door click open. I hear it slam shut. Again, click open. Again, slam shut.

In an instant, I’ve got goosebumps. The room is freezing.

I’m in the morgue.

I wait just a few moments longer before attempting to get off the stretcher, just to make sure the Bouncer is gone. Soon as I know I’m alone in here—the only sounds come from the air-conditioning that’s keeping the bodies refrigerated—I push the man off.

As fast as I can, I snake myself away from the stretcher.

I’m so close to retching, I’m actually dizzy. So without air ’cause I didn’t want to smell him, or his hair. Everything spins. I’m shivering down to my hair follicles.

But I’m in. I’ve made it in
.

Slipping out of the cold room, I try to find my bearings without wasting too much time in the hallway. Callum drilled the schematics into my memory before I left, but he never showed me how to get to—or from—the morgue, so I’m at a loss. My only guess is that I’m in the contagious ward . . . assuming they store the contagious and noncontagious bodies together.

I follow the hallway straight for a few minutes. Eventually, I’ll have to hit a stairwell. And if I am where I think I am, I should be able to take it to the rooftop, where the filtration system is.

As I keep on, I hug the wall though I know it’ll do no good if someone recognizes me. Voices echo through the corridor—I don’t like it. It’s too loud. They bounce around and I start to think I’ve come upon an area for visitors. Like the waiting room.