“Why didn’t he warn me about that possibility or tell me that he’s a fetch or mention anything about any of this ever?” It came out harsher than I’d intended.
“If it helps, Mack goes around that issue all the time. It always comes down to the lie detector test.”
“What?”
“The one they’ll give you if he’s caught. They’re very good now, those tests. Accurate ninety-nine percent of the time. A person’s body gives him away with the tiniest release of chemicals. If that test revealed that you knew your father was crossing the quarantine line, you’d be condemned as a traitor and executed alongside him.”
“Oh.” The vision I had of my dad being shot by a firing squad … He must have had a similar one of me — one that had played in his mind for years. For the first time since the jumpsuits had hauled me out of Orlando’s party, I felt my guts unknot a bit. Now my father’s silence made sense. If I only could talk to him and tell him about Director Spurling’s offer, then he could put aside that worry.
“How can I get a message to him?” I asked Dr. Solis.
“You can’t. All we can do is wait for Mack to come out of hiding.”
“Wait?” I didn’t have time for that. Correction, my dad didn’t.
“You’re welcome to stay, like Everson, like me,” the doctor murmured. “Stay because of a parent.”
What was he talking about?
“Like you, I’m here for my father.”
Dr. Solis looked old enough to be my grandfather. Could his father even be alive? “Is he living in the Feral Zone?”
“No, no, he died many years ago. He was a doctor too.” Dr. Solis sank lower in his chair. “He left Cuba the year he finished medical school. He had to go; to stay meant death. But for the rest of his life, my father thought about his countrymen — the cubanos who hadn’t gotten out. They didn’t fare so well. So when the exodus came, I couldn’t cut and run. I’d taken on the burden of his guilt.”
“What did your father have to feel guilty about? You said he would have died if he’d stayed in Cuba.”
“Yes, he had to go, just like those who left during the exodus. Fleeing death is perfectly reasonable.” He gave me a wry smile. “Reason has its advantages. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much for insomnia. Or heartbreak …” His voice faded as his chin sank onto his chest. The Lull had finally kicked in. I hoped that sleep would bring him some relief from his exhaustion and sadness, even if only temporarily.
I picked up the map and traced the circle around Moline. If I were to cross the last bridge — a very big if — I would then have to walk three miles up the riverbank to reach Moline. Three miles in the Feral Zone …
I folded up the map and returned it to my dad’s bag. What was three miles? Nothing. If the road was flat, I could jog it in under an hour.
Suddenly a howl, long and pained, cut through the corridor. I swung around to stare at the closed door, heart jumping in my chest. Did I want to know what that was? No, I did not. But if I planned to cross the river — and I realized I did — I should know what I was in for. I snatched up the messenger bag, pulled the cap over my hair, and slipped out of Dr. Solis’s office.
I followed the keening sound down the hall to a door, open just a crack. Inside, the infected guard, Bangor — red faced and sweating — struggled against the leather straps that bound him to a bed. In the far corner, a guard hunkered in a chair, his hands over his ears, his body turned toward the window like he wanted to dive through it. I didn’t blame him. Bangor seemed to be having a seizure, with his throat muscles bulging and eyes rolling. What if he bit off his tongue? They should have left the muzzle on. He let out another savage howl, followed by a jumble of sounds — almost words — that sent me backing down the hall.
Voices around the next corner were heading my way. I darted into a dark room marked “Supplies.” I made a quick scan of the rows of metal shelves and then returned to the door. But as I peeked into the hall, hands grabbed me from behind and twisted my arm up my back.
“Crappy reflexes for a guard,” a harsh voice whispered in my ear.
7
Contorting, I tried to see my attacker, but he forced me to face the wall. I swallowed my scream. Better to contend with one man than bring a whole slew of guards down on my head. I stopped struggling as well. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t going to let me go until he wanted to. Begging wouldn’t help — that much I remembered from self-defense class.
“I’m not going to report you,” I said in the calmest voice I could muster.
He tsked. “That was too easy. Most guards don’t promise that until after I’ve tied them up.”
The scornful way he said “guards” meant that he wasn’t one. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I said, “I’m not a guard.”
“Right,” he scoffed. “You just dress like one?” His breath warmed the side of my neck as he leaned closer. “And smell like — Hey, how come you smell like a meadow?”
“Get off me!” I shoved my elbow back, hitting what felt like ribs.
Spinning me around, he pulled the cap from my head. “You’re not a guard.” He smacked the wall beside me and the lights snapped on, bright and blinding.
As my eyes adjusted, the first thing that struck me was his lack of a shirt. Since line guards did not waltz around showing off an acre of sun-kissed skin, he clearly didn’t belong here any more than I did. I raised my gaze and lost my breath.
Hopefully he’d put my open-mouthed silence down to having startled me. Then again, with that face, he had to be used to gawkers. Sculpted lips, aquamarine eyes — an artist could put a sword in his hand and paint him as the archangel Michael. Fierce and beautiful.
“Feral got your tongue?” he asked.
Yes — if being from the Feral Zone meant that he was a feral. Wait, was he? He didn’t seem to have any claws or stripes or hooves or —
“Breathe, rabbit. I’ll only hurt you if you do something stupid.”
I cleared my throat. “Define stupid.”
When his lips pulled back, I flinched, only to realize that I’d amused him. “Have you been locked in a tower your whole life?” he asked. “There’s not a mark on you.”
Was he making fun of me? Probably, since he had to be around my age and yet was showing some serious wear and tear: Scars crosshatched his ribs and arms. Another edged his left eye. A few were the results of crude stitches, but the rest … claw marks? Scratches? Who cared?! I snatched my cap from his fingers.
“You know it’s illegal to impersonate a guard,” he said.
“Like you’re going to report me.” I didn’t know where to look. I wasn’t used to talking to half-naked boys.
“That goes both ways.” His mouth held the hint of a smile, but then he strolled away, lithe and unself-conscious, his pants riding dangerously low on his hips. They’d been slashed off below the knees — probably by the same knife that had done the hack job on his light brown hair. He crouched by a dirty green knapsack on the floor, stuffed to overflowing. After trying several times to zip it up, he resorted to dumping out some of the contents. I angled closer and saw pill packs, syringes, moldable casts, and sterilized packets of silica gel.
My anger flared. Having worked in a rescue shelter I knew just how valuable those supplies were. “You can’t steal from an infirmary!”
“Maybe you can’t.” He zipped up his knapsack and rose. “I’ve got it down to an art.”
He stood within a foot of me — close enough that I could smell the river on him — and looked me over, slow and deliberate. As much as I wanted to retreat, I smothered the impulse. Running from a stray dog just triggered it to give chase. And this guy was all street dog — definitely stray. “How did you get across the bridge?” I asked.