“Showing them doesn’t change anything.” You just ended up looking pathetic, like when I’d called my supposed friends after my mom died, begging them to play with me, sobbing on the view screen when they’d refused. Dad and I moved to Davenport a year later, and I never saw any of them again, but I still cringed thinking about it.
Everson waited for me to say more, but I just shrugged. What else was there to say? Of course I was wrung out with worry for my dad and scared sick just thinking about crossing the bridge, but I could handle it — would handle it — because seeing my dad get executed … That I couldn’t handle.
“So,” Everson said after a moment. “What does that director want fetched? Must be important if she’s willing to risk her career to cut a deal with Mack.”
“I don’t know.” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t opened Director Spurling’s letter to my dad. I pulled the messenger bag across the floor and took out the envelope. I held it flat on my open palm. It was wrong to open other people’s letters.
Everson plucked the envelope from my hand and tore it open unceremoniously. So much for holding it in the steam of a teakettle so I could open it without having to admit it later. I pulled my ponytail tight as he unfolded the letter, written on heavy cream-colored paper that matched the envelope.
“Dear Mack,” he read aloud. “I’m told that’s what your clients call you, and that’s how you should think of me, as a client — only I won’t be paying your exorbitant fee in money. There is something I left behind in Chicago that I want very badly. If you can find it and bring it to me, I will erase the recording I have of you entering the checkpoint chamber and delete the files I’ve been amassing for the past several years on you and your clients.
“If you do complete the fetch, rest assured it will be your last. I know that your wife’s cancer bankrupted you, but surely you have enough now to live on until you find honest work in your field. If you value your life and your freedom, you will never again after this fetch cross the quarantine line. Say good-bye to the East, Mack, for good, for your own sake and for your daughter’s.”
Everson held the letter between us and pointed to what Spurling had written at the bottom of the page. An address in Chicago and “Arabella Spurling, age 6. Brown hair, blue eyes. Any photo in good condition.”
Arabella Spurling. She must have been Director Spurling’s daughter. I actually felt a little bad for her for a moment, until I remembered that she was the reason my dad was on the run in the Feral Zone.
Everson let the letter drop to the floor. “What kind of person sends a clueless girl into the most dangerous situation possible for a photo?” There was as much venom in his voice as in a bucket of chimpacabra spit.
I knew it was a rhetorical question, but I thought about it anyway. What kind of person did such a thing? A desperate one. I wondered if her memories of her daughter had begun to fade. I could still remember what my mother had looked like, because I had file upon file of digital video of our family. I could still see her face and hear her voice any time I wanted to. Except for right now, of course.
What I couldn’t do was feel her arms around me or her kiss at the edge of my hairline. I could still remember how she smelled — like honey, somehow — but there might be a day when I couldn’t conjure that up. If that ever happened, I could imagine feeling quite desperate.
I picked up Spurling’s letter. Wait. What had Everson just called me?
“I am not clueless,” I said, sitting up straighter against the door. “In fact, my dad has been telling me about the Feral Zone for years.”
“But he never mentioned the grupped ferals who live there?”
“He did. He just didn’t call them grupped ferals.” They were the were-beasts, mongrels, and manimals from his bedtime stories. Only now I knew that they weren’t fiction. Dad had been describing his day at the office, which happened to be in a forbidden quarantine zone. “And yes, okay, he may have sugarcoated things a bit. But it doesn’t matter because no one forced me to come here. And even after being attacked by an infected guy and seeing a man bleeding to death in a wagon because he’d been mauled and finding those horrible photos of mutated body parts, I’m still glad I —”
I couldn’t breathe.
I put my head down and tried to take in air, but my lungs grew stiffer by the second. And then the gasping started and I heard myself suffocating.
Everson held something up to my face, commanding, “Inhale.”
A prickly scent blasted up my nose and into my brain where it switched on strings of fairy lights at the back of my eyeballs. Choking, I shoved his hand away. “What was —” Then I saw the dark-blue inhaler in his palm and my bones melted.
“It’s Lull,” he explained. “I didn’t press long enough to put you out. It’ll just calm you down.” He tucked the inhaler into the front pocket of my pants. “If you’re still anxious, take another hit.”
Another hit? I fell back against the door.
“Okaaay … ,” Everson said, surprised.
The air around me turned into gelatin as I dripped down the wall.
“Actually,” he said. “Let’s keep it at one.”
Sure. Whatever. The door lolled against my back. My cheek dipped onto my shoulder. I tried to straighten up, but had lost my sense of up. Much easier to let gravity do the figuring so I let it pull me down. My head landed on something that wasn’t the floor. Not too soft, not too hard. “Just right,” I murmured.
“Oh crap,” said a voice, warm on my ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be so sensitive.”
“S’okay.” Rolling to my side, I snuggled down for the night. My fingers curled into the sheet and pulled it to my chin. “I like the scary ones,” I assured him. And I did. I also liked it when he stayed until I fell asleep. I reached up and cupped his cheek, firm and warm. “You need to shave,” I murmured, tracing a finger down his sideburn, and then wondered why that would make my father gasp.
9
I couldn’t place what was wrong with the scream. The note. The pitch. Something was off. The person screamed again, which dragged me into consciousness. He didn’t sound scared…. I rolled onto my back, listening to the drawn out howl.
“It’s Bangor,” said a voice so close I flinched.
Sitting up, I searched the darkness. As my eyes adjusted, my memories came flooding back. I was still in the supply-room closet. Twisting, I found Everson seated behind me. My gaze narrowed on his lap. “Did I —”
“I’m sorry about the Lull. I didn’t mean —”
“How long was I out?”
Everson rose, avoiding my gaze. “A couple of hours. I’m not sure. I fell asleep too. Look, I didn’t —” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
A couple of hours — that was all? The muddy flow of my thoughts felt like the result of a weeklong coma.
A gunshot rang out, startling us both, followed by another scream — agonized this time. Everson dropped his face into his palm. When boots sprinted into the supply room beyond the door, I rose on usteady legs.
The chair wedged under the knob was flung aside with a crash and the closet door opened.
The infected guard, Bangor, stood before us, wavering on his feet, though his yellow-eyed gaze seemed sharp enough as it settled on me. When he lunged, Everson shoved me back and grabbed Bangor by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length.
Where were the other guards?
I had to help Everson. I snagged the tranq gun from his thigh holster. Who knew if the safety was on or if the thing was even loaded? Still, I aimed it at the yellow-eyed guard.