Cured Page 12

  My muscles relax as Kevin’s camouflage ball cap and face bob into view, followed by Fo and the others. They’re close, and they’re fine. I sigh with relief. And then it hits me. I’m supposed to be imprisoned down in the shelter, not rummaging through Kevin’s underwear drawer and newspaper clippings. I turn from the scope and quietly hustle through the house, down two flights of stairs, and into the wine cellar. I pass from the wine cellar into the dark, musty food storage room, turn on my flashlight, and close and lock the wine room door behind me.

  Digging my toes into the cement floor, I start running.

  Chapter 20

  I sprint to the end of the underground room and lock the door behind me.

  The cave is cold and clammy, and the air rushing past my face coats it with cool moisture. When I get to the spring, I leap over it and keep going. At the long cement hall, I increase my pace, pumping my arms, measuring each breath like I’m at home on the treadmill again. It feels just like running in place. Distance loses meaning as nothing around me changes, and I might as well be on a treadmill.

  The end of the cement hall comes abruptly into view and I dig my shoes into the ground and skid, putting my arms up to absorb the impact with the wall. I crawl through the cupboard and into the shelter’s kitchen. Without bothering to stand, I begin shoving cans of flour into the cupboard, one at a time. I’ve put sixteen cans away when I hear the muffled sound of voices. My hands start to tremble. I stack the flour faster. When I hear the thunk-thunk of feet on a ladder, there are nine cans left. I cram them into the cupboard. The door in the other room opens as I slam the cupboard shut.

  “Jack? Hello?”

  I slide the table and chairs back into place and then lean against the counter with my arms folded over my chest. Kevin, brow furrowed, peers through the kitchen door at me.

  “Hi there,” I say, and pretend to stifle a yawn. I am trying not to pant despite the fact that my body wants me to gasp for air. His face softens and a smile dances in his eyes. And then he looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on my pants—his pants. “I’m drying my clothes. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed something to wear,” I explain. I swipe a hand over my hot, sweaty forehead and wipe it on his pants.

  “I don’t mind.” He pulls his hat off and takes another thorough look at me. “What have you been doing? You look hot and sweaty.”

  “What have I been doing?” My gaze wanders to the dirty pancake batter bowl. “Cooking. I’ve … been cooking,” I stammer.

  “Cooking.”

  I nod.

  “All right. Working up a sweat in the kitchen.” He ducks out the door and something happens to my face. The muscles around my eyes and mouth twitch and pull until I’m … smiling. I walk to the door, smile still plastered to my face, and stare at Kevin’s back, watching the way he moves when he walks. He glances at me over his shoulder, and I suck my lips against my teeth so he doesn’t know that he has made me smile.

  Kevin pulls the entry door wide and Jonah comes into the shelter, followed by a black-haired kid—the beast. The boy is awake, though he looks only semiconscious as he’s guided into the room by Kevin. His slanted eyes don’t seem to see anything. I study the kid, searching for signs that he’s about to attack someone, but he doesn’t even look at anyone.

  “Here you go, little man, sit right here,” Kevin says, taking the kid’s elbow. The boy wobbles and throws his hands up for balance, and I jump. Kevin lifts the kid and sets him on the sofa and then wraps a blanket around him, tucking it beneath the boy’s chin. “Jack, do you think you can cook something for them?”

  I shake my head. “No. We need to get going. The raiders … they might be out searching for us. We should get as far away as possible before their dogs pick up our scent.”

  Walking over to me, Kevin whispers, “Your friends need to rest.” He looks right into my eyes, and the breath seems to get stuck in my throat. “They stand a better chance of surviving if they’re well rested and fed.”

  “But the raiders are probably going to start looking for us. Like, right away.”

  Bowen comes into the room, followed by Fo.

  Kevin leans closer to me and whispers, “They haven’t slept at all. They’ve been too worried about you, Jack. The least you could do is let them eat a decent meal and get some sleep.”

  Bowen’s and Fo’s faces look stretched too thin, with dark bags beneath their bloodshot eyes. Guilt floods me and I look back at Kevin. A pale ring of gold circles his pupil, slowly fading to soft blue. I don’t mean to notice—now is definitely not the time to marvel over his eyes—but I can’t help it. I blink and look away. “Are we safe here, even if the raiders have dogs?”

  “Yes.” There is no doubt in his voice.

  “Okay. I’ll cook.” I look back at his face, at his eyes, and he smiles.

  “Jack says he’ll cook you guys something to eat,” he announces, clapping me on the shoulder.

  Fiona crosses the room and throws her arms around me. “Jack. When you guys didn’t show up at the lake on time, we thought for sure the raiders caught you.” She sniffles. Tears fill her eyes and stream down her exhausted face, rinsing dirt from her cheeks. “I am so glad you’re okay!”

  Bowen comes over and wraps his arms around both of us. “Good to see you, Flapjack. When Kevin came to the lake alone, I thought something must have happened to you.”

  “I wanted to come but he wouldn’t let me. He locked me down here,” I explain.

  Bowen nods. “I know. He told us you were safer here. I just didn’t believe him at first.” He drops his voice to a barely audible whisper and says, “I thought maybe he realized a certain truth about you and sold you.” He hugs me again. “Now, go cook something for us before we die from starvation. Weren’t you a 4-H cooking champion in sixth grade?”

  I push away from Bowen and glare at him, and then glance at Kevin to see if he’s heard, but he’s standing at the chest of drawers, helping Jonah find something for the boy-beast to wear—something besides my tighty-whities.

  “How is the kid?” I ask. Bowen and Fiona release me, but keep their arms around each other.

  “He woke up this morning before sunrise. He isn’t attacking us anymore, but he’s still got a long way to go,” Fo explains.

  “The first sign that the cure is working is the change from violent attack mode to nonviolent and dazed. After that, the cure takes weeks to fully take effect. It is almost like the beasts have to relearn everything except the skills they retained while being beasts—like walking and eating.” Fo sighs and rests her head on Bowen’s shoulder. Bowen puts his face against her hair and inhales, and a wave of jealousy hits me. I want that closeness. “He just stares into oblivion,” Fo continues. “Sometimes he cries. Jonah says he probably remembers everything he did as a beast and is traumatized by it. Maybe a hot meal will help him feel more human.”

  “Then I’ll see what I can whip up.”

  I go to the kitchen and take out dehydrated ground beef substitute, cumin, garlic salt, and powdered tomato paste. The thought of taco meat makes my stomach clench in anticipation. I put the ingredients into an iron skillet with some water and set it aside. Next I take cornmeal, sugar, salt, powdered milk, powdered butter, and baking soda from the cupboards and make a pan of corn bread batter. I put it into the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes, and then I fill the sink with cold, soapy water and start washing the dirty dishes.

  I don’t know what it is about having my hands in the water and running a washcloth over measuring cups, but the knots in my shoulders ease and I start humming.

  Behind me, someone clears his throat. I turn and find Kevin leaning against the door frame, staring at me. “I’ve gotten everyone settled and was wondering if you could help me out for a few minutes.”

  “Sure. What can I do?” I set a freshly washed measuring cup on the counter to air-dry and wipe my dripping hands on my—Kevin’s—pants.

  He holds up his right hand. I walk over to him and
take his hand in mine, examining it. Thick brown splinters of wood are embedded in his bruised palm. I gently run my finger over his skin and he exhales.

  I look up at his face. “Sorry. Did that hurt?”

  “Yeah, like heaven.” He smiles, which makes me blush.

  “Sit down at the table,” I blurt, too embarrassed to keep looking at him. I get my Leatherman from my vest and open the small attached tweezers, then sit across from him with my back to the kitchen door. Taking his right hand in my left, I hold his fingers back and begin tweezing the splinters out of his palm. His skin is warm and streaked with dirt. I like how his hand feels in mine, how it is totally limp, completely trusting. But I don’t trust him.

  “What would have happened to me if you died?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I look up.

  He tilts his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “You locked me down here and left. No one knew where I was. What would have happened to me if you died?”

  “You’re smart. You’re capable. You would have found a way out.” He says it like it’s a fact—like he is absolutely certain. And he’s right.

  “So, how old are you?” I ask, fitting the edge of the tweezers under a splinter and pulling it out.

  “Eighteen. I would be starting my first year of college any day now if things were normal. Instead I’m . . .”

  “What?”

  “Sitting in a bomb shelter, getting splinters gouged out of my hand by a kid named Jack.”

  A smile flickers across my face. “Do you have any family?”

  He pauses for a long time before saying, “A sister and a grandpa.”

  I look at him. “Are they alive?”

  “As far as I know.”

  I work in silence for a few minutes before asking, “What’s with the tattoo on your hand? I’ve never seen a mark without lines in it.”

  “When the vaccine passed the FDA and was in such short supply that only the gifted and talented kids got it, I applied for it and qualified.”

  I remember those days. When the vaccine passed, mobs of people stormed the health clinics and tried to take it by force. But there was a vaccine shortage, so the government decided that only “the hope for our future” would get it until they could mass-produce more. No adult got the vaccine. No child got the vaccine without first passing the government’s requirements. Fo got it because she was a piano prodigy. Jonah got it for his science brain. I didn’t qualify. I wasn’t smart enough, and sewing and baking really good bread weren’t considered important enough talents to qualify me.

  “Apparently,” Kevin continues, brow furrowed, “I have a higher-than-average IQ. I’m really good at math and spatial reasoning.” Spatial reasoning. I think of the wire sculptures he’s made, and my fingers tighten on his. I am holding the hand of an artist.

  Kevin clears his throat. “My little sister, on the other hand, has a higher-than-average compassion for others, a quality I believe is more important than understanding numbers and space. Unfortunately, the government and I didn’t see eye to eye on that. So I went in and filled out all the paperwork for the vaccine—in her name.” His hand goes rigid in mine. “She went in monthly and got my dose.”

  I stop pulling splinters and gape at him. His eyes have lost their sparkle. “Did she turn into a beast?”

  He nods. “She got nine months of the poison shot into her blood. She’s a Level Nine, just like the boy Jonah found.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “I hope so,” he whispers. “I haven’t had any contact with my grandfather for a while.”

  “Where is your grandfather?”

  “As soon as he realized the government was branding—by force—all the children who got vaccinated, he took my sister and ran.”

  “And you didn’t go with them?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Why?”

  “Because I was being retained by the government for questioning.”

  I sit up a little taller and stare at him, enthralled. “What kind of questioning?”

  “The government came to my house and took me by force to get branded, thinking I was the one who got the vaccine. They gave me the circle.” He holds up his right hand for me to see the black oval on the back of it. “But when they did the bloodwork, they realized I didn’t have a trace of the vaccine in me, so they didn’t give me any marks. But they kept me for questioning.”

  “Did you get in trouble?”

  “Sort of. They had me locked up for a few weeks. But then they decided I was the least of their problems and let me go.”

  “Where did your grandpa and sister go?”

  He shrugs.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  “I’m not. My sister’s safe. That’s all that matters.”

  I lean over his hand and get back to work. “How old is your sister?”

  “Probably about your age.”

  I think of the newspaper picture of Kevin and his sister. She looked a couple of years younger than Kevin. That would make her somewhere around sixteen. “Wait, your sister is twelve?”

  “No. She’s sixteen.”

  The tweezers freeze against his skin, and I don’t dare to look at him. “We’re not close to the same age. I’m twelve,” I say. He doesn’t reply. I’ve been pulling splinters in silence for a few minutes when I realize Kevin is staring at me. I look up, startled to find his face only a few inches from mine. “What?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, dismissing my question. I lean over his hand again, more aware of him than I’ve ever been of anyone before. I can feel the air stir every time he breathes out. From the corner of my eye I see the way his chest expands when he inhales. Under the table his knee bumps mine and stays there, making a hot spot that seeps through my pants and into my skin. And I know if I look up, he will be staring at me.

  “How is your cut arm feeling?” I ask, searching for a distraction.

  “Like someone slashed it with a knife and then sewed it back together again without painkillers. Thanks for asking.”

  I can’t help but smile as I ease another splinter out of his skin. “And how did you get splinters in your hand?”

  “By wrenching a club out of some guy’s hand before he could smash my head in.”

  I stop tweezing and look at him. There’s no smile on his face. “You’re serious.”

  He nods. “And all I could think about when it happened is what I would regret not doing if he killed me.”

  The look in his eyes makes my breath come a little faster. I quickly look back at his hand and pull a thick chunk of wood out of his skin. “What would you regret?” A drop of blood oozes out of the hole the splinter left. Using my knuckles, I wipe the blood away. Kevin leans to the side and I look at him. He is staring over my shoulder, out the kitchen door.

  I whip around and follow his gaze. There’s nothing there—everything is quiet in the other room. “What are you looking for?” I whisper, still staring out the door.

  “Jack, I know you’re not twelve, and I know you’re . . .”

  I turn and face him, and my heart starts pounding. Kevin’s eyes are intense, his pupils huge. He intertwines his fingers with mine and then leans in so close that our lips touch. I freeze, unable to move, to breathe, and stare at his bright eyes. His mouth smiles against mine, and then his eyes close and his lips part the slightest bit. His hand leaves mine, moving to cradle the back of my head. I lay my trembling hands flat on the table, close my eyes, and let my lips soften.

  It is like eating fire, having Kevin’s lips on mine. My entire body ignites. I almost expect flames to shoot from my nose when I breathe out. Kevin’s free hand finds mine and lifts it, setting it on his uninjured shoulder. He takes my other hand and places it on his cheek. I press my palm against his warm, stubbly skin, slide it to the back of his head, and weave my fingers in his hair.

  “That’s better, Jack,” he whispers against my lips.

  My stomach sinks, as if I’ve swallowed a
brick of ice, and I jerk away from Kevin.

  He stares at me, eyes wide. After a moment, he blinks and lifts his hand, touching his lips with his fingertips. “Sorry?” He says it like he’s asking a question, and then clears his throat.

  My face starts to burn. Humiliation claws at me, making my stomach turn. I grab the tweezers and stare at the wood grain of the table, waiting for him to give me his injured hand so I can hurry up and get the rest of the splinters out of it. He doesn’t. We just sit in awkward silence, and I can feel him staring at me.

  “Jack,” he whispers after a few minutes. “I’m sorry. I thought I saw something in your eyes—thought you might let me kiss you.”

  I still stare at the table.

  “At first you seemed like you didn’t mind,” he says. “In fact, you seemed like you liked it.”

  I clench my teeth. All I want is for him to shut up. Every word he says adds fuel to my humiliation. I close my eyes and am hit with a memory.

  Chapter 21

  The Crow family was the last family left in the neighborhood besides ours. They had a daughter Dean’s age and a son a few months younger than me. Gabe. He had blond hair, green eyes, and crooked teeth, and we went to school together before the schools closed down.

  Once or twice a week he came over and sat on my roof with me when it was my turn to keep roof watch. We looked like two boys with guns and slingshots, trying to kill the occasional rat that skittered across the street, or trying to hit the random Fec that wandered out from the sewers. If beasts came down our street, Gabe and I were hustled to the basement to wait while my dad, uncle, and brothers tried to scare them off. We didn’t kill beasts if we could help it.

  Sometimes we got to stay on the roof and watch the sun set before Dad made me come inside. On those nights, Dad and one of my older brothers would escort Gabe home even though he lived only two houses down. Nighttime was dangerous. Nighttime was when the raiders came out. Nighttime meant shoot-to-kill and ask questions later. I never kept watch after sundown.