Contaminated 2: Mercy Mode (13 page)

I stand, fists clenched, and whisper, “Go.” I have no idea who’s driving the truck, or why the soldiers are trying to keep people from leaving by this road, but I want it to get through. “Go, go, go!”

Just before the tractor-trailer reaches the barriers, two soldiers throw out something metal that glitters in the sun.
It hits the asphalt a few feet behind the barriers. It’s sharp, whatever it is. Glinting blades of metal attached to some sort of wire mesh.

Oh, no.

The truck doesn’t even brake. It hits the concrete barriers at probably eighty miles an hour. The concrete explodes, and the truck bucks but keeps going. It would’ve made it into the roadblock, too, if not for the razor-strip thing the soldiers threw down. The truck rolls over it, and all of the tires on the cab blow in rapid succession. The truck skews, back end swerving. The other tires explode. The cab shudders, and the driver lays on the horn in one long, horrifying bleat as the trailer rocks. It twists, flipping, and takes the cab halfway with it before separating. The cab hits one of the army trucks parked to the side. The trailer keeps going, taking out another couple of trucks, and comes to a skewed stop with the doors of the back end swinging open. In a minute, people start spilling out of it, pushing and shoving over each other, hitting the ground. Some get up. Some don’t.

The sound of the crash is immense, and I cover my ears. That doesn’t block out the soft
whump
of an explosion from one of the trucks. It doesn’t block the sound of screams.

Then I’m not thinking about anything else; I’m running again. Down the hill, leaping the guardrail. The heat is intense and searing, so fierce, I squint against it, but I’m looking for the truck that has those kids in the back. I don’t
care about the soldiers. I don’t care about the driver of the truck.

I can’t let those kids burn.

They’re collared. They won’t scream. They probably won’t fight. The pain of being burned alive won’t register with them the way it would with non-Contaminated people, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to be incinerated. I’m going to find them.

The soldiers are shouting and running. So are the people from the back of the tractor-trailer. A few of them go at each other, swinging and punching. Others mill around with blank faces, some with arms or legs jutting at odd and broken angles. Most of them are bloody. I don’t see collars on any of them. Nobody pays attention to me when I push past them. The first truck is tipped on its side, the canvas-covered back flapping open. It’s empty. I swerve around it, running for the next one.

The heat slaps me back. Fire everywhere. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but run for the second truck, the one parked at a slant in the ditch, the one the tractor-trailer didn’t hit.

The kids are in the back. I hold out my hands, but they don’t move. They don’t look hurt or scared; they just look blank. I haul myself into the back of the truck, scraping my shins on the bumper.

“Come on,” I say, gesturing. “Come on now.”

Too slow, the little girl moves. Blinking, she shifts her
weight from one foot to the other. The boy behind her looks a few years older, and his expression is dead, unmoving. The lights on their collars glow a steady green.

I can’t wait for them to move. I grab the girl by the sleeve, and she recoils with a grimace. The boy’s attention drifts to me. His mouth twists. They’re both much smaller than me, so I grab them both and yank backward, pulling them with me. Then they struggle. Then they fight.

“Don’t be scared, I’m trying to help you!” It’s a stupid thing to say. They’re not scared. They’re angry at being grabbed.

They fight, but I’m stronger. I turn, pushing them both toward the back of the truck. I jump down, but the kids won’t follow me or jump into my arms. They stand staring, without moving.

The soldiers are still running around, the fire is still burning, and if I don’t do something soon, someone else is going to come and take them. Or we’ll all blow up. I grab the boy first, snagging the hems of his jeans and pulling. He resists, but I tug him off balance until he falls. I catch him, just barely, and put him on the ground. The girl’s next. She’s smaller and lighter and doesn’t resist as much.

I think I see a glimmer of something in her eyes when I catch her. Maybe something like understanding, but it’s so fleeting and there’s no time to find out more. We have to get away from the fire.

I pick them both up, staggering under the weight. One
under each arm. I stumble forward, toward the ditch, the woods. I can’t make it up the hill, but I can get them out of the way—before the tractor-trailer cab explodes in another soft
whump
of flame. Something like a giant fist punches us forward. We go to our knees.

I see their mother, blood running down her face. She’s screaming; I can see that by her open mouth and frantic eyes. But all I can hear is a dull, thick roar. She limps toward me, hands outstretched, but the kids don’t run to her any more than they did to me. I push them, though, trying to get us up on our feet.

Their mom looks hysterical as she grabs them. For a second, I think she’s going to punch me in the face, but something registers in her gaze—I’m not a soldier. Her mouth moves, but I’m still deaf from the explosion. Shaking my head, I help her get the kids up. She takes the boy, I take the girl. Together, we run away from the wreckage, toward a car with all the doors hanging open.

I don’t know if it’s her car, but she tosses the boy into the backseat, so I do the same with the girl. The woman slams the doors shut and gets in the driver’s seat—the keys dangle from the ignition, so at least there’s that. She gestures at me, but I back up, shaking my head. I can’t go with her.

She slams the driver’s door and guns the engine. I jump back as the tires grind the gravel. I run toward the hill into the woods, but it’s too late; we’ve drawn too much attention.

A soldier jumps in front of me, his face covered with soot and a burn on one cheek. If he has a gun, I don’t see it, but I know his face. He’s the young one from the patrols, the one from the day they killed Sandra.

I shove hard on his chest and he stumbles back. Before I can get past him, he grabs my sleeve, which tears as I pull away. The car the woman’s driving is pealing out, but she gets only a few feet before someone shoots the tires. The trunk. Glass shatters.

The soldier grabbing me lets go when the gunfire starts. I wait for bullets to shred me or flaming metal to land on me, but we’re standing so far to the side of the road that we seem to be out of range. I dig my fingers and toes into the hill, much steeper here than where I came down. Rocks tumble and patter, but still all I can hear is the muffled roar.

I wait for him to grab me again, but the soldier only watches as I climb the hill on my hands and knees, digging my fingers into the ground to push myself along. I get to the top, again waiting for him to pull a gun or for someone else to, but nobody seems to be paying attention to me. The soldier pushes his hands toward me.

Run! I can’t hear him, but I see that’s what he’s yelling. Go! I use that as my chance to scramble into the trees.

“I didn’t save them.

“I didn’t save them.”

That’s all I can think as I stagger through the trees and keep going, even when every muscle wants to shut down
and become as solid as the rock I finally trip over. I land with my cheek against the cool, hard ground. Leaves and rocks poke into me, but I can’t move. I try to catch my breath, and suck up dust. Coughing, choking, I roll onto my side and listen for the sound of soldiers coming after me. I can’t hear anything but my own heartbeat.

“Get up, Velvet,” I think. “Get up and run.” But I’m so tired, I can’t move.

All I can do is let the darkness sweep over me.

I WAKE UP WITH THE TASTE OF DIRT IN MY
mouth, and for the first minute or so, before I can pry my eyes open, I’m convinced I’m dead. A minute after that, when I try to move, I wish I were. Groaning, I roll off the rock poking me in the small of my back. My arms and legs move, but I can’t get up until I force my muscles to work. Then I push myself to my feet.

It’s dark, which means it’s late. Which means I’ve been gone for hours. I try to run, but my body will only let me walk. I’m lucky I don’t have to crawl.

I orient myself in the darkness. A glow in the sky has to be the lights of Lancaster, which is south of my development, and I head in that direction. I pick my way over rocks and fallen trees, taking my time whether I want to or not. I can’t go any faster.

If I miss the backyards of the houses that edge the game lands I’m in, I will eventually hit the cleared land around
the power lines and be able to follow the trail that leads to an access to my street. The neighborhood kids all used to play along the stream back there, and even if it’s overgrown, the well-worn path will still be there. But fortunately, I don’t go that far—I hear the soft throb of the frogs croaking in the pond at Sandra’s house, and I follow my ears until I stumble out into her backyard.

It’s not much lighter, but out of the trees, I have no trouble figuring out where I’m going. I pick up my backpack on the way into the house, where I run the water in the sink and gulp down what feels like a gallon of cold, spring-fed water until the taste of grit and smoke is washed away.

My stomach clenches and I hunch over the sink, but everything stays put. I wash my face, splashing the water onto my neck and chest and arms, too. Everyone will be worried about me, but I still have a mile or so to walk before I make it home.

I can’t stop thinking about what I saw.

I don’t know how much longer it takes before I finally stagger over the downed tree at the end of my driveway and up the hill to my front door. The glow of lantern light from inside guides me. When I open the front door, the
whoosh
of a golf club passing an inch past my face stops me.

“Dillon, it’s me!”

“Velvet!”

His hug hurts all my aching muscles, but I melt into it, anyway. Dillon’s fingers tangle in my hair, tipping my face
to his. Then he’s kissing me, and that hurts, too, but I don’t mind.

“Where were you? What happened?”

Behind him, the shadow of my mother separates from the others. She comes toward me faster than I’ve seen her move since I found her in a cage. Her hug is gentler than Dillon’s but still presses all my aches and pains. She shakes her head, over and over, her mouth working to form words I’m sort of glad she can’t say.

“I need something to eat,” I tell them both. “And a bath.”

“Is Velvet home?” Opal’s sleepy voice echoes from upstairs.

My mom and Dillon share a look.

“Yeah. Go back to sleep, kid.” Dillon’s voice is steady, even if his face is worried.

“But I want—”

My mother huffs low, her brows knitting. She pats my shoulder and goes up the stairs. I hear the faint sound of Opal’s protests, then the click of her door shutting.

Dillon kisses me again. Softer this time. Lingering. He pushes the hair off my forehead, and his gaze searches mine, but I’m not sure he finds what he’s looking for because he doesn’t look relieved.

“Food,” I tell him. “And I’ll tell you everything.”

In the kitchen, lit by a pair of guttering candles set into a candelabra my parents got for their wedding and we used to only use on Halloween, Dillon makes me some vegetable
soup on the camp stove we took from Sandra’s house. It’s heated by small propane bottles we also took from her basement, and it’s so much easier to cook on, it’s almost like having a real stove again.

I devour the soup, slurping and gulping so fast, I burn my tongue, but I can’t care. I haven’t eaten for hours, and it feels like days. I drain the bowl of every bit of soupy goodness and sit back with a sigh. Then a long belch I try to cover with the back of my hand.

My mom, coming into the kitchen at the tail end of it, shakes her head. She sits in the chair across from me and reaches for my hands. I let her take them. She squeezes them, then lifts them into the light, showing off the dirt under my nails. The scrapes and wounds on my knuckles. I have a few scalded red patches on the backs of my hands, and a blister has already formed and popped. She shakes her head, sighing, and gets up to go to the sink, where she runs water over a dishcloth and brings it back to start dabbing at the dirt.

“Mom, I’m going to take a bath. It’s okay.”

She gives me a stern look, so I let her keep going, even though it hurts when she scrapes at the sore spots. Dillon pushes a full glass of water toward me, with one for himself, and sits next to me. I drink half the glass while he watches.

“Soldiers,” I say finally. “There was a roadblock on Route 322. But not a checkpoint—I mean, they weren’t letting anyone through. They were …”

I stop, wishing I hadn’t eaten the soup so fast. Everything’s sloshing inside me. I swallow hard. My mom looks up from the task of cleaning my hand, and puts it gently on the table. Dillon puts a hand on my shoulder.

“They were shooting people.” The moment I say it out loud, it becomes real all over again.

Dillon doesn’t look surprised. “The Voice has been reporting that they’re closing borders all over the place. Isolating us. He says they’re making them closer and closer, trying to keep people from traveling, cutting off access even from one town to the next. But he didn’t say anything about them shooting people.”

“They had trucks lined up and concrete barriers, blocking off the road for all the cars. I don’t know if the people in the cars were trying to run or what, but they shot them all.” I draw in a hitching, choking breath, but keep my voice down so there’s no chance Opal can overhear. “There were two people with two kids in collars.”

I shudder and go silent.

My mom’s gentle squeeze of my fingers makes me look up. Her eyes glisten with tears. They told us she’d never be normal again, that because she was Contaminated, she would always be angry and aggressive and unstable, that without the collar keeping her calm, she’d be dangerous. But she isn’t. She’s not the same as she was before, but she isn’t any of what they said she’d be. She’s still my mom.