Authors: Jordana Frankel
I slide up to a corner, and just as I was afraid of, I see the waiting room. Quickly, I duck away, afraid of being seen. But when I peer around again—
Walking up to the receptionist’s desk, hair glinting like stupid, useless copper pennies . . .
Derek.
He’s here. . . . Why is he here?
I pull myself away, out of sight, but down to my toenails, I can feel him. And for some reason, I can’t stop my confused head from thinking it should be happy. I’ve made a habit out of worshipping him.
He wanted you to give up on Callum
, I remind myself.
On everyone
.
Still, my body betrays me. I peek my head out into the hallway and search for him.
He turns.
Our eyes meet.
Idiot, move!
But it’s too late. He cocks his head.
Cursing myself for being so weak, I pull myself away for a third time.
It’s okay. . . .
He didn’t recognize you
. But I don’t know that for sure, and I won’t forget the sack I’m wearing on my back.
The serum. Aven. Everyone in Ward Hope Hospital
.
I check my cuffcomm: only twenty minutes left.
Brack
. I’ve wasted too much time already.
Ungluing my legs, I shuffle back the way I came, brisk, but at a hospital-appropriate pace. If Derek is following, I don’t hear the footsteps.
Moments later, I pass the morgue on my right and I keep going. Then, at the end of the corridor—the stairwell I was searching for.
In I go.
I clamber up it, all the way, until I reach the top. Breathless, I open the door.
9:42 P.M., SUNDAY
J
ust like I remember, the rooftop is a steel maze of gutters and piping. I hear city pigeons, hidden away. They’re cooing, shelved for the night, deep in the filtration system’s nooks. As I step over a line of tubes, their warbling follows after me, but none of the birds move.
Calling to mind Callum’s schematics, I start searching for the HBNC wing’s water funnel. The most western one. Up here, the roof slopes in sharply angled geometric shapes, kind of like they dug upside-down pyramids into the ground. It was designed that way to increase the roof’s surface area and catch as much rainwater as possible. And though I’m all turned around up here, landmarks are easy to find. To my left, the Strait—West.
Overhead, the moon shines a flashlight on every surface she can. You’d think there were a hundred of her, it’s so bright. Altogether too much wattage for a night like tonight, me up here sneaking a miracle drug into hospital water.
When the ground beneath shifts, slopes down, I know I’m at the funnel. I start sliding, no traction. I quicken my step, feet clanging against metal, tugged along by gravity.
At the bottom of the pyramid, a hollow square chute.
Can’t just drop the sack down, or it’d get diluted in the giant tank and be useless to everyone. It needs to go into tonight’s rations. Which means down I go into the water tanks. Not at all excited for that. I pull off Callum’s scrubs, wearing my own leggings and buckled shirt underneath, then stuff them into the dry sack he gave me. I seal it shut, and it goes back in my belt pocket.
Here goes
.
Filling myself with air, I hold my nose and swing the black pack around to my chest so it hangs frontside. Then I crab-walk to the square. It’s pretty wide—good for my backside—and I release my grip.
Down I go: half slide, half bump, half free fall.
No chance to enjoy the free-fall bit though, because of the first two. Mostly the second. Clutching the rubber pack like a baby, head down, I notice too late my arm unwrapping itself.
One elbow smacks the side of the chute; I ping-pong—metal side to metal side, sending my right knee smacking too. My joints throb. I howl twice, then shut up.
What if someone is down there?
That thought puts the buzz in my blood. Every nerve starts humming. Callum said the room should stay empty between the morning attendant and the night shift, but still. It’s the water tank, after all. The place is a gold mine, and people steal.
No time to come up with a plan if someone is down there.
Soon my stomach starts to really feel the drop, to rise up into my chest, and that’s when I come flying out the chute—
Back in the water.
Cannonballing myself, unfiltered rainwater splashes up around me like a tent. Toe to head I’m soaked.
Don’t let go
—I cling to the rubber sack like a life raft.
Which it is, in its way.
I’m dunked underwater; I kick, I sew my mouth tight, but I wasn’t ready for the fall so I’m a moment too late. I push myself to the surface, taking gulps of rainwater, using only my legs. The pack in my arms may be weighing me down, but I’m not letting go.
I kick and I kick, and then—
Air
.
I gasp, eyes darting around the giant space. I’m looking for a way out, making sure no one’s here.
Behind me, I see what I’m looking for and I exhale.
A ladder
.
I swing the pack around to my back again, freeing my arms to swim. Limbs pull the water, and I frog swim through the tank. The rainwater is cold, but it ain’t nearly as bad as the Hudson; otherwise I would’ve grabbed Callum’s wet suit. This is nothing. I cross the tank easily, legs burning only a little.
At the ladder, I grip the rails and pull myself up.
Okay, maybe not nothing
. My legs wobble—my knee hurts so bad I can actually feel the creaking as it bends. I’m almost sent tumbling back into the tank, but catch myself, and I come down the other side, no incidents.
At the bottom, I collapse to all fours, dripping wet.
I need to breathe
.
I count to five to collect myself. One—peel myself out of the wet clothes. Two—back into the scrubs. Three—find the exact spot Callum wants me to put the serum. Four—slow down my heart rate, ’cause this I
have
to get right. If I put the serum in the wrong place, this whole thing will have been for nothing. Five—see nothing, and freak out, frantically scanning the room. I don’t need to hit six. Just like Callum had described, I see it:
the robot arm
.
A nickname, but I see it’s pretty accurate, and it makes me laugh. Barely.
From one side of the tank, a super-sized, metal-plated arm one might imagine belonging to a robot. Of course, it ain’t an arm. It’s just the main pipe. But the similarities are uncanny. It starts out thick, steel sheets bolted in places. That’s where the water gets filtered, Callum said. Not with sand, like us at the ’Racks, but with metal meshing and chemicals.
Attached to the arm is a wheel. Don’t open it
.
I see it, a great big captain’s wheel.
Check, do not open
. That would be bad. The wheel opens and closes the tank valve. Opening frees the water into the pipes. That’s the attendant’s job, and he does it only three times a day to keep the rest of the water safe in the tank.
I follow the steel arm, since the wheel is not what I’m looking for. It extends downward, hovering over the floor. Then it starts to narrow, shrinking and shrinking, until the material changes, connects to a different part of the arm.
Jackpot . . . sorta.
The basin.
After the attendant turns the captain’s wheel, that basin right there then gets filled with everyone’s rations. Then it’s inspected. That is also
not
where the serum is going. But it’s close.
I walk to the basin and pull off the sack.
A click, and I jolt upright at what sounds like the ID scanner at work. Someone’s unlocked the door. I look at my cuffcomm—less than fifteen minutes. The attendant shouldn’t be here. . . .
Quickly, picking up the sack again, I follow the basin to the pipe that it feeds into—that’s where I need to get the serum.
My hands move like two hummingbirds, fingers flying to twist off the cap at the top of the pack. Across the room, footsteps echo, somewhere behind the water tank. I’m out of sight, hidden by the robot arm, but there’s no time to waste.
Soon as the rubber pack is open, I hold it over the pipe’s mouth and position it. Then, I let it pour.
“Ren—”
That voice—
He’s here. Even timbre, warm, though I can hear the crackle of frustration in it. Derek’s found me. . . . I still don’t look up. The sack continues to empty into the pipe.
“Please, Ren. Where are you?” he calls again, insistent. I can hear it—he’s behind the water tank, on the opposite side of the room—he don’t see me. I won’t let him see me.
I tilt the sack’s mouth so every bit drains out, then crane my neck to find Derek.
When I don’t see him, I watch as the last of the serum rushes away, following the line of tubing. A few drops get stuck on the sides, but I don’t worry—tonight’s rations will pick up whatever was left behind. When it’s all gone and the sack is nothing but rubber, I throw it over my shoulders.
“Down the drain,” I type into my comm—our cheesy code for things going off without a hitch—and I send the message off to Callum.
Ducking myself under the basin and freezing, I strain my ears to listen for more footsteps. I need to know where not to step. Except, I hear nothing.
The serum gurgles down the pipe. Stops right before the next valve.
There it’ll wait till the attendant gets here. Twelve minutes from now.
I’ve gotta get out. But it occurs to me—if Derek came up from the opposite side of the room, my only exit is probably there too.
I can’t let him see me
.
I have to leave.
Now
.
Crouching under the arm, I shuffle to the tank’s wall. My back hugs it close, but doesn’t touch. One brush up against the metal cylinder and it’ll squeak. Keeping my footsteps light underneath me, I follow the base. When I pause, listen, I think I hear the scuffle of footsteps, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I keep rounding the base, until I have the exit sign in sight.
I don’t wait—I make a run for it. My soles scrape the concrete floor as I close the distance. With my nerves amped and roaring, pushing me to the door, only one question takes over my mind:
Would he hurt me?
9:51 P.M., SUNDAY
M
y feet fly down one flight and then another, rounding each corner with a jump. He’s behind me, barreling down the stairwell. I don’t stop on the fifth floor, or the fourth, or the third. But when I hit the second floor, Aven’s floor, that’s when I pause
—I have to see her
.
Checking my cuffcomm, I’ve still got nine minutes till rations go out. Probably a few more before someone stops by to change her IV. Which means she won’t be awake. . . .
That pause is all the time it takes for Derek to catch up. He slams against my back. The momentum hurtles me into the metal door, and an ache, sharp and hot, spreads down my arm. “Damn you—” I bite my lip to keep from whimpering.
Derek pulls away. Props himself against the wall as I slide to the floor, slack-muscled.
“It’s you,” he whispers. “I thought it was you. But you look so . . . different.” He eyes my not-hair, kneeling in front of me. Makes like he’s about to touch my shoulder. “Kitaneh . . . the crash?”
“Don’t,”
I snap, recoiling, like he’s made of pure fire. “I know what you did to my Rimbo. And I know about Kitaneh.
And I know about you
. You don’t get to touch me.”
The way his face contorts, you’d think I was the one made of fire. That
he’d
just been burned. Derek closes his eyes, turns away. “What happened to your Rimbo—it was an accident. . . .”
“What?
That I survived?
”
He shakes his head and collapses down onto the stairs, keeping his back to me. I don’t like it. I may not want him touching me, but I do deserve to see his face right now.
“You were supposed to see the malfunction before the race. You weren’t supposed to race at all,” he murmurs.
“Look at me.” Angry echoes of my words travel up and down the stairwell. “Tell me to my face why I almost died because of you.”
Derek shifts uncomfortably. With his back up against the wall, he says, “My brother and his wife live on the Isle. They learned what that doctor Callum was up to. They informed us. I never wanted you hurt. . . . And I certainly never wanted you dead.”
I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. What he’s said . . . maybe I should feel comforted by it. He didn’t want me dead, after all.
It’s just the other hundreds of sick people he’d see murdered.
Not quite enough, I’m afraid.
“Your brother and his wife,” I start. I’m remembering the photo album—there were six of them. “Are they . . . are they like you?”
“You mean are they still alive after too many years? Yes. They are.”
Now he looks at me, and I wonder how his eyes can seem so damned soft while he’s telling me these things. I’m suddenly very aware of my weakness.
“And what about your
wife
?”
I can hear him swallow. The muscles in his throat tense up, and he looks away. “What about her?” he asks. Each word drags, ending and beginning like some far-off thunder.
Forget this
. I shouldn’t be here, drilling Derek about his epically eternal love life.
Not with Aven so close, about to wake up.
I don’t wait for him to answer—don’t even want to hear it. I lift myself up from the linoleum and reach for the door to the second floor.
Before I have a chance to turn the knob, he spits out, “How are you going to get those patients follow-up doses? Most of them will need more. Did you think of that?”
“Callum . . . He developed a serum so that it requires only one dose,” I tell Derek, pushing myself through the door just in time to hear him say, “That’s not possible,” in a whisper.
I can sense his awe as he steps closer. “We’ve tried. There’s no substance in existence that allows it. . . .”
I exist
.