Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Gorsky! What are you doing in here?” he yells, his voice low and thunderous.
The man pales. “I wanted to try a different room. See if I like it better than—”
Valen hisses and shoves the man—Gorsky—into the hallway so hard he hits the opposite wall and slides down it. “You are not to enter her room. Ever. Am I understood?” He looms over the man, who looks up at him with a mix of reverence and fear.
“Yes, my lord.” The man drops his gaze. “Apologies, my lord. It won’t happen again.”
“You dare endanger the high lord’s plans?” He takes the man by the throat and slams him against the wall. “I should kill you for this.”
“P-p-please,” Gorsky cries.
With a disgusted look, Valen drops him, then turns and strides away, leaving the man glaring at me as I try to catch my breath.
“Happy now?” He gets to his feet, his dark blue pajamas rumpled.
“No,” I say weakly.
He rolls his eyes and disappears to the right. A short moment later, I hear a door slam.
“What is happening?” I rub the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, as if I could somehow make all this disappear. All I do is restart the headache that’s come and gone in intervals.
Exhausted, I lie on my side and curl into a ball. The air is still, silent. I feel the permanence of the stone all around me, hemming me in. My blood pounds, my heart racing.
I trace the scars at one of my wrists, the marks embedded far deeper than just skin. I’m trapped again. At the vampires’ mercy. Whitbine. His fangs tearing my flesh. I can feel his hot breath at my cheek, his hands— “Stop.” I clench my eyes shut and force myself to think about being somewhere else. A lab. Samples. Running images across a screen while I check pathology. Rubella. I focus on the shape of the virus, the way it invades and destroys healthy cells. Then I imagine smallpox, and after that, different strains of the flu. I keep my eyes closed as my thoughts wander to the Sierravirus. The plague. It’s unusual structure and proteins. If only I’d been able to stop it, to—I groan as a lightning sharp pain crashes through my skull.
No, no I won’t think about Sierravirus. Tears well, and a single one rolls down my cheek. I shiver, unable to fall asleep, unable to think, unable to do anything except wait and wonder when the next horror will begin.
5
Recovered Journal of Dr. Georgia Clark
February 13, Year 1, Emergence Era
I can’t work like this... That’s not true. I can, but it’s hard, and I HATE it. I’m completely in the dark. Juno is even further away now. Even better, the first sample—the one that was supposed to turn Juno’s Miracle into reality—is garbage. Valen won’t budge on giving me another. He’s cold and rude and I think about punching him in the face more often than not. Asshole.
“Ididn’t think I’d find you out here.” Juno plops down beside me on the bench. “Plants were never your thing.”
“They were.” I shrug. “I just excelled at killing them. Houseplants are way more fussy than most people let on.”
She leans back and reaches for one of the pink rose blooms that hovers alongside the walk. The ground is littered with petals, and the air has a sweet scent mixed with the faintest bit of mildew. The grass is high in a few patches, and tree branches dot the wide lawn.
“I suppose I should get a new gardener.” She sighs and surveys the sunny spring morning, dew still coating the blades of grass.
I stare beyond the black iron fence toward the barricades, the soldiers atop them like toys at this distance. “I don’t think it matters.”
“It does.” She straightens her skirt, her suit a deep mauve. “We have to give the people hope.”
“How does cutting grass and trimming roses do that?” I doodle in my journal, cell structures and bits of thoughts on how to attack the Sierravirus.
“People believe what they see.” She sighs, her gaze now on the barricades. “If they see a governor’s mansion running efficiently, the grounds kept beautiful, their governor looking shiny as a new penny—”
“Pushing it with that last part, aren’t we?” I give her a sly smile.
“Oh, hush.” She closes my journal and takes my hand in hers. “You know I’m the hottest governor this state has ever had.”
I can’t disagree. Not with Juno. Not when she’s still optimistic despite everything the world is going through.
“Yes,” she continues, “a new gardener. We used to have an entire crew.” She pauses then, the weight of what she’s said settling on her shoulders.
There isn’t a grounds crew anymore. Not now. Not when the virus rages all around us and strikes down anyone—weak or strong, young or old. The Sierravirus is the undiscriminating hand of Death. The great equalizer. No one is spared, not even people who spend their entire lives creating beauty from other living things.