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)
Gretchen pulls her backpack around from the rear of her wheelchair and unzips it. “Gene packed us some chicken salad. He muttered something about expiration dates, but I didn’t question him further.” She hands me a loaf of bread wrapped in parchment paper. “If we get botulism, I guess it’s all just part of the plan.”
“Gross.” Aang wrinkles his nose.
“It’s fine. Gene wouldn’t poison us.” I lay out the sliced bread along the side of my blanket, then take the proffered chicken salad container.
“He wouldn’t poison you,” Aang says pointedly. “But I think I’m fair game.”
“Maybe if you didn’t get onto him all the time for tidying up your pigsty of a desk, you wouldn’t have to worry,” Evie chides, the sun dappling shades of gold along her blonde hair.
Gretchen glances around at the empty streets and even emptier buildings. “We should talk business now while we can. Wouldn’t want any of the soldiers to overhear.”
“Can we eat first?” Aang takes Gretchen’s backpack and digs around before pulling out some carrot sticks. “Is there ranch?” He digs more. “Shit, no ranch.”
“We’re lucky to have this much.” I finish making the sandwiches and hand them out. “Gene always gets us what he can.”
Wyatt starts humming a tune and playing along, the melody familiar though I can’t put a name to it.
A hum vibrates through the air, the noise sudden and jarring. Then a helicopter buzzes overhead, and I freeze.
“Your sister?” Evie asks.
Glancing up and catching the glint of the Air Force One colors, I give her a quick nod.
“Is she going to meet with them?” Gretchen whispers.
“Probably.” A sinking feeling in my gut kills my appetite. Juno’s flying into danger. Every moment spent with Gregor and his monsters is like playing Russian Roulette. I’m afraid that it’s only a matter of time before the gun goes off, before the helicopter returns without a passenger.
“Hey.” Evie takes my hand and squeezes it. “She’ll come back.”
I clear my throat. “I know. She’ll be all right.” I know I’m not particularly convincing, but Evie doesn’t press. She gives me a small smile and returns to her sandwich.
“Not bad, I guess.” Aang chews his thoughtfully. “Now, to work.” He leans in closer. “I ran the proteins we all agreed on for the new blood sample. Same results as before. Nothing. No interaction. It’s like the blood doesn’t recognize the markers that normally affect human cells. I can’t even find a starting point for a vaccine.”
“Same for viral interactions,” Gretchen adds. “Nothing.”
“Wyatt, what other viruses do we have in the containment lab to experiment with? Did CDC send us everything we asked for?”
He stops singing and looks up in thought, his shaggy hair falling back by his ears. “They sent most, I think. More should be coming as long as the supply line between here and Atlanta holds up. Um, let me think… We haven’t tried the sixth series of coronaviruses, but that’ll take a while to get synthesized. There’s also an entire library of cold and flu strains. Again, it’ll take a lot of work to get them ready to try on the vam—” He stops himself. “The alien blood.” He does a big Scooby Doo sort of wink. “But I’ll get started on them after lunch.” He glances down at the sandwich. “Speaking of …”
Gretchen wheels a little closer and leans forward. “How about what you’ve been working on?” she asks me.
“Nothing.” I chew slowly, savoring the food, the company, the warm air tinged with the scent of early summer blossoms. “Sunlight works to destroy the cells, but beyond that, I haven’t found anything that’s permanent. Acid, bleach, alcohol—you name it. The cells wither, but they never fully die off.”
“We’ll keep at it,” Evie says brightly despite the dark circles under her eyes.
We’ve all been working long hours. They’ve been searching for a cure, a way to finally end the plague. That’s what I came here to do. But now, given everything I know, everything I’ve witnessed, my mission has changed.
I’m not looking for a cure anymore. I’m looking for a poison.
I wake in pain, my head splitting as a gurgled scream erupts from my throat. I taste blood. I must’ve bitten my tongue. It’s black in my room, not a shred of light. Then I realize it’s not the room, it’s my vision. I can’t see, the agony in my head hitting a crescendo. I grip my temples, my entire body rigid.
I can’t inhale or exhale. Can’t move.
“Let it go.” Someone’s voice through the darkness. Distorted. Twisted in sound, as if my ears can’t process anything. My sight, my hearing—it’s gone, all eclipsed by the raging fire in my temples.
“Let it go,” it says again.
Tears run down my cheeks, my fingers in my hair trying to yank the pain out.
“Breathe.” More urgently this time.