His hair is untamed, like he just finished running his hands through it. The dark strands gleam with moisture and jut in every direction. He looks decidedly cleaner than I remember. I can smell the soap on his tan skin. Probably just stepped out from a shower. He’s freshly shaved, too, and the strong cut of his jaw and cheekbones is more pronounced.
“Caden,” I murmur, my gaze moving up the familiar boots, past the clean yet well-worn fatigues.
“You’ve learned my name.” He pauses to smile at me. “Davy.”
Someone told him my name? Had he asked about me? I just assumed that he forgot about me after dumping me here. Girl rescued. Chore done.
I nod.
He crosses his arms, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight over his firm-looking chest. I realize he’s waiting for me to say something when he adds, “You needed something, Champ?”
I drag a sharp breath into my lungs. “Champ?”
“Yeah. For someone sporting a gunshot wound, you’re really . . .” His gaze scans me, and I’m hyperconscious of my thin hospital gown, which could stand to be a few inches longer. “Durable.”
“Durable?”
“Yes. Fit. As in strong, athletic.” He shakes his head. “Did you just raise hell so I could come in here and you could repeat everything I say?”
“Maybe I just wanted you to return for an encore performance?”
He angles his head, a slow smile curving his lips. “Ah. You remember me singing.”
“Maybe. A little bit.” I straighten, swiping the short strands of hair back from my face. It’s an automatic gesture left over from when my hair was longer. The strands feel awful, grimy under my fingers, and I envy him his shower. “Why did you do that?”
“What? Sing?” He shrugs. “I dunno. It felt like the thing to do right then.”
I moisten my lips. A part of me buried away could understand when singing just felt like the right thing to do. “Weren’t you worried someone could have heard you?” Like people who prefer us dead.
He rubs at the back of his neck like he’s a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I was a little worried about that.” But he did it anyway. He sang. “Crazy as it sounds, you were in bad shape, and I thought it might help.”
“Bob Dylan as medicine,” I murmur. Yeah. I get it. Well, not anymore, but I used to. And I can’t deny the fact that his voice hauled me back from the brink.
He drops his hand away and looks at me sharply, his eyes bright, interested. “You know Dylan?”
I nod once, uneasy . . . unwilling to continue discussing music with him. How can I without explaining how music is something I’ve lost? Something I can’t hear inside myself anymore?
“I don’t think I’ve met anyone around my age who’s ever even heard of him.” He looks me up and down, and I turn my face away, scanning the room. My gaze lands on the door. “Are you into music then?”
“Why am I locked in here?” I ask, changing the subject.
He takes his time answering, and it’s like I can see the thoughts turning over behind his amber-bright eyes. “You shouldn’t leave this room. You shouldn’t even be out of bed yet—”
“Dr. Phelps said I needed to get on my feet today,” I quickly counter.
“So you were going to take a stroll out of the infirmary in nothing but that?” He flicks a finger up and down.
The heat returns to my face in full force. I tug at the hem of my flimsy gown. It feels like paper between my fingers. “You didn’t answer me. Why am I locked in here? Am I a prisoner?”
He considers the word, angling his head to the side and tossing all that dark hair off his forehead. A thick, rebellious chunk of it falls forward again. “More like a guest.”
I tear my gaze off his hair. “A guest you lock in?”
“This is a compound full of carriers. Some of us have been here a while now and are known to each other. Trusted. Some not.”
“Some meaning me?”
“At any given time we have visiting carriers. Even though we’re trying to help and get them relocated to refuges in Mexico, they’re strangers to us. We need to take precautions. It’s just smart.”
“And you keep them all locked in? These visiting carriers?” Also known as me.
“They’re always watched.” Not exactly a direct answer.
“But not locked in? That honor is specific to me?”
He sighs. “You did try to brain me.”
“Of course. And you told them that. No wonder they’re treating me like a prisoner. I heard that guy. Marcus. He doesn’t want me here.”
“Let me deal with Marcus. Trust me.”
Trust. It’s the wrong word to use. Everything inside me seizes up and tightens. The pain in my shoulder actually throbs deeper. Inhaling through my nose, I hug myself, feeling suddenly cold. I take another step back, craving distance.
He watches me, those eyes glinting like fire beneath the slash of his dark brows. He looks at me like I’m some sort of puzzle he’s trying to figure out.
“I’m sorry I attacked you, but I woke with a bullet wound. In a strange place with a stranger. Who happened to be a carrier.”
“I know that. I don’t hold that against you. You were out of it. Which is why I brought you here at all.”
As opposed to leaving me out there to die.
I do not mistake his meaning. When he found me, he viewed me as a wounded bird. Broken. He did not blame me for pecking at his hand. Then. From the way his jaw locks, I can see he won’t forgive me again if I try something like that a second time.
I point to the door. “I want it unlocked.” He simply stares at me. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t talk. Air shudders past my lips. I nod. “I get it. I’m a carrier.” Just like when I was stuck in the Cage. Forced in there because of what I was. Not who. No one cared about that.
“Yeah. You are. Just like we all are in here.”
Studying the planes of his face, I can appreciate his honesty. Nodding, I murmur, “And at the end of the day, no carrier can be trusted.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I snort.
“I don’t know you yet,” he adds.
Yet. That word hangs between us. It tempts me. The thought that I might find a friend in him is something I hadn’t considered. The only friends I have are Sean, Gil, and Sabine. That’s why I have to find them.
Turning, I walk back to the gurney. “I won’t be here long enough for you to get to know me.” My legs tremble as I pull myself back onto the thin mattress. Mostly from exertion. Mostly. “I asked Dr. Phelps to get me whoever is in charge.” I start arranging the blanket around my legs. “I guess he didn’t convey that message. Or your boss doesn’t care. Maybe you can let—”
“He did.”
I look up. “He did?” He lifts a dark eyebrow, the motion faintly smug. “You?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“But you’re so . . .” Not who I want to deal with. A guy who looks like you and sings Bob Dylan. Who cares whether I live or die. “Young.”
“I’m nineteen.”
“And you run the show here?” I glance around the infirmary, considering all the work and effort that must have gone into creating an underground facility. He couldn’t have been solely responsible for that.
“My father built the compound three years ago. He saw this coming. When they fired him from the army because he tested positive for HTS.”
He utters this so evenly, his voice devoid of all emotion, but it’s there. In the twitch beside his eye. He’s affected.
I moisten my lips. “Where is he—”
“He died a year ago.” He says this quickly. Like he feels no sentiment over the matter, but I know that’s not true. Emotion edges the tightness in his voice. “His second in command, Dumont, is in charge, but he’s away . . . on important business right now.”
Important business. In other words none of your business.
“And while he’s gone, you’re in charge of this . . . cell.”
“It’s not a dictatorship. I’m one of three captains. We operate under careful guidelines. Dumont trusts us to keep things operating smoothly in his absence. Two of the three of us have to agree. Majority rules. This is to keep us from making risky or stupid decisions.”
Despite his age, he’s a leader. It’s in his bearing, the way he stands with his shoulders back, his legs spread apart like he’s at the prow of a ship. It’s etched into his face, the grooves bracketing his mouth you can almost mistake for dimples. He reveals nothing unless he wishes to. He compels people to obey. Hadn’t he commanded me to live when he found me, clinging to life by a thread?
“Decisions like what to do with me?”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. His silence only serves as confirmation. My fate, at what point I might leave this place, is entirely up to him.
He advances slowly, closing the distance between us with long strides. “You sent for me. I’m here. What did you need?”
“I need to leave.”
His lips twitch like I’ve said something of great amusement. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”
I bite back the instant argument that springs to my lips and inhale through my nose. “When, then?”
“Do you have someplace to be?” An innocent question, but there’s an undercurrent to it. A hint of curiosity and something more. He’s fishing. Nosing for information about me. Like I could be something more than what is present.
I hold his gaze. “I was going to Mexico. With my friends. I need to find them.”
“Do you know where they’re headed?”
“My friend Gil got in contact with someone. Clearly not as organized as your group.” I shrug helplessly, wishing I knew more. “We were going to a refuge over there.”
“There are half a dozen refuges you could be talking about.”
Despair swells in my chest. Why didn’t I know more? Why hadn’t I asked more questions? Why hadn’t Sean or Gil explained our plans more fully to me? Of course we could have gotten separated. I see that now. That should have occurred to us. To me. I drop my head into my open palm. “I’m so stupid.”
“Hey. No one plans on getting shot.”
Helplessness washes over me. “I’m stuck here, and they probably think I’m dead.”
Sean’s not coming back for me. Even if he wants to. He’s practical. He’s always been practical. He was willing to leave me at Mount Haven if I didn’t escape with him. He never was one to lose his head over emotion. He’ll have calculated the odds of me being alive . . . of him finding me . . .
A lump rises in my throat. By that math, he would never return.
“Why don’t you give me the names and descriptions of your friends? I’ll send a message through our network.”
“You mean that? Their names are Sean and Gil and Sabine.”
“If they’re at one of the refuges, I’ll eventually find out.”
I look up at him, hope stirring in my chest. “How long is eventually?”
He shrugs. “A week. Two.”
Two weeks here? I swallow past the lump in my throat. As if he can read some of my thoughts, he adds, “You can heal and rest during that time. You’ll be comfortable. But while you’re in here, this door remains locked. For your protection. Understand?”
The tightness in my chest loosens as I stare into the velvet depths of his eyes. I nod, understanding then that the door is not simply to keep me in, but to keep me safe. “Okay.” It’s been a long time since I’ve felt comfortable. I’m not sure if I can be comfortable, if that’s even possible, but at least I’ll be safe. “Okay.”
The door opens and Phelps steps inside. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to check on my patient.”
Caden nods and moves to the door, holding the edge with his hand while looking back at me. “We’ll talk again later, Davy. I want to hear more about this camp you came from.” And then he’s gone.
I wince slightly at his parting words. The last thing I want to do is talk about Mount Haven, but if it can help Caden and what he’s doing here, then I will. For no other reason than that I owe him for saving my life.
“Let’s change your gauze and check on your stitches.”
Shaking off my thoughts, I nod and permit Phelps to inspect my shoulder. Rhiannon soon joins him, wearing her perpetual look of revulsion at the sight of my wound. It’s almost funny, considering she works in the infirmary.
“Looks good. No infection.”
“I could really use a shower.”
Phelps glances at Rhiannon. “I think with Rhiannon’s help you could manage that.”
The girl gives one terse nod.
“Thank you,” I say.
Phelps beams, and I realize with a cringe that it’s probably the first polite thing to come out of my mouth. He pats my arm. “You’re going to be fine. Shower today. Maybe tomorrow, if you’re feeling better, Rhiannon can give you a tour of the facility.”
She snorts. “Why don’t you ask Caden to do that? She’s his little project.”
I look at her sharply. Why would she think that? Because he saved my life and brought me here? Or was there something more to the comment?
The smile leaves Phelps’s face. “Caden’s a captain. He has responsibilities. I don’t think I need to remind you of that. You can do your part.”
Rhiannon ducks her head, looking like a child who just got her hand slapped. “Sure. Okay. I can do it.”
“Thought so. Fetch her some fresh clothes, too.”
She nods.
“Thanks,” I say again, looking at her this time, searching her face. If she’s going to be doing all this for me, I should try for friendly. Otherwise she might bring me a burlap bag to wear as punishment.
NEWS RELEASE
For immediate release
Contact: Department of Justice—
Office of the Attorney General
June 3, 2021
News out of Nogales, Arizona, today reports the discovery of a cell of carriers numbering approximately thirty in the Meadow Hills area. Local law enforcement and agents of the Wainwright Agency arrived and evacuated the surrounding area. By 9:50 a.m., members of the DHS used tear gas and stormed the building. Officials on-site declined to comment. It is not known at this time if any carriers survived the siege. . . .
NINE
THE COMPOUND OUTSIDE THE INFIRMARY ISN’T exactly what I expected. Even utilitarian, it’s bigger than I imagined it would be. Industrial gray paint. Sparse décor. Mostly metal tables and chairs in a large central room with corridors shooting off it that open to various rooms; living quarters, storage rooms, kitchens, showers, a controls room. This central room serves as a gathering place. Rhiannon waves at the large space as we walk along the upper level, a railing to our right. “Everyone eats there, as well as congregates for all major announcements.”
She nods toward an area full of exercise equipment and mats. “You can work out there when you feel up to it. It helps. Especially when you feel the cabin fever coming on.”
“You never go up top?” I ask.
“I’m not a scout. And it’s dangerous out there. I prefer it down here. A lot of us do.”
Dozens of eyes trail me as I struggle to keep up with Rhiannon. One girl pauses from kicking at a punching bag. She wipes at her brow, carelessly flipping her dark braid over her shoulder as she follows my movements.
“Who’s that?” I ask Rhiannon with a nod toward the mats where the girl works out.
“In the black tank? That’s Tabatha.” A touch of something, awe maybe, hugs Rhiannon’s voice. Tabatha arches an eyebrow like she knows we’re talking about her and then goes back to pounding the bag. “She’s one of our scouts.”
“I take it she doesn’t prefer it down here?”
“Yeah, she likes to go where the fighting is. Both her parents were carriers. They were shot when they escaped a detention camp. Only she got away. She made it all this way on her own. Now she’s our best scout guiding
people across the river.”
“Then she’ll be taking me . . .” My voice fades.
Rhiannon slides a glance at me. “Maybe. We’ll see. She’s not the only scout.”
A pair of amber eyes fills my mind. A small shiver chases down my neck at the thought of him leading me to Mexico. He’s a captain. Would that be part of his duties? “Caden?”
“Yeah. He’s a scout, too. Along with Marcus and Terrence.” At my confused look, she adds, “They’re our three captains. But they have a lot of other things keeping them busy while the General is gone. They’ve been scouting less since he left. It’s enough work just keeping us fed.”
Noticing how much I’m laboring to keep up, Rhiannon slows her pace and drops even with me. I smile gratefully, my hand skimming along the railing for support.
“There’s probably hot water,” she offers. “Not too many people are showering in the middle of the day. If not, you’ll just have to settle for cold.”
“I’ll be happy with anything. I’ve had worse than a cold shower lately.”
She looks me up and down as we continue on our path to the showers. “We all have. We’re lucky just to be here and not in some detention camp.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
My steps slow when I notice a guy—a man—watching me intently. He sits alone, peeling an orange over his tray of half-eaten food with slow movements.
“Who’s that?”
Rhiannon glances from me out to the main floor. A flicker of something, distaste maybe, crosses her face before vanishing. “That’s Hoyt. He got here a few weeks ago. He’s Marcus’s cousin. Traveled all the way from Oregon, I hear.”
“He’s a carrier, too?”
“We’re all carriers here. That goes without saying.”
Yes, it does. We’re all in the same boat here. Whether any of us are true killers is beside the point. We are all the same in the eyes of the world.
She keeps walking, not looking his way again. “He’s not like Marcus, though.”
Considering Marcus doesn’t possess such a winning personality, I’m not sure what that means.
She elaborates with, “He’s a creeper.”