Contaminated 2: Mercy Mode (30 page)

This is stupid. So stupid. I’m convinced Dr. Donna won’t hurt me or Opal, at least not too bad. But Dillon … what will happen to Dillon if we get caught? I never should’ve let him help me.

With thoughts filling my head of their taking Dillon away, putting him in jail, or worse, I can’t stay still. I hear the elevators chime and tell myself to count, to breathe. We will be out of the hospital in only minutes now. And then, once we’re in the truck, we are out.

We’ll be free.

It can’t be that easy, can it? Of course not. Someone will notice Opal is missing, or poor Arnaldo will wake up, and then we’re in trouble. I got away once, by myself and because fighting back surprised them. What will we do if this time, Dr. Donna has more soldiers?

“Almost there.” Dillon’s voice is low and faint and cut into pieces by his heavy breathing.

The can shifts and jerks. Again, I try not to completely crush my sister, but I can tell I’m hurting her by the way she wriggles and the squeak that leaks out of her. I press against the can. I’m breathing hard, too. Everything is getting hazy again, but I refuse to pass out.

The elevator dings again. Then something else: a rising, bleating siren. Fire alarm.

The can tilts upright. The lid comes off. Dillon looks in
on us, and the expression on his face has me stretching up to get out of the garbage bin as fast as I can. He looks grimfaced and determined, but also terrified.

“The elevators won’t work if the fire alarm’s going off,” he says. “We’ll have to take the stairs. C’mon. Get out of there, before—”

Somewhere not far from us, there’s an explosion. The floor rumbles and dust sifts from the ceiling, making us cough. There’s no smell of smoke or anything, not yet, but a second explosion comes fast behind the first, and suddenly the three of us are moving. No more hesitation. The can falls behind us, bouncing as we run out of the elevator.

That’s when black smoke starts pouring out through the overhead vents. Thick, choking, with a strong chemical stink. Opal, at once, starts waving a hand in front of her face. My eyes sting. Dillon bursts into a fit of coughing that has him bending over, hands on his knees.

“Stairs!” I point, then stop to look over my shoulder. “Opal, why wasn’t anyone here with you, other than Arnaldo?”

“They all got called away to help out with something that bad doctor said was a … a …” She falters, looking uncertain. Her face scrunches. “I don’t know what she called it, but she was really mad, said all the other people in here needed to be put down. I was afraid that’s what she was going to do to me!”

“No. I would never have let her.” We don’t have time for this, I know that much, but again I look down the hall. We never even got off the eighth floor. To Dillon, I say, “We can’t leave Arnaldo here.”

Dillon, eyes red and streaming, straightens. “Velvet …”

“He was nice to me! And if there’s a fire—” Another explosion, this one closer. Maybe on the floor directly above. More dirt hits us, and this time, a ceiling panel falls down. Wires dangle, spitting sparks. I give Dillon a desperate, determined look, and he nods, already running with me down the hall, Opal in tow.

Arnaldo’s sitting up, groggy, when we go into the room. We get him to his feet. He’s bleeding a little from the corner of his mouth, and a giant bruise is swelling on his forehead. Black eye. I look at Dillon, just quickly, and he’s looking apologetic. Now I hear not only the fire alarm but a far-off popping, and I know it’s bullets.

“C’mon, man. Let’s go,” Dillon says.

“They told me I had to make sure the kid was okay,” Arnaldo mutters. Blinking, he focuses on me. Then, instantly, he’s awake and fighting us until I grab his arm.

“Arnaldo, something’s happening. We have to go!”

Together, we hustle him out into the now-smoky hall. Opal’s shifting from foot to foot and looks so relieved to see us that I think she might cry. Arnaldo reaches for her, but Dillon hauls him back. I know Arnaldo; he’s not trying to hurt her.

“We have to go!” I shout, and bang open the door to the stairs.

They’re not as smoky as the hallway, but the lingering stench of chemicals is there. Also, something just as bad. The deeper, disturbing smell of unwashed bodies, sour breath, incontinence. The fire alarm is louder here, echoing off the concrete walls, and there’s another sound. Shouting and shuffling feet and bare hands slapping on the metal railing. I don’t wait another second. I shove Dillon and Arnaldo and Opal ahead of me down the stairs, because above us, someone is coming.

A lot of someones are coming. The shouting comes from the orderlies, who are trying to urge along the collared Connies down the stairs ahead of the fire or whatever it is that’s happening upstairs. They can’t move very fast. Most of them wear those tracksuits that are too big for them, along with soft slippers that keep falling off their feet. The orderlies are trying to keep them in single file, but they’re bunching up in twos and threes, taking one step at a time. All of us make it down the first set of steps to the landing on the seventh floor, and that’s when another explosion rocks through the stairwell.

The orderlies behind us are shouting again. The Connies shove, and a few fall, knocking down the ones in front of them. It’s like being in front of a relentless wave that’s trying to sweep us away. Arnaldo is still not quite steady on his feet, but he has a protective hand on Opal’s shoulder, while
Dillon is directly behind them. I’m bringing up the rear, and I look over my shoulder at the tidal wave of Connies behind us.

In the earliest days of the Contamination, watching the news on TV, I’d always believed I’d caught sight of my dad in the crowd. A hint of his red hair. A flash of the tie I’d bought him for Father’s Day one year, the one printed with pictures of Rubik’s Cubes. Until the day I saw him in my backyard, I’d been sure he was dead and tossed into one of the mass graves they’d dug in the fields along the highway.

That’s why, when I catch sight of my mom in the crowd, toward the back, I don’t doubt for an instant that it’s her. She’s moving as slowly and uncertainly as the rest of them, and though I search desperately for any sign that they’ve put a collar on her again, it’s impossible for me to tell. I look automatically for my dad, but don’t see him. Now the crowd reaches me, and I’m being pushed along. Another set of stairs. Another landing. I try to look behind me, but there’s no way to pay attention to the crowd and where I’m going, and before I know it, we’re all caught up in the wave. I lose sight of Opal, but I can see the back of Arnaldo’s head and hope he’s still holding on to her. Dillon is in front of me one minute, then a burly Connie with a slack jaw and vacant eyes has pushed between us, stepping on my toes, and I’m pinned between him and the railing for a moment long enough for the crowd to push Dillon away from me.

Everything is noise and stink and the crush of bodies. We pour down the stairs and out the door at the bottom, into the parking lot that is filled with fire trucks and ambulances and cop cars, all with lights flashing. From down the road comes the rumble of something bigger, tanks or maybe just big trucks. Behind us, as we all surge into the lot, the building is on fire. Glass has blown out, scattering on the asphalt. Smoke pours from the empty spaces. The orderlies shout, and the Connies shove and stumble, but I manage to grab Dillon’s elbow and we both grab hold of Arnaldo and Opal, too. We are caught up in the swelling crowd and confusion. I fight it, looking for my mom, but I can’t find her again. I spin and shoulder a few Connies out of the way, desperate for a glimpse of her, but there are too many of them. It’s like trying to stand against a tidal wave.

A pair of firefighters runs past me, pushing Connies out of the way. The police officers, two women and a man, stand back by their cars with expressionless faces, their hands on their guns.

An army truck, the kind with the canvas back, pulls into the parking lot. Soldiers pour out of it, each of them carrying a gun. They’re going to start shooting, and there’s no way we won’t be hit.

All around me, the collars start flashing yellow. Then red. And finally, at last, they’re all a steady, unblinking crimson just as I get to the garbage truck, where Dillon has already started the engine. Opal and Arnaldo are in the
front seat. Arnaldo grabs for my wrist and hauls me inside, yanking the door shut behind me.

“Wait! My mom!”—I fight him, but Arnaldo’s too big for me. I slam against the door, but Dillon’s already driving.

All the Connies start to twitch and shake and fall to the ground. The sound of the garbage truck’s engine is lost in the louder roar of everything else. Dillon pulls out, past the fire trucks. Past the police cars. Past the Connies on the ground, some of them already gone still.

None of the soldiers pays any attention, though one of the police officers turns to look at us as we pass. Her face is still stolid and neutral, but she sees us; I can tell by the way her stance shifts, just for a moment. Then she turns away without so much as lifting her hand from the gun on her hip, and Dillon keeps driving. Out of the parking lot. Down the road. More trucks pass us, some with sirens, army trucks overflowing with soldiers, another ambulance, lights off. Behind us, another massive explosion rocks the hospital, and all I can see in the rearview mirror is more smoke and the red-orange glare of fire.

Dillon drives past empty fields and houses, past the memorial site where I’d thought my dad might be buried. Dillon’s waved right through the roadblocks without so much as a second glance, though I force Opal to duck down below the level of the dashboard until we’re through. He drives past empty neighborhoods with boarded-up houses and long grass in the yards. A gas station, also abandoned
long enough for weeds to cover the parking lot, the glass broken in the convenience store.

Nobody stops us.

It’s true. Nobody pays attention to a garbage truck, not even one with four people in the front seat. We drive through downtown Lebanon. I haven’t been here in months. Everything’s empty and silent. We cross the train tracks and head for the warehouse.

The train’s leaving.

“We’ll have to run,” I say to Opal.

“I can do it, Velvet.”

I’m not sure she can. She’s grown taller, but her legs are still short. But we’ll try. I’ll carry her, if I have to.

And so we run. The four of us, Arnaldo still a little unsteady, but keeping his feet. Dillon links an arm over his shoulders to help him along. I grab Opal’s hand, pulling her. Dillon shoves Arnaldo ahead of him, and Arnaldo grabs at the hand at the open door to the train car. He pulls himself onto his belly and rolls. For a few seconds, when he disappears, I’m sure he will forget about us or even push us away—Dillon did knock him out, after all. The train’s picking up speed now. We won’t be able to catch up.…

But then another hand reaches out. “Opal! C’mon!”

And Dillon and I take her hands like she’s a toddler, not eleven, and we’re going to swing her between us. Together, we yank her forward so that Arnaldo can grab her by the wrists. He hauls her onto the train, and Dillon is right there
behind them both. He dangles, feet skidding on the gravel, ripping at the toes of his sneakers while he tries to get on board. Opal and Arnaldo grab at his shirt, pulling him inside. And then there’s only me, and the train is going faster and faster, and I will never be able to catch it.

I run.

Fast as I can, full out, legs stretching, arms pumping. I have never run this fast, but this time I am running for my life. My boots hit the gravel, sliding under my feet, but I keep my balance. I focus on the open train car and my sister’s face. My Dillon’s face. Even on Arnaldo, who should’ve been an enemy but had become something of a friend. Pushing myself with everything I have, I swipe at their reaching hands, but miss. Again. I have maybe another minute of stamina, another thirty seconds before the train picks up enough speed to leave me behind for good. I reach again and miss again.

I jump.

I slap Dillon’s wrist with one hand, Arnaldo’s with the other. They both grab me tight, yanking me forward. My belly and hips slam the edge of the train car and my feet strike the tracks, but my toes are protected by Ellen’s boots. In another second or so, Dillon and Arnaldo are pulling me on board just as the train lets out a long, warning whistle, and I tuck my legs inside.

“We did it!” Opal cries. “Velvet! We made it!”

Then all I can do is hold on to her as tight as I can.

OUT HERE IN THE GREEN, THERE’S NO VOICE
or Raven, but there are other voices. Other tellers of the truth. And there are other people like us, who’ve fled and escaped from the black zones.

There was an uprising at the Sanitarium. The official word is that a group of radicals fighting for Connie rights set off a series of chemical bombs in the hospital in order to release them. The damage was extensive, and everyone who’d been under care there died during the explosions or in the fires afterward. That’s the official version, anyway, but I don’t believe it.

No mention of Dr. Donna or Dr. Billings, but I know they might have been killed. I feel sad about Dr. Billings, and not so much about Dr. Donna.

I have no idea if my parents are alive, though all I can think of is how they each could always finish the other’s sentences. How my dad unfailingly managed to buy my
mom the exact right birthday gift every year, things she claimed she didn’t know she wanted until she opened the box. How no matter who got home first, each was ready to greet the other at the door. I believe my dad would’ve found my mom, even in the crowd. Even if both of them had lost their minds, they’d have found each other, and protected each other.

I want to believe they are alive.

The truth is that someone on the inside did instigate a revolt and set off the bombs. And then the government activated Mercy Mode on all those Connies and slaughtered them instead of trying to save them when the building went up in flames and became debris.

Nobody knows who led the revolt, but I think I know.

“You can’t be sure,” Dillon whispers into my hair when we are finally alone. We are in our tent together; it’s late; and all I can do is think of sleep and know I won’t be able to find it. “It could’ve been anyone.”