Feuds (17 page)

The general din of what appeared to be the makings of a riot began to distinguish itself in words and phrases. Worsley's face was taut, his sinewy muscles tense and rippling; and Cole could see the sweat trickling down his forehead as he struggled to maintain order over a bunch of men who were twice his age. At twenty-three, Worsley was still basically a kid himself in these guys' eyes, despite his education.

“Please, everyone, calm down,” he shouted. “You're not in danger. Gens are not going to be affected by the disease. This is a Prior disease. It is a Prior genetic condition.” He repeated the phrase two or three times but it seemed to have an adverse effect. By the last time, the voices had risen to a roar and his words were entirely drowned out. Cole strained to hear and pushed in front of a guy in a gray sweater—an athlete he recognized from the Swings—in an attempt to get closer to Hamilton. Hamilton was still a good fifteen feet away, but Cole caught his eye and gestured him forward. The sound of more glass breaking echoed from a trailer on the border of the crowd, and Cole saw a gaping hole with a few daggerlike shards where a window had been. A child wandered in front of the trailer, crying. He raised his muddy, tear-streaked face, and Cole could see that it was Dustin, his little buddy from the Swings. Cole rarely saw the kid other than when his face was pressed up against the chain-link fence that surrounding the makeshift gymnasium, watching in awe—a future FEUDS champion in the making. Cole hadn't even known he lived around here.

Cole began to move toward Dustin when he felt a hand at his elbow.

“It's insane, right?” shouted Hamilton over the din, the tendons in his neck straining from the effort to be heard.

“That's one word for it,” Cole shouted back. “What's going on?”

“The disease,” Hamilton said. “Eight more bodies were found outside the city limits. All the same signs. Cracked skin, blood, the whole thing. It's out of control, Cole. People want to know what the hell's going on.”

“Can't Worsley do something?” Cole's pulse accelerated at the thought of Davis. Was she okay? Were her friends okay? Not knowing was torture. He had to find out. Cole squinted toward the well, but Worsley was no longer there. In his place were two or three guys Cole's age—guys he didn't recognize—their faces contorted in expressions of fury. “This is looking pretty bad,” he said. “This is really fucked up. It's got the makings of a riot.”

“It
is
a riot,” Hamilton told him before shoving back toward his friends and disappearing into the crowd.

Cole watched as a handful of armed Prior patrolmen struggled to keep order against the teeming masses. From the look of it, they didn't stand a chance against the railing community. One of the patrolmen lashed out, punching a guy square in the jaw. A couple of the guy's friends swung back; Cole eased toward the interior circle of the crowd, trying to locate Worsley.

“It's contagious!” he heard a voice shout from somewhere in the crowd. “You just have to touch one of them!”

“I got her blood on me!” another voice rang out.

“The blood's tainted,” came a cry from Cole's left. “It'll get in our water supply if we bury them!”

“Please, everyone, just calm down. You're not in any danger!” That came from Worsley, whom Cole had finally spotted—his dark head bobbing over the rest—near the west side of the well. By then no one was paying attention, though. A few people were clustered around the guy who claimed he'd touched a corpse and was feeling symptoms already. The patrolmen were struggling to maintain order all around, but more people were flooding in from the outer radius of the Slants, and at least two fistfights had broken out in front of a blue-sided trailer near the alley that led to Cole's house. Several women were crying and Dustin was still wandering wide-eyed and terrified underfoot. He was likely to be crushed if Cole didn't help him.

Cole fought his way to the child and picked him up, throwing him over his shoulder and walking him toward a relatively calm area shielded by the frames of two houses. A sharp thud sounded by his foot, and a metal object nicked the side of his shoe so hard Cole almost fell over. He looked down and saw the unmistakable label of a gas canister.

“Crap,” he muttered, setting Dustin down. He looked into the child's eyes and spoke calmly and slowly. “I need you to run in that direction,” he told the boy, whose eyes were shiny with tears. “Run down by the river and don't come back until the yelling stops, okay?” The kid nodded but didn't move. “And if you get nervous,” Cole said, “just feint left and throw a couple of those sick punches I showed you.” He forced himself to crack a smile and ruffle Dustin's hair, and Dustin gave him a half-grin in response. “It's just like a game,” Cole said. “You gotta be the faster, smarter one. Now go,” Cole said, giving him a nudge. Then he heard a yell from the crowd and turned; the yell had sounded like Hamilton.

“Burn them!” Someone shouted from the crowd. “Burn the bodies!”

“Burn the bodies!” some other voices shouted, until they were all chanting it and Cole could no longer distinguish one voice from the next. Heart thudding, he made his way back toward the nucleus of the mob.

But it was Tom Worsley, not Hamilton, whom he glimpsed on the ground a few feet in. Tom was groaning in pain and clutching his side. His dark, floppy hair was slick with sweat. It draped over his forehead, covering his glasses, but he made no attempt to move it. A line of dirt streaked over his right arm, and beneath it, Cole could see that the skin was rubbed raw. Cole watched helplessly from a few feet away, bound by the crowds, as an older man stepped into Worsley's thigh. Tom seemed unable to stand, and from the glimpses Cole caught, his face was contorted in an expression of agony. Cole had never seen Worsley, a fighter himself, betray such weakness. He could die if someone didn't help him. Cole fought his way forward, nerves and fear propelling him along.

Then he heard the shriek.

It was long and high and unmistakably feminine.

This time, there was no questioning whom the voice belonged to. Cole turned toward its source and found himself staring directly into Davis's eyes through the crowd. Panic shot through him with the force of jet fuel. He blinked, questioning whether she was an illusion, a product of his own insanity. But her long, chestnut waves and wide green eyes were unmistakable, even ten yards away. They were focused directly on the pile of Prior bodies that were mounting atop the back of an old truck. The smell of rot filled the air. Cole watched Davis's reaction as several Gens shook gasoline from a canister over the bodies. Then someone lit a match.

The blaze was furious. The smell worsened.

Davis's face changed from terrified to pale to sick. She coughed in hard, hacking gasps; she was so rarely exposed to unfiltered air. A few people turned to stare. Cole saw them take in her face with its porcelain skin, invisible pores, and even features. Her long, lithe legs with their perfect muscle definition. Her silky hair, looking glamorous even disheveled. She looked back at them, and he could only imagine what she saw: pockmarked skin from years of untreated acne, disproportionate bodies, thinning hair, and large noses. To her, in a big group like that—and in that context—they probably looked like monsters.

She'd followed him there. She must have. Cole forgot about Worsley and ran to her, but before he could reach her, she screamed again. This time, others noticed.

Morrow.
The whispers surrounded him like a bad dream. Some Gens about his age lunged at her.

“It's Morrow's kid,” shouted a middle-aged man with a firm, round stomach and a chest full of hair. “Robert Morrow sent his kid out to check on the
Imps.
” He sneered. “You like what you see, sweetheart?” He moved toward Davis. Cole was only a few feet away now.

“How about we send a body back to Columbus, see how they like it?” jeered his friend.

Cole felt a blast of panic quicken his heart. She'd followed him. He had to get her out of here
now.
If something happened to her, it would be his fault. The Gens were worked up, thirsty for blood. They'd want to do something symbolic and huge to hurt the Priors, and this was their chance. His heart sped up, and every protective instinct in his body began to fire. Cole fought to push closer to Davis, every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation of one goal: protecting her. If anything happened to her, he knew in that instant, he'd never forgive himself. He'd never survive it.

Cole watched as the two men rounded on her, and he knew what he had to do.

Cole landed a punch to the left side of the leering man's head just as the man reached out to touch Davis. The other guy turned on him, but Cole was on top of him before the guy had time to move. Davis's face was barely registering recognition when Cole screamed at her.

“Run!” he shouted, even as two more Gens hurled themselves in his direction. He could hold them back only for another few seconds. She stared for a long second into his eyes, her own green orbs projecting the shock and horror she surely felt. And then she ran, graceful like a deer but strong and limber like something much more powerful, a panther, maybe. Cole caught his breath as she neared some debris, freshly broken from a nearby building; her eyes were trained straight ahead and he wasn't sure she'd seen it. But she cleared the splintered wooden beams easily, jumping higher and longer than any Gen ever could.

Morrow,
they'd said. The significance of the name hit him only then, as he watched her back recede. And all of a sudden it was clear. Parson wanted to ruin her father. He wanted to tear apart her family and destroy her father's reputation at the expense of her own. And he wanted to use Cole to do it. It was all for the election.

Cole had been so stupid not to see it sooner. Now Davis was in real danger, and everything was falling apart. All he'd wanted was to do the right thing, to help the people he loved. Instead, he'd screwed everything up, and potentially hurt this girl, this person he'd begun to cherish. But Davis Morrow wasn't just the daughter of Parson's enemy. She was the daughter of
the
enemy. Robert Morrow was responsible for everything the Gens stood against.

In a sense,
Davis
was the enemy. But he'd fallen for her like a fool, and now she was in danger because of him. He would do anything—even if it meant sacrificing his own life—to protect her.

 

11

DAVIS

He was one of
them.
Davis clutched her pillow to her chest, folding her body around it like she used to when she as a child. She thought what had happened would haunt her forever. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to quiet her brain. Hoping the familiarity of her room would restore some sense of safety. But the images she'd seen were seared inside of her head with such clarity that she might as well have been staring at a projection screen. She couldn't shut out the blank eyes and gaping mouths and melting skin. Davis's stomach clenched again and again, and she struggled to think of something else, anything. But the only image that came to mind in the brief seconds where she could force the bodies to disappear was Cole's face when he realized what she knew.

Everything she thought he was—wanted to believe he was—had turned out to be an elaborately crafted persona designed to …
to what?
Why had he wanted to manipulate her in the first place? Was she just some random girl he'd chosen, the first one he'd spotted at Emilie's party that first night? Had she just been any other challenge to him? She shuddered, sick that she'd been used so easily, despite everything Vera had cautioned her against. Even her dad, growing up, had always warned her that some guys would just want to use her—that she had to be careful. They were both right. She'd been the blind one. She couldn't shake the horrible, teeming panic in her stomach. It rose up toward her heart, threatening to spill over. She'd trusted Cole, and Cole had lied to her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and her hands began to tremble from the panic she felt. She hadn't known heartbreak could be like this—could make her physically ill. But there she was, trembling and sweating, all because she'd fallen for the wrong person. She was so stupid. She felt so sick and stupid and unable to trust anyone ever again.

Davis curled onto her side, but she couldn't get comfortable. The mirror lining her closet wall showed her everything; her eyes were streaked black from sweat, dirt, and mascara. Unfamiliar bulges puffed out just between her lower eyelids and cheekbones. She didn't look like herself at all; no one would believe she was Robert Morrow's daughter. Her face looked wan and her skin tone was yellowish. She looked identical to how Emilie had looked at the PAs.

Davis ran to her adjoining bathroom—or maybe stumbled; she suddenly felt weak, like nothing more than a puppet—and splashed some water on her face. She grabbed her toothbrush and scrubbed hard at her teeth, but her hand trembled as she did, and she lost her grip. The brush flew across the sink and onto the floor. She left it there, feeling cold panic work its way from her feet to her hands. Her hands. She looked down at them—their light trembling had worsened to something that looked like full-blown tremors. In the mirror, her image was flickering, almost like her vision was cutting in and out at a rapid pace. Davis's heart pounded wildly.

She closed her eyes and breathed in and out for five beats, trying hard not to lose control. A little of her strength seemed to be returning—she felt a fraction steadier and clearer-headed. It must have been the anxiety after all, or the shock of the whole night: Cole and his betrayal, then her mad dash to get home before she was discovered. Finally she allowed herself to open her eyes and assess her complexion in the mirror.

Her bright green irises contrasted against stark whites. Her eyes were nestled against creamy, almost porcelain skin and lips that boasted a natural rosy hue. Perfect. She was perfect, as always.