The Fever Code (10 page)

224.10.20
|
2:09 a.m.

Thomas didn't know when it had started, but he and Teresa were holding hands. They were standing together, sharing their sudden fear of what was about to happen, worrying about their punishment. One of the guards, a woman, stepped up to them.

“Don't be scared,” she whispered. “Randall just wants to teach you a quick lesson about the dangers of being out here. It's for your own good, and you'll be safe. Just do as we say and it'll be over soon. Deal?”

Thomas nodded; the words
Crank
and
pits
were still reverberating through his mind. How many times in his life had he heard about Cranks—people with the Flare who were well past the Gone? Who were nothing more than animals consumed by bloodlust?

What had Randall meant?
Where
were they being taken?

“Come on now,” the female guard said to him, reaching out and gently taking his arm. “If you cooperate you'll be back in your room safe and sound before you know it, with enough time for a quick nap before the wake-up.”

Teresa was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. But he nodded and then followed the guard when she started walking away from the drainpipe, leading them along a path that followed the footprint of the WICKED complex. Another guard walked with Alby and Minho, who both looked just as stunned as Thomas felt.

The third guard stayed at the building, Newt by his side, looking at the ground, his face unreadable. Thomas looked for Randall, but the man was on the phone, several yards from his friend.

Thomas lost sight of them as they turned a corner, but he couldn't shake what Randall had said about Newt—that he wasn't immune. It didn't hit Thomas until that moment just how enormous the implications of that were. And then, why was Newt here if he wasn't a Munie?

Teresa's voice tore him from his thoughts.

“Can't you tell us where we're going?” she asked. “What
are
the Crank pits?” The little group continued walking, following the path. The lady didn't answer, nor did the guard escorting Alby and Minho, just a few steps behind. The sounds of the ocean and the smell of salt and pine filled the silence.

“Answer her,” Thomas said. “Please. We didn't do anything wrong—we were just exploring. What are we, prisoners?”

This also was met with silence.

“Say something!” Teresa yelled.

Their guard whirled to face them. “You think I like this?” she snapped. Then she looked around like someone caught stealing. She lowered her voice. “I'm sorry. Really. Just do as you're told—it makes things a lot easier. All we're going to do is help you to realize why it's better to stay inside.”

After that ominous statement, she turned and continued leading them along the exterior of the building. No one said another word.

They came to a road. To the right, it wound through some fields, then disappeared into the forest looming in the distance. To the left, it intersected with the WICKED complex itself and turned into a steep ramp that descended beneath the building. Without hesitating, the guard stepped onto the asphalt and turned left, toward the darkness of the tunnel thirty feet in front of them.

Thomas looked up as he followed her. Saw the tall granite walls of the WICKED facility, the faint scattering of stars in the dark sky above that. He'd been hoping so badly to see the moon.

The road dipped down, and soon they were beneath the building, in a wide tunnel with no lights. Someone must have turned them off, because there was no way they'd normally keep this place unlit.

He heard a sound that made him pause midstep. It was haunting, a human sound between a cry and a moan. Maybe not so human. Goose bumps prickled across his skin, and he felt a shudder of horror go through his chest.

It was so dark he could barely see the outline of their guard when she stopped and turned to face them. She pulled out a flashlight and flicked it on, shined it in their faces, then to her left. It revealed a rickety iron gate, a chain and padlock wrapped around its bars to keep it closed. Without saying anything, the other guard left Alby and Minho and walked over, pulled out a key, then unlocked the padlock. The loud rattle of the chain being unwrapped echoed through the tunnel.

The man dropped the chain to the ground and opened the gate.

“In you go,” he said. “This is only meant to give you a scare—they won't be able to actually harm you. I promise.”

“What's in there?” Thomas asked.

“Cranks,” the female guard answered in a kind tone completely incongruous with the word itself. “Sometimes we need to remind you just how awful this disease is.”

“They won't hurt you,” the man said again. His voice was solemn. “They'll scare the pants off you, but they won't hurt you.”

“Come on, guys,” Minho said, marching past the guard. “Let's see what's inside this hellhole.”

Thomas didn't want to. Every nightmare he'd ever had was welling up inside him. Teresa's bravery shook him out of it. She went through the gate, then Alby. Thomas followed.

224.10.20
|
2:28 a.m.

The darkness was the scariest part. Even though the guard continued to shine her light behind them, it seemed the beam was lost in a black fog. They walked, small step by small step, across crunchy gravel, down a narrow path lined on both sides with the iron railings of a fence. The bars, rising from the ground, were spaced about five inches apart; two long bars ran along the top and bottom. If there was anything on the other side of the fence, Thomas couldn't make it out.

“This is spooky,” Minho spoke quietly, though it seemed loud in the still darkness. “Alby, hold my hand.”

“Dude, chill” was Alby's response.

Their feet scraped against the gravel, causing an echo that almost sounded like whispers. Thomas felt claustrophobia edging in, the farther they went. It took everything he had not to turn around and run back. They kept on.

Soon they came to a brick wall, the fence on both sides leading right up to it. A dead end. This only fanned the flames of Thomas's panic.

“What now?” he asked, hating how the whine in his voice gave away his fear. “Go back?”

“Definitely go back,” Teresa answered. “Maybe this was just a test to see if we'd do what we were—”

Minho shushed her, holding a finger to his lips. He looked down, listening. In the dim light coming from behind them, he looked like a phantom.

“Something's coming,” he said. He pointed at the bars to the left of the brick wall. “From back there.”

Thomas turned to face where Minho indicated and stared into the darkness beyond the fence. He strained to hear. And there it was. Although the four of them weren't moving, barely even breathing, the scrape of footsteps echoed throughout the tunnel. Thomas thought he heard it coming from behind as well, and he spun around to look. But now the sound was everywhere, seeming to come from all directions. Getting louder.

“Cranks,” Alby whispered. “They throw them in a creepy jail under their own building. Nice.”

Shapes were coming into view to match the scuffing of footfalls. Bodies.

“I think they must keep them somewhere else, actually,” Minho said. “Or they would've been pressed against the bars while we walked down here. I think they just released them like wild animals to pay us a visit.”

Moans and indecipherable murmurings broke out among the crowd of oncoming Cranks, increasing rapidly. Thomas and his friends had definitely been spotted.

And then, like a switch had been flipped, the room filled with thunderous sound, deafening. Screams and cries of anguish. Roars. Slapping footsteps as they rushed toward the bars. Thomas shook with a drowning fear as all around them, Cranks crashed against the fence, bodies upon bodies pressing against those who'd made it first. Arms reached through the bars, hands clasping and unclasping as they tried in vain to grab Thomas and the others.

Thomas stood in the very center of the passageway, Teresa right beside him—Alby and Minho were a few feet away. Alby had his back to the brick wall, jerking his head left to right, left to right, trying to take it all in. Minho was in front of him, in a fighting stance, as if that would do any good if the bars gave way to the press of the crowd.

Thomas looked at the Cranks, all of them so far past the Gone that he felt equal parts terror and pity. The creatures' eyes emanated an emptiness like he'd never seen, and scratches and torn flesh covered their faces and arms. Their clothes were filthy, bloody, ripped. Some screamed, some sobbed, tears streaming down their faces. Others spoke, harshly and rapidly, the words impossible to make out. All of them reaching, reaching, as if Thomas and the others were their only hope to escape the horrific disease that had ruined their minds.

One woman suddenly appeared, having fought her way to the front. Her face relatively clean, she stared straight at Thomas, her lips working as if she was trying to figure out what to say. And then she was speaking, her voice hitching with tremors.

“My babies my babies my babies my babies my babies my babies.” Those two words, over and over. She wept the entire time, then abruptly attacked the bars like a rabid gorilla, throwing her body against the fence viciously until she finally fell down. It looked like she'd knocked herself out. Other Cranks stepped on the woman as they took her place. Thomas felt a crushing sadness, a black despair that filled his chest.

“I think we've learned our lesson!” Alby shouted. “Head back, now!”

Thomas shook his head. The horror of their surroundings had hypnotized him in a way, frozen him in disbelief. And that was what it was. Even after watching his dad degenerate into an angry shell of a man, even after all the stories he'd heard over the years, nothing could have prepared him for this. He couldn't possibly believe it until seeing it for himself right now.

“Thomas, go!” Minho shouted. They were lined up next to him, all of them standing in the center of the path, staying well out of the way of the outstretched arms of the Cranks.

Thomas nodded, not as afraid as he'd been. Just sinking ever deeper into that black feeling. Had this happened to his mom? Had she cried for her baby over and over in her madness? His feet felt attached to the gravel under him. He couldn't move.

“Thomas,” Teresa whispered into his ear. “It's okay. This.
This
is why we're here. We're going to help them find a cure. Save people from this.”

Her voice lit a fire in him. Made him feel something. He turned, started walking back the way they'd come. He didn't need to look to know that Teresa was right behind him. Her hand was on the small of his back as if she alone were pushing him forward. Cranks filled the tunnel on both sides, a never-ending mass of them, the iron bars the only thing keeping them from tearing apart their next meal.

Thomas looked at the ones on the left. The ones on the right. They were all different, and he tried to focus on one thing that made each an individual: a face, hair color, body type. Because in all other ways, they'd become one. A raving mass of lunacy, completely unaware of their own actions.

Thomas looked straight ahead and saw someone standing in his path just a few feet away. He gasped, stopped. Teresa bumped into him from behind. Fear lodged in his throat, choking him.

It was a man. He looked nothing like the Cranks behind the bars, but he also didn't appear to be well. His blond hair was dirty and uncombed, his clothes rumpled, his eyes bloodshot. But he had no wounds that Thomas could see, and he stood straight and still, calm. The strangest thing of all, though, was that he held a small chalkboard in the crook of one arm. Without speaking, he pulled it out and used the piece of chalk in his other hand to write on it. Then he held it up for the group to read. The three words seemed to glow in the dim light:

WICKED is good.