Torn (4 page)

“Don't say that,” Davis told him.

“Hey, it's not a big deal,” he told her. “It's probably taking a while to put together my massive gift basket.”

He had a joke for everything. Davis wondered if it really wasn't a big deal to him, but she moved on and scanned the list of contents written on the outside of the hard drive.

“This video chat is dated three days ago.” Davis furrowed her brow. “I wonder why they haven't given it to me? And wait. The mailing seal's been broken.”

“That's weird,” he said, examining the cracked seal. “Didn't realize they'd be vetting our mail. Here. Let's pop it in.” He slipped the hard drive into a wall-mounted computer, which made a whirring noise and flickered on automatically. Davis's stomach clenched at the sight of Fia's, Terri's, and her dad's faces filling the screen.

“We miss you, sweetheart,” her dad said, causing her eyes to fill with tears. “Can't wait to see you as soon as you've made a speedy recovery.” Davis's eyes welled, and she fixated on the screen, mesmerized.

Beside her, Mercer let out a rasping cough, jolting her from her reverie.

“I just can't understand why they wouldn't have given it to me,” she said again.

“Because of hope,” he said. His eyes shone black against his pale, sallow skin. “They don't want us to have our messages because then we'll have hope.”

Davis let out a nervous, loud laugh. “That's morbid,” she said. Though this whole place was morbid. She felt goose bumps on her skin and crossed her arms in front of her.

“Hey, listen, Morrow. I didn't mean to freak you out. They probably—”

“How did you know my last name?” She realized she didn't know his, and took a step back.

“Like I said. I keep an eye on the good ones.”

“I find your attentiveness a little disconcerting.”

“Well, when you're trapped on an island with a bunch of sickly old women, and one pretty, semifunctioning girl breezes into your life.…”

“Semifunctioning?” She hated that she smiled, but she couldn't help it.

“You start to take notice. Now that you got your gold,” he said nodding to the hard drive, “let's see what else they've got hidden up in here.”

They filtered through the drawers, falling into an easy silence. The space around them was punctuated only by their raspy breathing.
Soundtrack of a sick teenager,
Davis thought. For a moment she thought this might be hopeless, but then she found something that made her pause.

“Mercer,” she said, holding up a video chat that was still sealed. “This is from the Columbus Health Department. Dated a month ago.”

“They didn't open it?” His eyes knitted together under the beam of the flashlight.

“Nope.”

“Shall we?”

“Won't they notice?”

Mercer shrugged. “Maybe. But they're not gonna know it was us,” he pointed out.

They inserted it in the computer, and the face of Peter McNamara, the renowned head surgeon at Columbus General, filled the screen.

“Dr. Grady, Peter McNamara here. We're missing last month's progress update from TOR-N over at Columbus General, and we'd like a comprehensive update within the next two weeks. Maybe we got overlooked in your mailings. Please check in with your status by the fifteenth of the month. We'd also love to hear more about these murmurings that patients with a Neither status can contribute to the creation of a Narxis vaccine. What's that about, Grady? Call me back.” Then his face cut out and the screen went black.

“
Neither
status?” Davis repeated, staring at the black screen.

Beside her, Mercer sighed. “It means not fully Prior nor fully Gen, but genetically somewhere in between.”

She turned to him. “Am I … Are
we
?”

Slowly, Mercer nodded. Then he turned back to the files. “There are more than a dozen in here,” he said. “Look. These are all unopened. All from hospitals across New Atlantic.”

“So they're not sending any information out. But why?” Davis was puzzled, still trying to wrap her head around what Mercer had explained.
Neither.

“Maybe this is why.” Mercer clenched his jaw, scrolling over a thin tablet marked
Annual Report.
“Jesus,” he whispered. “This is nuts. Check out the money they're getting! Durham alone invested four million in the facility. That's where I'm from.”

Davis peered over his shoulder. There it was: a million from Columbus, a million and a half from Seattle. All in all, TOR-N had received over fifty million dollars in funding. And yet, the patients were eating food that was barely fit for consumption, and they were sleeping on hard wooden bunks in rooms filled with four or more people. There was no air-conditioning, and Davis often felt like she could taste the air, thick and leaden with germs. There was a vast swimming pool just begging for use—and supposedly it
was
for patient use—but it had been restricted ever since she'd arrived, for fear (as the doctors said) of contamination. Yet the doctors themselves used it. It didn't seem fair.

“Grady,” Mercer whispered. “Did you ever notice how he dresses? The watch he wears?”

“You think they're skimming?”

“I'd be willing to bet my life on it,” Mercer said. Davis watched his jaw clench and unclench. “And did you hear what he said about Neithers contributing to a vaccine? I'm willing to bet he doesn't want to aid research because he wants to
keep
skimming. He doesn't want the clinic to go away.”

Davis frowned at his words. If he was right, that made the doctors here corrupt. It made them monsters.

“Here's your personal file,” Mercer told her, setting aside the annual report. “I can step outside while you listen, if you want.” But his eyes returned to the drawer, betraying his reluctance to leave.

“No,” Davis said quickly. “Stay.” She suddenly felt scared to be alone.

As she switched on the file, which was just audio, Mercer rifled through the drawer, pulling out an envelope that caused him to wrinkle his brow. Meanwhile, Dr. Grady's voice echoed around the small room. They listened for five minutes while he described the symptoms she already knew she had. Still, it was painful and embarrassing to hear them recounted: nausea, sweating, and shakiness. Mercer must have sensed her discomfort; about halfway through he reached for her hand, holding it firmly until the end.

When they both heard Dr. Grady's final words, he squeezed it hard, breaking into a full grin.

“Ms. Morrow is expected to make a full recovery,” Dr. Grady said, “aided in part by a strong immune system and a healthy, athletic build. Ms. Morrow likely contracted the disease while in peak physical condition, and thus should be able to ward it off within a few months with proper care and treatment.”

“Did you hear that?” Mercer grabbed her by the shoulders, smiling full-on into her face. “You're going to get better!”

Relief flooded her entire being—leaving her queasier than before. Davis leaned over and drew Mercer into a hug. He stiffened, surprised, but then she felt him melt into her. She hadn't thought she would ever get better, and the return of hope was overwhelming. Everything felt brighter somehow. She would see her family again!

But when Mercer gave her a squeeze, Davis felt a rush of painful nostalgia. She missed Cole. She would have traded Mercer for him in half a second. She slid out of Mercer's arms, feeling guilty, and backed up against the wall. She sank down and hugged her knees to her chest.

“Hey, Morrow,” Mercer said lightly, “I've got an idea.”

“What's that?”

“Let's bust out of this joint.”

“Right. I'll start digging.” Davis said. But when she looked up, his expression was hard. She felt her forehead scrunch in confusion. “You're kidding, right? They'll send us home when we're in the clear, right? Why wouldn't they?”

“You think they're ever going to let us out?” Mercer asked. “They're happy to sap our parents for every dime they can get. Why do you think he didn't tell you himself that you're on your way to recovery?”

Davis thought hard. It was true that Dr. Grady had seemed concerned—even grim—at their appointment that morning.

“And,” Mercer added, looking grim himself, “I found something while you were listening to the audio. There was a letter in the drawer from a doctor I've heard of from Durham. I opened it.”

Davis gasped. How could they ever cover up their snooping now?

“It was already open,” Mercer clarified. “Dated a month ago. The thing is…,” he trailed off, looking troubled. “The doctor—Dr. Hassman—said he needed blood samples from the Neithers here in order to complete a test that he thought would lead to an immediate cure. There are two other letters following up on it, asking Dr. Grady why he hasn't replied or sent the samples.”

“It would be easy enough to send our samples,” Davis said, following his train of thought. “So why didn't he?”

But even as she asked the question, she realized she had already figured out the answer. She stood up slowly.

“He doesn't want there to be a cure,” she whispered.

Mercer nodded. “If there's a cure, the facility will shut down and the money will stop coming in. This whole thing is one big Prior lie.”

The cure was being squelched here, not developed. She felt sick as the severity of it dawned on her. “What can we do?”

“We go there. We bring Dr. Hassman the samples.
We're
the samples. We can bring samples from before, when you were still contagious, and he can take samples of our blood now.”

“This is
crazy.
” Davis shook her head. She'd only wanted to see her file. A prison break? That was something else.

“Crazier than staying here?” He spread his arms out and gestured to the room around them and everything beyond it. “People are dying. There are armed guards. We have proof that these doctors don't give a shit. And you want to stay?”

“No,” she said softly. “I'm just … I can't…”

“You
can,
Morrow. Come with me. What other person on this island can memorize sixteen-digit passcodes? Who else is ballsy enough to scale stacks of bricks and bust through windows? You're it, Morrow. You're my partner in crime.”

Davis couldn't help but blush a little. Mercer wasn't exactly someone she trusted yet, but he was bold, and comforting—and he said things that made Davis believe. She hadn't felt close to someone since Cole.

Cole.

His death had left a void too big for anyone to fill, maybe ever. For the last few days, she'd been focused only on trying to get information. The rest of her—her heart and her body—had been numb, unable to accept the situation. Unable to imagine never seeing Cole again. It was like a thick black wall had gone up in her mind, blocking out the reality of his death. She knew the truth was there, just beyond the wall, but the knowledge of it was just a cold, dull thud, nothing more.

But this new plan … it was like a crack of light in the darkness. Almost painful, searing, but also invigorating. She felt as if a jolt of fresh oxygen had just gone to her lungs. They'd escape, and she'd get home to Fia and her family, and she'd help Thomas Worsley or one of the surgeons at Columbus General find a cure.

“I'm in,” she said, feeling her voice waver—with excitement, with fear, with the realization that doing this meant having something to live for again, and also something more to lose.

Mercer broke into a broad smile. “I knew you would be. But in the meantime, let's get older blood samples. From when we first came to TOR-N.”

The samples were kept in a refrigerator in the same office where appointments were held; many times, both Mercer and Davis had seen Dr. Grady draw their blood into thin vials and place them there. It was easy to obtain the samples, dated nearly three months ago. Almost too easy.

As they snuck out the way they came, Davis realized they hadn't gotten anything for Mercer. “What about you?” she asked. “Don't you want to see your file?”

“My file?” he whispered as they padded down the hall. “I'll see it eventually. And when I do, I want the first word I read to be
cured.
”

4

COLE

Worsley had warned him against going out, but Cole went anyway. He waited until after dark, of course; but still, the cemetery was lit by the faint glow of the moon, and it was elevated on a soft slope that left him feeling exposed. A few laborers walked along the footpath that bordered the cemetery—it served as a shortcut between the sanitation plant and the Slants's main cluster of housing. Had anyone been looking, they'd have seen his shrouded figure hunched behind a tree that arched above the gravestone marked
Cole Everest.
Cole knew it was risky; he'd half expected his mother to be holding vigil by the mound of fresh dirt that concealed some other guy's wasted, unrecognizable body. He was almost disappointed to find that she wasn't.

The cemetery had been empty when he approached, and now he cast furtive glances around him. It was only ten o'clock, but he hadn't been able to wait any longer. Some sick part of him wished he'd been at his own funeral—not to see everyone mourn him, just to
see everybody.
He missed his mom and Hamilton so much it hurt. He wondered if Michelle and Worsley had kept his secret.

Twenty minutes ticked by. When the road finally cleared of pedestrians and he couldn't see any more approaching from his elevated position, Cole inched from behind the tree and approached his grave site, just a few feet away. He could see there was an epitaph scratched into the stone, and he was morbidly curious to find out what it said.

HE FOUGHT WITH INTEGRITY; HE LIVED WITH HOPE.