Torn (6 page)

 

 

“Your vitals are in a healthy range,” Dr. Grady told her a few moments later, as she sat shivering on his operating table. Only a thin piece of paper separated her body from the chrome surface, and the air-conditioning was on full blast—likely to ward off the smell of decay. “Certainly not optimal yet, but you're getting there. A marked improvement from last month. Your natural antibodies are fighting the disease. I'd like to begin monitoring you weekly, with your consent.” He winked, then removed his vitals reader from his neck and turned toward her chart, making a few notes on his tablet.

Davis shuddered. He'd winked, she knew, because her consent didn't matter. While she was at TOR-N, she was a ward of the state. Consent was a luxury she didn't have, she thought, staring out the window of the examination room. A sealed vehicle marked with a black cross wheeled past, taking a right turn down the tree-lined path toward the sandy coast: another pile of dead bodies to be incinerated. She felt herself shudder at the sight of it. She always did.

“Any questions?” Dr. Grady asked, tapping his finger against the tablet keyboard. A wisp of his carefully groomed sandy brown hair dropped in front of his eyes, and he pushed it back with his left hand. It wasn't the first time Davis had noted his barren ring finger. Dr. Grady was handsome … for an old guy. He was tall and in shape, with wavy, light brown hair. He had a few wrinkles in his forehead and near his eyes, but Davis was sure he'd been attractive back in the day, as weird as that was to think about. The only reason she
did
think about it was because it was so weird for someone like him to be drawn to a place like TOR-N. It was such a lonely, isolating life. Ferries only crossed to the mainland twice per day, and even then only to order supplies. Most staff lived on-site. The gray, ivy-covered forms of the research facilities and dormitories rose up from dark, ominous forests around them, and the sick and dead were everywhere.

In short, it wasn't exactly the kind of place where she wanted to spend
her
forties. If she made it that long.

“Not that I can think of,” Davis started. “Well…,” She paused, uncertain whether to mention the latest. She couldn't tell if it was in her best interest or not to be getting better. “I can tell I'm building some of my muscle tone back,” she mentioned. “I'm just wondering how long until—” Dr. Grady held up one hand to silence her.

“Davis,” he said in a soft voice, placing one tanned hand on her arm. “We've talked about this. Be grateful for what you have. It's unlikely you'll ever be back in the shape you were.” He winked again. “But you're still looking pretty good, in my book. We're keeping a close eye on you.”

Davis's heart sank. She moved away, gathering her tablet. “Unlike the others,” she mumbled. She'd seen so many people die by now that it was practically rote. In the three months she'd spent at TOR-N, she must have seen hundreds of bodies.

“Davis,” Dr. Grady said again, his eyes widening in concern. “Are you doing okay here at TOR-N? Are you thriving?” Before she could answer, he moved his hand to her cheek. “So beautiful,” he said, gazing at her. “Your eyes.…” His voice was tremulous.

“What?” Davis froze, reacting in confusion. Dr. Grady was bending closer. Did he see something in her eyes? Some awful symptom? She didn't figure out what was really happening until it was too late. Dr. Grady brushed his lips against hers. Davis jerked back as if she'd been burned.

“What are you doing?” she gasped. “I have Narxis!”

“It's okay,” he assured her, his voice throaty. “You're no longer contagious. You haven't been for weeks now.”

“What?”

At first she thought she'd misheard him, but when he went for it again, repeating himself, it was all she could do to contain her ecstasy. If she wasn't contagious, maybe Mercer wasn't contagious. If they weren't contagious, they could leave.

She pushed Dr. Grady back with one hand, hard, and his face darkened.

“If I'm not contagious,” she said to him, her voice cold, “I can go home. Right?”

“That's impossible,” Dr. Grady told her stiffly, turning his back. “You still need professional supervision. We have more tests to run. You could regress. Your symptoms could reappear at any time. They can't offer you what we can offer you here. You'll need to stay at least several more months. In fact, your father mandated it.” He was speaking quickly, stumbling over his words. He looked nervous.

Davis looked at his gold watch, which offered a startling contrast against the white of his medical jacket, and she knew. Mercer had been right. They were being held there not out of concern for their health but for their parents' money.

Seraphina knocked on the door to the examination room, a moment too late. They had a deal to bust in on each other's appointments if they didn't end within twenty minutes. They had each other's backs; no one wanted to be alone with Dr. Grady for too long. Seraphina ought to have come sooner, but her lapse had given Davis this important gift.

“'Scuse me,” Seraphina called, poking her blonde head into the room. “Davis is needed at the canteen. It's her week for dishes.”

“No problem,” Dr. Grady said, eyeing Seraphina. “I'll see you tomorrow, Sera.”

“Seraphina,” she said in a cold tone, and Davis stifled a smile. The woman had no patience for Dr. Grady's attentions.

“See you next week, Davis,” Dr. Grady called after her, as she moved from the room.

“See you next week.” Her voice sounded flat, even to her.

“God,” Seraphina said. “He's such a creep. What'd he do this time? Details.”

“Nothing too weird,” Davis replied, her palms sweating at the lie. She and Seraphina had bonded primarily over the fact that they were both Neithers, but other than that, they didn't have a lot in common. She still didn't feel all that comfortable opening up. Especially not over a secret this huge. Seraphina had never even heard of Cole. Davis couldn't imagine how she'd react if she knew Davis was contemplating escape. She was a good girl—had faith in the system, played by the rules. She was a little timid, too. She trusted her treatment, mostly because she had to. The terror in her eyes every time Davis mentioned an alternative to the island was evident. She took joy in the small things, like the screening room that had been set up for the entertainment of the sick patients and that was still intact. She almost seemed to enjoy the sense of safety the island provided—there, she wasn't judged. She felt she was protected. If her only form of entertainment was interaction with other patients and a pseudo movie theater, so be it—that was her attitude. The two didn't connect on this point; Davis was convinced there was something better out there that could cure them and release them to their former, much richer lives. She would never give up on getting out.

Still, it was nice to have an ally. “Just, you know. The usual looks,” she said in response to Seraphina's question.

“Such a letch.” She rolled her eyes. “Wanna go to the screening room or hang out in my dorm room or something?”

“What about the dishes?”

“Davis. Please. Your na
ï
vet
é
is losing its charm.”

“I'm actually going to go lie down inside,” Davis lied. “Let's catch up at dinner.”

“Okay. Wonder what it'll be?” she joked. It was almost always protein shakes, vitamin shakes, and—very rarely—actual milkshakes, along with the very occasional produce. Davis had pretty much forgotten what it felt like to chew. Seraphina waved and walked off in the direction of her dorm. She was still a little weak, and as a result she hadn't earned enough merit points—amassed by cooking and chores. Merit points and burgeoning strength gave the patients more freedom to explore the grounds.

“Thanks for the save,” Davis called after her, and the other girl smiled in response. Seraphina often acted like she wanted to enjoy the “resort” she pretended TOR-N still was. Davis knew it was all just a big game that helped her cope, but it seemed like, at some point, Sera had started believing the game. And maybe it was better that way. No one knew how long they'd be at TOR-N. They didn't know if they'd die there.

Davis walked down a narrow dirt trail in the opposite direction from where Sera had gone, keeping to the innermost side of the forest so no one in the upper clinic could see her. She kept going, jogging now, about half a mile, until she was out of breath from the exertion and excitement. She was getting stronger; she could feel it. All of a sudden, the world looked brighter and more hopeful. She
liked
pushing herself, feeling the ache in her muscles after a day of exertion. The rush she felt as she accomplished little things—like running a full mile straight—was unlike any physical joy she'd ever experienced before. There was something about succeeding when you were down that offered an incredible boost. She'd never
been
down, not until she got Narxis. She'd always been ahead. She'd never known what it was like to truly crave something and work for it, knowing the odds were stacked against you. She wondered if it was how Cole had felt. The thought made her heart surge with admiration.

She was tired of lying in bed, of “resting up” and obeying doctor's orders. She'd started sneaking out during the late evenings—when the doctors and staff turned in their badges—about a week ago. Since then, she'd gotten bolder, sneaking out every chance she got. It was how she'd found the laboratory.

She moved faster, knowing she was closing in on the clearing. When she was moving like this, with the smells of the tropical forest and the damp soil sticking to her shoes and the green blurring past her, it was almost possible to see this place the way Seraphina tried to. It was almost possible to feel free. Then, heart pounding, she broke through the trees into the clearing. This was how she'd found it last time: running, delirious with the feeling of freedom and returning strength. She'd literally burst upon the abandoned building and into the patch of overgrown grass and weeds, totally by accident.

The structure was ancient, crumbling. It didn't look like it had ever belonged to the TOR-N program. Maybe it had been devoted to the research on some other disease the government had covered up—who knew? Or maybe it was left over from the golden days, the days before genetic mutation. Its crumbling cement surface and cracked windows spoke of neglect and a million hidden histories. It gave Davis chills every time she saw it.

At first, she'd been afraid to go inside. She'd feared it would crumble in on her, or that she'd catch some other, even worse disease by exposing herself to its musty air. But then curiosity had seized her and she'd first peeked into the windows and later ventured through the door—its bolt had snapped easily, practically rusted through. And then she'd seen the space.

To someone else, maybe it would have seemed like a surgical wasteland: rotting mattresses atop rusty cots, old metal instruments discarded and half covered in dust and cobwebs. But to Davis, it was a studio.

It had taken her several hours—snatched here and there between appointments and lights out and mealtimes—but she'd managed to sneak away a broom and use it to clear the place of most of its dust and cobwebs. Then she'd moved the operating tables against one wall and shifted the rest of the clutter to a series of built-in shelving units … and she'd danced.

She'd been dancing ever since, every chance she got. When she did, she felt light and airy, even though she knew she was only a shadow of what she used to be, physically. The way she felt, though, running through her old warm-ups—it was the kind of happiness a starving child might have felt at the sight of his first warm meal. It was a joy that made her feel like she was flying, even though her muscles were limited, her body softer. Davis could do it all day, every day. But she made herself stop after only twenty minutes each time. Twenty minutes was the perfect amount of time, to not arouse suspicion. Anything more would be dangerous, and the thought of this little freedom being stolen away from her was enough to leave Davis breathless.

Now she opened the creaking door and smiled. Light filtered into the room through the panes that she'd wiped clean with an old kitchen rag. She stripped off her regulation booties and placed her bare feet against the floor, standing and flexing her toes and calf muscles. It was hard, leaping around on cement without ballet slippers. It hurt a lot. But she barely noticed the pain or the subsequent bruising.

Davis hummed a little, some basic Mahler, as she began her warm-up. She started with the basic positions:
é
cart
é
, effac
é
.
She did this for a few minutes—an abbreviated version of a warm-up—until she felt her time waning and couldn't stand it any longer. She moved right into a bourr
é
e, then a
d
é
boule,
her body spinning so fast she felt like she was flying. Her movements felt soft and free and joyful, despite the harsh surface of the floor impacting her bare feet. She was about to move into an entrechat, when she heard it: the unmistakable sound of footsteps crunching through the underbrush outside.

Davis stopped so fast she nearly toppled over, her heart pounding. The footsteps drew nearer to the door. She scanned the room but there was no other way out, short of the ancient, jagged windows. Seeing a broken test tube, she grabbed it, hoping its broken edges would act as defense if it came to that. She dropped beneath one of the surgical tables, her pulse beating faster than it should have after a simple workout. She touched her face and felt its dampness. She was flushed, nervous. She closed her eyes and waited, trying to keep her breath as silent as possible. Then the door opened and a figure stepped through. Davis leapt out from under the table, letting loose a high-pitched shriek, ready to hurl the beaker at the intruder.