The Ward

48


10:35 P.M., SUNDAY


In Callum’s apartment, a shaky energy fills the room. Circling a glass basin: Callum, Kent, Jones, Terrence, all seated cross-legged on the floor in front of me.

“If I left now, I’d have time,” Kent says as I walk in, eyedropper in one of his hands, a small plastic tube in the other. A pile more of each lie at everyone’s knees. Pointing to me, he adds, “But she gets to bring it to some girl she’s not even related to?”

“There’s no way you’re getting all the way up north and back again before we start. Not even if you run. Your dad’s on my route, man.” Terrence’s voice turns serious. “I’ll get it to him. Swear.”

The guys turn to look at me, and glancing around, I realize Benny’s not here. Wanting to change the subject, I’m about to ask where he is, when one by one I watch as their eyes outline my new look—blue scrubs, no hair. Comments range from “Whoa” to “Different.”

Boys really know how to drop a compliment.

Then, with his eyes back on a dropper, Kent growls, “You missed the best part.”

Clearly, Kent was thrilled to get Callum’s comm asking for help with filling up the eight hundred vials of serum.

“Where’s Benny?” I ask Terrence, and search his face to see if he’s forgiven me yet.

He doesn’t look up, not even between drops. “He offered to bring the finished packages to our mobiles, since he’s the only one with fins—ours are all roofed already. Save us a trip,” he says.

For the bazillionth time, I realize how lucky I am to have Benny for my mech.

Looking for an opening in the circle, I decide to squeeze in next to Callum. I don’t even try to sit next to Ter. If he needs more time, I’ll give him more time. I just hope that he can forgive me before the race—it’ll be dangerous, after all. What if one of us don’t . . . ?

I push the thought away.

Callum moves over, making room for me to sit. Under his breath, he asks, “How is she?” as he hands me a dropper and a vial.

I give him a smile small enough that only he can see. No need for Kent to hear. “Awake,” I answer. Our eyes meet, and I can see he knows how much more is behind that weak grin I’m giving him.

“Should we review the game plan?” Callum offers, screwing on the lid of the last tube in his pile. “I can quiz you if you comm me your maps.”

They’re gonna love that, I think, looking around at the others. Him. A West Isler. Taking the lead. Poor guy. He’s been here, alone, for an extended period of time with a bunch of dragsters. What a deadly combo.

But the others say, “Thanks, man,” and nod their heads like he’s just offered them his kidney, and I realize something else: even with a pampered, silver-spoon-fed West Isle boy in the room, I’m still at the bottom of this totem pole.

Because I’m a girl who races.

Unbelievable.

Well, despite the boobs, I still have important things that need hearing—“Guys,” I start, taking a breath. At my side my fist balls all on its own. My nails, sharp in my palm, make it feel like I’m holding fire. I won’t let my voice crack when I say this, though I still can’t believe it—Derek might not hurt me, but the other racers? And Kitaneh will have no problems doing away with any of us, me least of all.

“Before we do that, there’s something you should know.”

They all stop what they’re doing and look at me. All except for Kent.

“We might have company out there,” I tell them, fast.

Kent’s eyes shoot up at that. “What?”

Waving him quiet, I go on. “Unfortunately, there are a few people who’d rather we didn’t give out the cure, and I just don’t know how far they’d go to stop us. They could be waiting for us.” I pause. “At least four of them.”

“Are they dangerous?” Jones asks, just a hint of fear in his voice coming through. He coughs—he heard it too. “So we can be prepared, is all. . . .”

I nod. “They’re a threat, yes.”

“Why the hell would anyone want to stop the cure from going out?” Ter shakes his head, glancing around the room.

I mumble, “Who knows,” and shrug, but I’m sure if I told him that the cure was also the not-so-mythical fountain of youth, it might clear things up. Derek was right about that—accidentally handing out immortality would be bad on so many levels.

I change the subject. Don’t want to be thinking about Derek any more than I have to. “Benny said my Rimbo was good to go?”

“Good enough,” Ter tells me. “When I stopped by the garage, there was just body damage left.”

I wince a little thinking about it, but give Callum a nod.

“All right. Maps, please?”

Four cuffcomms flip open as we send him the image files.

He stands up and walks to a corner of the far wall. “Let’s start with Jones, shall we?” Callum says, and he projects the first route map onto the wall. It’s hidden from him, but visible to us. On it, the ten sickhouses on Jones’s route are outlined in green.

“Target buildings’ and sickhouses’ height differentials, bearings off each roof, and optimal speed for making each jump. Go.”

We listen as he goes, probably each thinking the same thing: Callum would make a killer dragster.


“One last thing remains,” Drill Sergeant Callum informs us, all headings bored into our skulls, nine hundred tubes capped and ready to go. He points to a pile in the corner: dozens of copper boxes with brass locks—the boxes that Benny couldn’t take since they weren’t finished. “These are what you’ll be dropping on the rooftop of each sickhouse. Please fill every box with fifty vials.”

“That’s more than the number of patients,” Ter comments, reaching for one.

“I’ve rounded up. The cure might bring some sick out of the woodwork. Unaccounted-for contagious patients, or even untested ones who’ve been ducking the law, might send family.”

Like my neighbors, the Bedrosians. With images of the raid brewing in the back of my mind, I add my fifty vials to my remaining boxes and put them in my sack.

When we’re done, all the racers stand, individual packs clinking with the sound of cheap metal, and walk to the door.

Something’s off—I’m uneasy. A twinge in my gut. “Odd, though, right?” I ask everyone, just before opening the door.

“What?”

“It’s just . . . An extermination that hasn’t accounted for a hundred percent of the contagious population? The Blues raided my neighbors—they know that people avoid testing.”

The room goes silent.

“They’re calling it a cure, Ren. I bet they’re banking on it making its way around,” Kent says, looking at the others to gauge their reactions.

No one else seems bothered by it, so I nod. Still, his answer doesn’t settle me.

“All right, everyone. First squadron flies in less than ninety minutes, so be off your last roof at least five minutes before midnight,” Callum says. “I think it will be too risky to meet immediately following your drop-offs, so let’s wait until first thing tomorrow morning—six a.m.—at Benny’s garage to reconvene. Together, we’ll listen to the radio for news of the ‘cure.’”

One after another, the guys nod and line up single file behind the door. Jones reaches out for an armshake, which I take without smiling. Not on the outside, at least.

Next comes Ter, shuffling his feet and still avoiding my eyes. Then, just when I expect him to turn out the door and leave me without another word, it’s as though all his anger drops away. He opens his arms. Hugs me. Even kisses my forehead.

“Benny spoke to me,” Ter whispers. “He seems to think that if I’d found out under any different circumstances, you might deserve my anger. But since you’re trying to save the Ward and all . . . it wouldn’t kill me to cut you a break.”

I laugh and snort into his jacket.

“Be safe out there,” he says seriously.

Pulling back from him, I see the worry behind his eyes. We’re not sentimental, but I’ve got it behind mine also.

“Same for you,” I tell him, and as I open my mouth to say something else—what, I don’t know—Ter pats my shoulder and turns away. We don’t need to say anything else.

Kent’s turn.

No arm. He just towers over me, a disgusted look curling on his face. He holds his derby close to his chest, faking sincerity, and leans forward. “How’s your sister?” he asks, hissing into my ear. But by the time I open my mouth, he’s out the door.

As I close it behind me, I fall back. Lean my head against the wood. Try to shake away the feeling that the pieces aren’t all in place, though Kent always acts like that.

I hope he drives off a roof.

Immediately, I unthink it—this is one race where I’m even denied the small pleasure of wishing death on the boy. I remind myself that, for the first time, we’re fighting on the same side. I won’t win or lose alone. If he skids out, doesn’t recover, dozens of people lose along with him. Each of us dragsters no just longer equals one person—we’re a sum total, all wheeling from roof to roof, hundreds of lives at the finish line. Not just Aven’s.

My breath starts to go ragged, inhales pushing against exhales, neither one really doing its job. How in hell will we pull this off? There are too many people. . . .

From across the room, Callum must sense my freak-out. “It’s going to work,” he says, and walks closer. “You’ve done this a hundred times. This is just a hundred and one.”

I’m grateful he’s trying to make me feel better, but we both know that’s not true. This is not like every other race.

Without warning, Callum folds his arms round me, and rests his chin on my head. I don’t expect it, but arms always know what to do when it comes to a hug, so a moment later they’re wrapped around his waist. I lay my cheek to his chest, and he rocks me side to side like we’re old friends. Old friends who don’t totally know each other. Yet.

“Just in case something happens, though . . .” he says, arms still around me. “I’m standing here because of you. No one else. Even if it’s only because of my brain.” Coughing, “Large and sexy though it may be . . .”

I laugh—Callum’s funny. Didn’t know that.

He continues, his voice serious. Full and breaking all at once. “I owe my life to you. And if this works, I won’t be the only one. No thank-you will ever be enough.”

Same goes for “you’re welcome,” I think to myself, and I squeeze him tight. I can’t figure out the words to say—how can you put any feeling into words, really?—so I hope he’ll know what I mean.

Callum exhales heavily, like a blowfish. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. I can’t believe we’re about to pull this off.” Then, finding my eyes with his baby blues, he says, “I’ll see you at the finish.”

“See you at the finish,” I echo, and as I close the door it occurs to me that for the first time, the finish line ain’t even a place. It can’t be charted, or graphed, or put on a map.

This time, the finish line is people.


I jog quick-paced along Mad Ave, and not far off, a few beggars have taken up residence for the night. One of them’s lying huddled under a rough woolen blanket, legs sticking out. He wants people to see, he’s not your everyday beggar. I don’t slow as I pass, though I can’t help but stare at his knees, skin stretched out, high and thick.

His shins are bowed, muscles and bones making room for the tumors. I shudder and cringe in a way my mind doesn’t understand. Fear, I guess.

Running by, I read the chalk writing on the boardwalk: HBNC+ Not Contagious. Homeless. Spare a drop?

“Just a sip from your canteen!” he calls to my back, but I try to ignore him. I can’t though . . . because something occurs to me. He’s a hundred feet back by the time my feet begin to slow.

Homeless.

Roofless.

I spin around. Race back the way I came.

When he sees I’ve returned, he smiles, shows off the gaps in his teeth. “Thank you, miss,” he says, and holds out his hands.

“You—” I start, kneeling down. “Can you get to a sickhouse? How will you get the cure?”

He takes back his hands. Looking at me like I’ve asked him the silliest question imaginable, he scrunches his brows and closes one eye, considering. A moment later, “I suppose I could find one in the morning, if my legs feel like doing the work of it.” He hoots. Pats his thigh. Then, he points to my belt. “I’ll be sure they do if you wanna pass me a drop from that pretty canteen I see?”

Like he’s doing me a favor.

I choke back a cry, a yell. I want to stomp my foot, scream at the world. How did we not think of this? So much time ironing out the details. Every one of these last forty-eight hours has hurt me, in some way—even he was part of the payoff, though he don’t know it.

More holes in the plan.

More holes in the plan?

An extermination plan that doesn’t account for the homeless. It makes no sense. In my gut, the twinge is back. A wavering feeling, a compass that has lost its north.

“Well?”

I shake my head and pull off my sack, taking a vial from one of the copper boxes. If Kent knew . . .

This ain’t fair; I know it ain’t. It’s not his fault that he had no time to hand-deliver a vial all the way to a northern quadrant. But it’s not like his dad won’t get the cure at all. . . .

I uncork my canteen and pass it.

The beggar pours too long, smacks his lips at the sound of the splashing water. I have to tip the thing away from him, or he’d probably drain it.

While he downs the water from his own canteen, I give him the vial. “Drink this, please?” I ask, but he won’t answer, or even nod. I have no time to waste on an argument. Checking my cuffcomm—twenty-seven minutes till the squadrons fly through—I tell myself that this changes nothing. The water is still going to people who need it.

Keep moving.

Keep moving.