Blackout (9 page)

NINETEEN

ALEC SAT UP GINGERLY AND
swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took a breath and wheezed at the pain. He tried to focus his bleary eyes. A bare, hardwood floor. A worn La-Z-Boy draped with an afghan. A stack of quilts. A plate of food—a sandwich and potato chips—that he hadn’t touched.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” a young man’s voice said in the other room. “Nobody hates this more than me. They took my own nephew, little Levi. Yeah, you know him.”

Alec couldn’t hear the old woman’s voice, but he could hear the old man snoring loudly in a neighboring room.

“Listen,” the young man said. “I know you’re just trying to do right by this boy. We heard about Parley’s car accident, and we know you’re just trying to protect him.”

Alec stood and crept toward the door on bruised legs.

The woman’s voice shook with Parkinson’s. “I’ve seen the news. If we took the boy to the hospital then you would have taken him away.”

She’d been easy to play. Her mind was so decrepit as it was that he hardly had to try to implant new memories—memories of her husband driving the old 1970s Chevy Impala into town and hitting Alec as he was crossing the street. Memories of Alec being a boy she knew—a grandson of a neighbor. That was all it took. People in this little town—even ancient people like Mr. and Mrs. Lyon—had no love for the government, and the thought that the army was stealing kids was abhorrent. And so the old couple had taken him in, treated his injuries as best they could, and let him sleep.

After a twenty-five-mile hike out of the mountains, with at least one arm broken from the avalanche and a hundred black bruises, all Alec wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t know how long he had been out, or how his arm had ended up in a bandage.

That was probably what did him in, though. Mrs. Lyon would have been too trusting, too concerned. She would have sought help and that’s how the police found out.

Alec looked at the window, with its heavy wooden frame and its thick leaded glass. There was no way he could open it with one hand.

Dan had been too reckless. Laura had abandoned him. Alec had saved their asses a hundred times and they just let him get caught in the avalanche. Left him to die, buried up to his waist, one arm broken and the other smashed.

“Please tell me where the boy is,” the young man said.

Think of a story. Think of a story.

But his mind was too blurred. There wouldn’t be any getting out of this. Alec cursed himself. He’d snuck into the bathroom less than an hour before and found an old bottle of narcotic painkillers. Two Lortab to take away the excruciating pain.

And now his mind was so muddled, so numb, that he couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t implant a memory. He wondered if he could even speak coherently.

He sat back on the bed.

“Mrs. Lyon,” the man said, his voice more firm. “Please tell me where the boy is. I have half the guys from Castle Dale surrounding the house. We have orders from the army.”

Alec couldn’t fight; he couldn’t use his mental abilities. He could barely stand.

Laura and Dan were as good as dead. Traitors. If Alec ever made it out of this house alive, Laura and Dan would pay.

“He’s badly injured,” Mrs. Lyon said, her voice quivering. “My Parley—he just can’t see as well as he used to, and he didn’t mean to hit the boy.”

“Is he back here?”

There were heavy footsteps on the wooden floor, and the door was pushed open fast and deliberately.

Whether there was a gun pointed at him, Alec had no idea—all he could see was the blinding bulb of a flashlight as it passed back and forth across the room.

Alec couldn’t even raise an arm to block the beam.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Alec Moore.”

“I heard you had a nasty accident.”

Alec just nodded his head.

“What were you doing out on the road?”

“Hitchhiking,” Alec said, repeating the same story he’d told Mrs. Lyon. “Trying to get up north.”

“Well,” the man said, turning off his flashlight and revealing himself to be a stocky man with a goatee and a deputy uniform. “We’ve got orders to take you up to Price—there’s a quarantine on. But I think we’ll make a pit stop at the clinic and see if we can’t get you patched up.”

Alec nodded again. He knew there were things he needed to do—stories he needed to create and memories to manipulate to get himself through the quarantine. But it would have to wait until the drugs had worn off.

“Can you walk?” the deputy asked.

“A little.”

“I’ll bring in some of my guys. Don’t worry. We’ll get you taken care of.”

TWENTY

AUBREY’S EYES BURNED, AND SHE
didn’t bother to wipe away the tears that were dripping down her flushed cheeks as the armored transport sped away from Jack and the other Positives. Something had failed, something had gone wrong. She’d changed her own test results—had someone changed Jack’s?

None of the other teens in the transport said anything. Kara, the girl who had been picked just before Aubrey, sat directly across from her, their knees almost touching. Kara’s hands were clasped in her lap, and she looked relieved and happy. Aubrey wished that she could feel the same way. It’s how she should have felt, how she’d expected to feel if she was declared Negative.

There were seven other teens, and they all shared Kara’s look of joy.

But maybe they were too relieved. What if everything was backward? Maybe the army told the Positives that they were actually Negative, so that they wouldn’t try to fight and escape? Right now Jack could be on his way back home, and Aubrey and Kara were headed to prison—or worse.

“Are you okay?” someone asked.

Aubrey looked to her left. A boy—probably three or four years younger than Aubrey—was watching her.

She shook her head.

“We’re safe,” he said. His face, still round and babyish, was shining with optimism. “My sister told me back there: if we’re Negatives, we get to go home.”

Kara jumped in, giving Aubrey a reassuring look. “Soon, I’m sure. Maybe not today.”

“My sister told me that they couldn’t keep us here long,” the boy continued. “She said it’s illegal.”

Another girl, who Aubrey recognized from the warehouse, laughed. “It was illegal to kidnap us in the first place. Why would they start following the laws now?”

The truck came to a stop, and there was a long, uncomfortable pause before the back hatch opened and sunlight poured into the vehicle, followed by a gust of wind and sand.

A soldier stood in the hatchway, his hands on his hips. Aubrey knew almost nothing about the military, but could tell that this man wasn’t a normal infantryman. He didn’t wear a helmet—he had a camouflage cap—and his jacket had quite a few more patches and markings than most of the soldiers’ she’d seen.

He took a step closer to the vehicle and rested his hand on the door. He spoke, but his words sounded memorized, and he looked bored—almost annoyed. “All of your test results have come back negative, and the United States Army, on behalf of your country, extends its gratitude that you’ve been willing to submit to these procedures. I’m sure you have questions, and I can promise you that they will all be answered. But first, we need to get you through decontamination.”

The young boy spoke up, looking concerned. “What’s that?”

“You’ve all been in close proximity to people who have a serious illness. You need to be disinfected before you go any farther.”

The boy said something else, but the man talked over him. “Now, if you’ll all exit the vehicle, we’ll get this taken care of quickly and easily.”

The nine teens carefully filed out of the armored transport, ducking their heads as the ceiling was too low for all but the boy to stand. Aubrey was the second-to-last out, followed by Kara.

They were standing in front of another long chain-link fence topped with razor wire. On the other side, stretching out for what seemed like miles, was an endless row of enormous canvas tents, desert camouflage and buffeted by the wind.

Just like at the warehouse, the fence was guarded with watchtowers.

Aubrey touched Kara’s arm and whispered, “It doesn’t seem like they’re sending us home.”

Kara frowned, and brushed her long blonde hair from her face. She looked sick. “I’m sure it’s just temporary.”

The soldier led the small group across the dusty road to a wide canvas tent that appeared to be the only entrance through the fence.

“This shouldn’t take long,” he shouted, to be heard over the wind, “provided you listen to instructions and do as you’re told.”

He stepped up onto a low wooden platform, and opened the door to the tent. “Males on the left, females on the right.”

The first in line—an overweight boy—nervously peeked his head in the door.

“Come on,” the officer snapped. “Hurry up.”

Aubrey grabbed Kara’s elbow again. “Hey.”

“It’ll be okay,” Kara said, though her face was pale.

“You’re not actually a Positive, are you?” Aubrey asked, trying to keep her voice low.

Kara looked surprised. “No! Are you kidding?”

Aubrey forced a smile. “I just wonder if they made a mistake. Maybe they think we’re Positives.”

Kara glanced up at the door ahead of them, and the officer standing grimly beside it. “I’m not a Positive.”

They reached the door and entered a small, cramped room. The boys—there were six of them—were in a line heading left, and the three girls were waiting for a door on the right.

“Where are you from?” Kara asked. Aubrey guessed she was trying to make conversation to keep her mind off the situation.

“Mount Pleasant.”

“I love that area,” Kara said, putting on a big nervous grin. “I have an aunt in Manti.”

“Did you know anyone else back there?” Aubrey asked, keeping her voice low. “Back at the warehouse?”

Kara looked embarrassed, and shook her head. “No. I’m from Park City. I don’t know where they took my friends, but—” If the door hadn’t opened, Aubrey guessed that Kara would have started to cry.

“Come in,” a woman said, holding the door for them. “Quickly, please.”

Aubrey glanced back at the boys, still waiting in their line and anxiously watching to see what happened to the girls. Her eyes met the young boy’s, and she smiled.

“Hurry,” the woman said.

Aubrey turned and entered the room.

The soldier couldn’t have been very old, but her face was grim and uncompassionate. She asked for the girls’ names and personal information, and checked them against a paper on her clipboard, and again against the girls’ bracelets. Kara was eighteen, which surprised Aubrey—Kara looked younger than that. The other girl—a fifteen-year-old from Roosevelt—was named Betsy Blackhair.

The soldier hung the clipboard on a hook. She then opened a cabinet and pulled from it three garbage bags, and three tiny bars of soap, each about an inch square.

“Strip down,” she said, handing the girls the bags and soap. “Put everything you have in the bags, leave them with me, and then go in the next room for a shower.”

“What will happen to our clothes?” Betsy asked.

“They will be disinfected,” the soldier answered. “You can keep any metal jewelry, but you’ll have to scrub it in the shower. There’s a clock in there—you’ll need to wash for fourteen minutes, and that means really washing, not just standing there. If you don’t scrub yourselves, Corporal Smith will do it, and she uses a stiff brush.” The soldier smiled at that, but the girls didn’t laugh.

Aubrey removed her clothes and shoes and stuffed them haphazardly into the bag, not bothering to fold them the way Kara was doing. The situation was uncomfortable enough, and she wanted to go straight into the shower rather than stand and wait naked.

The soldier made Kara cut off a cloth bracelet that was tied around her ankle. Not waiting, Aubrey cracked the door to the next room, peeking inside to make sure it was safe to go in.

The room had a single pipe in the center, with four shower heads branching off of it. A wide plastic sign hung on one side of the room, giving directions for how they should shower, with simple illustrations beside each instruction. Corporal Smith, a matronly woman wearing a green rain poncho over her combat fatigues, motioned her in.

The water was lukewarm, and the soap was gritty and harsh. Aubrey followed the sign step-by-step, watching the clock as the directions told her to scrub her hair for two minutes, then her face and neck for one minute, and so on. By the time she was finished she felt like her body had been rubbed with a cheese grater, and she smelled of ammonia.

Done before the other girls, she took a towel from Corporal Smith and then moved to the next room. The towel was small, not covering much as she tried to wrap it around herself, and it was as rough as sandpaper on her already stinging skin. Another female soldier—this one younger than the others, and with a kinder face—asked Aubrey’s size and then handed her a bundle of clothes.

Aubrey looked at the pile, pleasantly surprised. The clothes appeared to be new—a button-up blouse, a pair of jeans, sandals, some plain underwear, and a bra. “I was expecting coveralls or something like that.”

The soldier smiled. “You’re lucky. You wouldn’t have liked the jumpsuits—a whole lot of olive green. But the shipments never came in, so the CO sent a couple trucks into Salt Lake and cleaned out all the department stores.”

Aubrey turned her back to the soldier and quickly tried to dry off with the nonabsorbent towel.

“Most of our supplies are like that,” the soldier said. She sounded tired, like she was making small talk to stay awake. “None of the shipments are coming through anymore. Just more and more of you guys.”

“You’re expecting a lot of people here?” Aubrey asked.

“We already have a lot. You’re the stragglers.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You came from . . . Intake Two, I think.” She checked a clipboard. “Yes. Two. And there are thirty-two intake stations.”

Aubrey turned to look over her shoulder. “That many?”

“Yes.” The woman nodded, and Aubrey turned back to dressing.

“So how many of us are here?”

“I don’t know. But there’s been a steady stream for five days. Hundreds of girls have been through this room. Maybe thousands.”

Aubrey slipped on her shirt and began buttoning it. “When do we get to leave?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Even if I knew.”

Aubrey sat on a narrow wooden bench with the eight other teens who had just finished decontamination. The wind was still blowing and Aubrey knew that the dust from the dirt road had to be gluing itself to her long wet hair.

No one was talking. The astringent soap and indignity of the showers seemed to have sapped the elation that they’d felt earlier at being declared Negative. Now they simply sat, staring at the endless rows of tents, wondering how they’d ever get back home.

A soldier stood nearby, watching the road for the bus that he promised would come.

“Who was he?” Kara asked quietly. “The boy back there?”

“A friend,” Aubrey said, not even knowing what to call him. “An old friend.” She cared for him. It seemed that right now she missed him more than anyone else—more than her so-called best friend. More than her dad. Jack had rescued her. He’d fought for her and lied for her, tried his best to hide her. And now he was facing the punishment that should have been hers.

No,
she thought. Even if she hadn’t changed her own test result, that wouldn’t have helped him. She was on the outside now, and she could get him out. Somehow.

“What was his name?”

“Jack Cooper,” Aubrey said. “He’ll be okay.”

“Of course,” Kara said.

A plume of dust appeared in the distance, and the soldier told them to stand for the bus.

“How about you?” Aubrey asked, watching the bus approach. It was a regular city bus, the side marked with the words “Utah Transit Authority.” “You’re from Park City?”

“Yeah,” Kara said. Her voice was quiet, almost embarrassed. “My mom’s a secretary in the sheriff’s office. She heard what was happening and tried to hide me. We got caught in a roadblock on the Wyoming border.”

Aubrey smiled. “We tried to run too. Didn’t get very far.”

“I think most of us are like that,” Betsy said. “Fugitives, I mean. I went to my grandma’s house out on the reservation. I didn’t think anyone would look there. They came in the middle of the night.”

Aubrey thought back to what the woman had told her after her shower. They were the stragglers. Maybe the rest of her school was already here, in one of the hundreds of olive-drab military tents.

The bus door opened and the soldier gestured for the group to climb aboard. Aubrey was the last on, and even though there were plenty of empty seats, she sat next to Kara.

The bus drove east, passing tent after tent. All of them looked the same, with nothing to distinguish them other than a large number stenciled on the canvas. After about half a mile, the bus turned north, tents now on both sides in a seemingly endless array.

“My cousins are here somewhere,” Kara said. “My mom tried to get her sister to come with us, to run, but she wouldn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“Who was with you at the warehouse?” Aubrey asked. “You hugged someone.”

Kara shook her head. “I don’t know her, really. We both got caught at the same roadblock.”

The road was bumpy and the bus was moving more slowly. They weren’t passing the front of the tents now, just the wide windowless sides, and it was harder to pick out the faces of teens.

Other vehicles were moving among the tents, too. Trucks parked in front of several, some appearing to carry supplies and others picking up garbage.

“Can I ask you a question?” Kara said, still looking out the window.

“Sure.”

“Did you know that Jack was . . . one of . . . ?”

Aubrey shook her head. “No. And he isn’t. He can’t be.”

Kara nodded and thought for a moment. “I’ve heard that some people aren’t even aware they have it.”

“This isn’t like that,” Aubrey said. “He’s not sick. There must have been a mistake.”

“I mean,” Kara said, talking slowly, “if he’s sick, then maybe he gave it to you?”

“He’s not sick,” Aubrey insisted.

“Okay.”

The bus turned one more time and then stopped in front of Tent 209. A Humvee was waiting for them, and six soldiers stood in front of the door. Slowly, Aubrey and the others filed off the bus, and one of the soldiers directed them into the large tent.

Aubrey paused just inside the door as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The layout wasn’t unlike the warehouse they’d left earlier—bunk beds lined the walls, and two tables were in the center. In one corner was a row of shelves, stocked floor to ceiling with boxes. The floor was wood, and sand showed beneath the slats.