Plagued: Book 1 (2 page)

Chapter 2

Blood Simple

An hour later, Skylar sat on the 'release' side of the emergency room at University Hospital with an ice pack pressed to the side of her head. Sergeant McNeil insisted she get checked out. Less out of concern for her welfare than so he could yell at her for disobeying orders, Sky thought. She'd ridden to the hospital with him and the rogue Negative in the ambulance. He'd taken the opportunity to recount her failings several times.

A couple of injections and an I.V. took care of the nausea. Her helmet saved her from a concussion according to the MRI, leaving her with just a bad knock on the head. She knew the boy, whoever he was, saved her from much worse.

Still October, the ER was pretty quiet. Flu season wouldn't start until mid-November or later in California. She sighed, tired and sore and hungry. Her stomach growled noisily. The Sarge said he'd give her a ride home after he made sure the Negative was stabilized. Home meant dinner. Her stomach rumbled again.

The clean-room bell chimed, and the light above the heavy metal doors to the exit blinked from red to green. She watched as a tall boy in jeans and a denim shirt with a gray sweater tied around his waist, came out. His hair was tousled and damp from the air jets they zapped you with going in or coming out of the treatment areas. He had thick, wavy black hair, longer in front than at the back. He pushed it out of his eyes, blinking away the slight sting of disinfectant. He saw her watching and gave a quick, wide smile.

Sky dropped her eyes, staring at her combat boots. She recognized him from school. Hugo St. James, a Senior. He'd only transferred in a few of weeks ago. Hugo was already the talk of the school for his brains and his looks. He was AB positive. She knew that, too. She'd seen his bracelet. All positives wore blood I.D.s. That was a tough blood type. Before the plagues, AB could receive blood from any group. Now, once infected, they could only get transfusions from other AB types. Statistically speaking, there wasn't a lot of AB blood to spare.

She looked up, startled as he sat down next to her. There were several empty couches. He didn't have to sit here.

The plastic upholstery squeaked as he settled himself. Sky shifted a few inches to the left, her sidearm holster creaking, suddenly uncomfortable. She became very focused on readjusting the ice pack.

“Hi.”

Why was he talking to her?

“You go to Redwood High,” he said.

She nodded, still wondering why he was making conversation. Seniors and juniors didn't mix much either in Tactical or at Redwood High. Negative seniors thought themselves vastly superior to lower classmen because they were already learning to operate drone weaponry, jet packs, and heavy artillery. Plus, both Negative and Positive seniors got to plan Prom, which automatically made them more awesome.

He waved his hand to encompass her uniform and weapons. “I'm Hugo. I didn't realize you were a Redneck.”

Sky automatically reached to adjust the collar on her tactical suit. The narrow, red barcode tattooed around her neck identified her as a Negative. A member of the elite. The envy of every Positive. Immune to the plague. Then she remembered she was in full tactical gear with the same red barcode plastered across her chest, and put her hand down.

Idiot.

She might as well introduce herself. It would be weird no to. She cleared her throat, her mouth felt unaccountably dry. “Skylar Christensen.”

“How do you do.” He flashed her a quick smile and held out his hand.

She looked more carefully at him as she shook his hand. He smelled like blood. There was a smear of dark red on his trouser leg near the knee.

“You have blood on your pants,” she pointed with her other hand. “Are you hurt? You smell hurt.”

His eyes widened as though she'd surprised him. He covered it quickly, giving her another half smile.

Oh my, he had an a great smile. And a great mouth and cheekbones and chin.

“I
smell
hurt?” He bent forward so he could meet her eyes. “What does that even mean?”

'Oh my gawd, Skylar,'
she yelled at herself. '
You just told him he smelled!'

“Oh. Um. Enhanced sense of smell,” her voice came out a little hoarse, and she cleared her throat again. “I can smell stuff.” She tapped her nose. “One of my level-ups from the blood mutation. You know.”

She looked at him for confirmation he understood, but he shook his head.

“Come on, everybody knows.”

“I'm British,” he said. “Perhaps things are different in England.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Really,
really?
” He was probably just having her on.

“Tell me,” he gave her another very charming smile – he seemed to possess rather a lot of charming smiles – crossed his legs and leaned a little closer.

Still looking for the hidden punchline, Sky explained the flu didn't kill Rednecks; it
did
change them. The Bird Flu vaccine gave everyone a light case of the flu. No matter what age you were vaccinated, afterward, things happened. 'Enhancements' the government liked to call them. 'Level up' was what she and all the other kids said. Their muscle development and sense of sight, hearing, smell, sound and even taste were magnified. Each person, however, leveled up again in their own individual way. Some of Sky's were not very explainable by science.

“I actually do know that. I meant, how did it change
you
.”

“Lots of ways.” She tapped her nose again. “My sense of smell is very acute. I smell when people are scared, or happy, or lying. Their body chemistry changes.”

He gave her a slightly strange look. “Okay. Did not know that was possible. That makes two things I've learned tonight.” 

She glanced at the Clean Room light, hoping it would turn green. Come on, squad leader! To say she was uncomfortable sitting here in her flak suit with both her guns plus the electric blade strapped to her belt and her helmet at her feet, chatting to one of the most popular boys in all of Redwood High School was an understatement. She felt like a freak. Like she'd been caught playing soldier. She was a little shy with people she didn't know. Especially people who weren't Negatives. There was always too much underlying tension.

“You were hurt on patrol, obviously since you have all your gear. Not badly, I gather?'

She leaned into her ice pack. “Smacked on the head. I was lucky not to be killed.”

He sat back, relaxed, obviously waiting for her to ask a question back.

“Why do you have blood on you?”

He gave a little bark of laughter.

“I phrased that badly. Why are you here?”

“I was in the ER, talking to my Godmother Sydney. Must have brushed up against something or someone.”

“Your god mom's name is Sydney? Isn't that a guy's name?”

“
She
used to be a
he
and my godfather.” He leaned back on the squeaky, plastic couch, putting both hands up. “I don't judge people's life choices. He, I mean, she, likes Sydney and kept the name.”

He smiled more broadly. Sky felt the sides of her mouth stretch up of their own accord to match. She sat there grinning at him like an idiot. He cocked his head to one side, waiting for her to continue the conversation.

“So...you dropped by the ER to chat with your godmother/father? That seems kind of risky. You being AB and all, I mean.:.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. It wasn't polite to talk about people's blood types and speculate on their chances of survival in the next outbreak.

“I needed a transfusion, since you ask. I get them regularly as part of a new treatment program. So, Sydney took care of that. My dad is here.”

“Is he sick, too?”

He looked surprised. “What? Oh, I see what you mean. At the hospital and all. No, he's not sick. He's a geneticist. A very accomplished one. He's been asked to lecture and do some teaching here at the University. He did his residency right at this hospital, which is why I have godparents on this side of the Atlantic. And that is another reason I am in and out of this place all the time.” He indicated the hospital with a wave of his hand.

“I see.”

“Are your parents alive?”

She relaxed a little. That was a perfectly normal question.

“Dad is gone; my mom is fine. She's in the Persian Confederacy, working with the NATO oil cartel in the field there. She's a geological engineer specializing in oil drilling.”

“Good career choice. Since you're a Negative, odds are both your parents are as well. So he didn't die in the plagues, I assume.”

“No. PharmCon riots in Silicon Valley. I mean, Pharmacy Conspiracy riots.” He was English; he might not know. “More than ten years ago. He was a lawyer.”

“For the victims?”

“No. For the Pharmaceutical company, Bio-Exederm. When the VA stormed the company HQ, he was shot by an execution squad along with the executive directors.”

“
Jeezus
.” He put his hand on her arm.“That's rough. I'm sorry. You must hate the Victims Army people.”

She shook her head, uncomfortably aware of his hand, warm even through her tactical suit. “No. Not really. I was only five going on six. He went away one day and didn't come home. Everybody wants to blame someone. Besides, just because he worked for them didn't mean he believed the Pharms weren't complicit in keeping the virus going in the beginning. You know, focusing on treatment rather than cure. At least that's what my mom told me.”

“I like the theory they were in league with the old government to create plagues in the laboratory and release them for a New World Order and to create cheap oil.”

She shrugged and winced as the move scrunched up the sore spot on her head. “Even if they did. It's done now. No take-backs and the New World Order isn't that different than the Old World, is it?”

“You think so?” He dropped his hand to stare at her as though she'd said something really stupid. “Populations in Africa, the Middle East, Asia
decimated
. What are there? Ten, twenty million Chinese in China now? Iraq, Iran, and Saudi Arabia transformed to the Persian Confederacy of States, and America and the EU's best friend.
That's
not suspicious? Nuclear meltdowns in Russia, Japan and France that left thousands of miles of scorched earth. Ghost town after ghost town in America, Canada, England and Western Europe.” He spoke passionately, his hands clenched tightly together. 

“You should keep your voice down.” Sky glanced around the waiting room. The only person near them was asleep with his head back on the couch and his mouth hanging open. “You don't want to be hauled in and fined for sedition.”

He took several deep breaths, flicking his eyes around the room with her. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Besides, there's no going back. Only forward.”

“That's the party line. Forward, into the future.”

“Doesn't make it any less true. Nothing is going to bring back the way the world was. The only hope is for a cure.”

“Not for you. Negatives have a future. Negatives can't get sick. You're the new master race. Rebuilding the world in your image.”

He was trying not to sound jealous, but Sky was way too familiar with Positives to miss the underlying emotion behind the words. She bit her lip and got busy fiddling with some of the velcro fasteners on the flak vest with her free hand, pulling them open and closed and silently cursing herself for being so thoughtless. What could she say to that? Especially to an AB positive. It was a miracle he'd made it to his teens. This coming winter could be his last. So many had already died in the plagues. Even with the lottery, there just wasn't enough government blood for transfusions.

The couch creaked as he shifted his long legs and changed the subject. “How long have you been on active patrol?”

She moaned inwardly. Maybe she shouldn't answer. Maybe she should just get up and move to a different squeaky couch or pound on the Clean Room doors and shout for the Sergeant. It was pretty obvious he hated her for being a Redneck. She stayed where she was, despite the strong smell of the blood. Stayed because he had another scent beneath that bitter metallic taste. Something attractive and elusive that reached out to wrap itself around her senses. Like nothing she had ever encountered. She wanted to lean over and
inhale
him. That must be what was tying her tongue into knots, making her stumble with nervousness. The heat seeped up from her neck to her cheeks. She realized she was blushing.

“Are you blushing because you're angry? Perhaps I'm annoying you. Is that question inappropriate in America?”

“You're not annoying me and no; that question isn't inappropriate,” she hastened to correct him.  “Um, let's see. Five, no, six months. Yeah. Six months.”

“Is it strange?”

His voice sounded sincere. Like he wanted to know what it was like four nights a week carrying a gun and patrolling her hometown with orders to shoot to kill after curfew.

“You know,” he pressed. “Chasing the Hemogoblins and shooting people.”

“They're not people,” she snapped.