The Fever Code (24 page)

230.12.17
|
9:06 p.m.

Thomas waited patiently for Dr. Paige to come back after taking his latest blood sample to the lab. In a rare occurrence, there was no one else in the room with him, not even an assistant. After a couple of silent minutes, he got curious.

He got up from his chair and went over to the counter. He opened a few doors, pulled out a few drawers. Nothing looked too out of the ordinary. Vials, syringes, paper-wrapped products. But then, in the last drawer to the right, he found an absolute gold mine.

A research tablet.

The thin, foot-long, rectangular device had a shiny gray screen, ready to reveal a world of information. He knew he'd probably need passwords, but this was an opportunity that might never present itself again. Refusing to consider the consequences, he tucked the device into the back waist of his pants, flopping his shirt over the remaining portion to hide it.

He was in his seat well before Dr. Paige returned.

That evening, he told an orderly he was feeling a little under the weather and wanted to bypass his usual session in the observation room. No one made too much of a fuss about it.

He wanted to dive into his pilfered research tablet. He'd also grabbed a few snacks in the cafeteria to make it a full night of entertainment. Sitting at his desk, no one around to bother him, munching on potato chips, he powered up the tablet and got to work. He hadn't told Teresa about it yet. He wasn't going to take the slightest chance of someone taking his treasure away from him before he at least had one shot at it.

To his great disappointment, and just as he'd suspected, most of the information portals on the device required passwords. And he could forget about remotely accessing the main WICKED systems. But there were enough things in plain sight to keep his attention, all filed in an open-access tab labeled
History.

He dug through the documents, memorizing as much as he could. He learned the original names of his friends, laughing at some of them. Siggy, aka Frypan, had been named Toby by his parents. Toby. Thomas didn't know why that struck him as so funny.

There was other interesting information. Schematics on the WICKED complex and its various buildings. An early military report on what would become the Grievers. Climate data going back to the year of the sun flares, as well as comparative charts to the averages before that time. Tons of information on the Flare, its symptoms, stages, prior attempts at treatment.

One seemingly random remark in a memo caught his attention—two staff members reminiscing about the time they had to “tinker with poor A2's memories because his first meeting with Teresa had been such a disaster.” This made Thomas stop reading. He stared down at the tablet, thinking back.

He remembered the day he'd first officially met Teresa. How he'd been dizzy with déjà vu. Had WICKED been experimenting with their implants and memories that long ago? It made sense, in light of what they did to his friends when they sent them into the maze, something they'd have to be well prepared for. But Thomas felt dizzy considering the possibility—to think that there could be an entire meeting with Teresa that had been erased from his mind. What else might they have taken from him?

The more he thought about it, the more upsetting it was, which wasn't helping anything, he told himself. So he returned to perusing the tablet for information.

After a few dead ends, he saw a file labeled
Deleted Com.

He opened it.

It was a series of memos and correspondence that he had to think had been left out of the secure area by mistake. Communication between higher-ups at WICKED and several other entities that he could only guess were predecessors of the organization. There were a lot of acronyms, some of which he recognized from his various history classes. FIRE (Flares Information Recovery Endeavor), PFC (Post-Flares Coalition), AMRIID (Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases), and more he didn't recognize. He scanned them, fascinated at what it must have been like living through that time period.

He stayed at it for hours, his eyes stinging from reading for so long. At a certain point, he started skimming, reading too fast to catch much of what the documents actually said.

Then he stopped on something interesting. A couple of acronyms he'd never seen before, along with the words
TOP-SECRET
in red letters. This just might be something. He scanned a memo or two, his heart rate picking up with each word he read. Things he couldn't believe. About a virus. About it being man-made. About it being released on purpose. About a population that had gotten too big to feed.

“Oh, man,” he whispered, reading through the last one again. He could barely believe what it said.

Post-Flares Coalition Memorandum

Date 219.2.12, Time 19:32

TO: All board members

FROM: Chancellor John Michael

RE: EO Draft

Please give me your thoughts on the following draft. It goes out tomorrow.

Executive Order
#
13 of the Post-Flares Coalition, by recommendation of the Population Control Committee, to be considered TOP-SECRET, of the highest priority, on penalty of capital punishment.

We the Coalition hereby grant the PCC express permission to fully implement their PC Initiative
#
1 as presented in full and attached below. We the Coalition take full responsibility for this action and will monitor developments and offer assistance to the fullest extent of our resources. The virus will be released in the locations recommended by the PCC and agreed upon by the Coalition. Armed forces will be stationed to ensure that the process ensues in as orderly a manner as possible.

EO
#
13, PCI
#
1, is hereby ratified. Begin immediately.

Wow.

That was all he got from Teresa after spilling everything to her.

Yeah,
he replied. Wow
is right. They thought the virus would only kill a certain percentage of the population—make it more manageable. They had no idea it would mutate and become this monstrous thing that's basically wiped us out. I just can't believe all this. Can't believe it.

Teresa was quiet. She didn't even broadcast how these revelations made her feel.

The worst part,
he continued,
is that there are several direct links to WICKED. Like, remember John Michael? That guy we saw at the Crank pits? He was the one who ordered the virus released!

The past is the past, Tom.

Her words stopped him cold.

At least they're trying to fix what they screwed up,
she continued
. I mean, there's nothing we can do about that now.

Teresa…,
he started to say, but then stumbled over a void. He had no idea how to respond.
Did you…did you already know this stuff?

I'd heard rumors.

And you never told me?
He was stunned. How could she have known this and never said anything? She was his best friend. The first person he went to with everything.

I just don't see the point. Yes, we have reason to hate these people. But how is dwelling on the past going to help anybody? The solution is what matters.

Thomas had never been so blindsided in his life.
Didn't you learn anything from our puzzle lessons with Ms. Denton? To know a solution, you have to know the problem through and through. This is a problem.

The response he got from Teresa was emotionless.

Yeah, I guess you're right,
she answered.
I'm really tired, Tom. Can we talk about it tomorrow?

She was gone from his mind before he could respond.

The next day, Teresa refused to talk about it, emphasizing that she'd rather focus on the future than the past. Dr. Paige also blew it off, saying that those decisions had been made well before her time. It was almost like they were both determined to forget.

Thomas wouldn't forget.

He swore to himself that he'd always remember this.

That he'd always remember that WICKED was trying to fix a problem their predecessors had created in the first place.

231.05.04
|
10:14 p.m.

Winter came in spurts that year, like old engines being restarted after years of sitting in the maintenance heap. But it finally settled in, lasting long past what should have been the onset of spring.

Thomas didn't venture outside very often—and then only by special permission and with at least two armed guards by his side—but he saw enough to know that ice, cold, and snow had returned to the world with a vengeance. The resident WICKED climatologist said that weather patterns were slowly resuming their cycles on earth—winter, spring, summer, and fall—but that in places farthest north and south of the equator the seasons were far more unpredictable and extreme than they'd been before the sun flares. He described the world's climate as a pendulum that now swung faster and farther in both directions.

Thomas enjoyed it when he could, enjoyed the feel of snow on his face, the tingle of icy cold on his nose and fingertips. It felt like a way of spitting in the sun flares' face.
See? I'm cold. Now go suck it.

In early May—winter still refusing to loosen its grip—Thomas took a walk outside with Chuck and Teresa, two of the guards right behind them, weapons out. Thomas was in a sour mood.

Everything about WICKED had worn him to the bone, hardened his heart. The Psychs, the Variables, the killzone, the patterns. Everything. He'd felt that way ever since the night he'd discovered the truth about their predecessors—that they'd unleashed the very virus to which they wanted to find a cure. Going outside for a while was a tiny escape.

Teresa shivered and rubbed her arms through her coat. “Are we sure this is planet Earth? WICKED didn't throw us through a Flat Trans, put us on an ice planet?”

“That'd be cool,” Chuck replied. “Ice aliens. I wonder if your tongue sticks to their skin when you lick them. Ya know, like a flagpole.”

Thomas tousled his friend's curly hair, trying to put his bad feelings aside. “Yeah, we know, Chuck. You don't always have to explain your jokes to us. Sometimes they're actually funny. Like that one. It was funny. I'm laughing so hard it hurts on the inside.”

“Me too,” Teresa added. “I'm snorting, I'm giggling so hard. On the inside.”

Chuck oinked like a pig and giggled. He often reacted to things like that. It only made him more likable.

“Might want to bring it down a notch,” Teresa said. “We don't want to wake the Cranks down in the pits now do we?”

“I never got to see them,” Chuck replied, faking sadness. At least, Thomas
hoped
he was faking.

They rounded a corner of the complex and stopped, a spectacular view having opened up in front of them. The lights on the outside of the WICKED building were bright enough to illuminate the surrounding forest, the pine trees dusted with snow glowing in the reflection. Specks of snowflakes lit up the sky, the crashing of waves below the cliffs more distant than ever. Thomas felt like they were standing inside some sort of man-made set, the chill breeze coming from giant fans.

A fake world like the maze.

“Man, it's so pretty,” Teresa whispered.

Thomas expected a joke to pop out of Chuck, but he was just as caught up in the wonder of their surroundings. “Our world isn't so bad,” he said. “Once WICKED figures out how to make everyone well again, life'll be pretty good, don't you think?”

Thomas just nodded, a hand on Chuck's shoulder. Using his stolen tablet, Thomas had done his own research about the Scorch, a place where WICKED had set up some kind of secret operation. If Chuck could see the pictures of that desolate hellhole, he might change his tune a little. But the kid was right. The world had a lot of places like this forest on a cliff, the majestic ocean crashing against it. Places where humanity could settle in and rebuild.

“Tom, over there,” Teresa said, her tone urgent. He followed her sightline to a group of trees about a hundred feet away.

A figure had stumbled out of the woods and fallen. Whoever it was got back up, brushed off the snow, then started walking straight toward Thomas's group. The guards quickly put themselves in front of the kids, raising their weapons.

“We better get back,” one of them said.

“It's a Crank, isn't it?” Chuck asked. He said it calmly, bravely, and Thomas burst with pride, so much so that it almost hurt.

“Bingo, little man,” the other guard replied. “Don't worry, you're safe. Let's get inside.”

“Wait a sec,” Teresa said. “That's not a…I mean…that's
Randall.
”

Thomas squinted against WICKED's bright lights. And she was right. It was him. Randall. Lurching through the snow as if he'd lost something there and hoped to kick it into the air.

The first guard lowered her gun. “I'll be damned. It
is
him.”

“What's he doing out here?” Thomas whispered.

“What should we do?” Chuck asked, way too loudly. Thomas tried to shush him, but it was too late. Randall had stopped, his head snapping up. He saw them, and for a long moment no one moved.

Then Randall broke into action, struggling to get through the snow to them.

“Sorry,” Chuck muttered.

“Let's get back,” the guard said more urgently. “We need to tell Ramirez.”

They turned their backs on Randall and jogged briskly toward the closest entrance to the looming complex. They were right in front of it when Randall shouted at them from behind.

“Stop! Marion! Moureu! I just need to say something!” At hearing their names, the guards turned around, once again placing themselves in front of the kids and raising their weapons.

Randall stepped out of the snowy grounds and stumbled onto the pavement, about twenty feet away from them. He looked awful. Eyes bloodshot. Nose bleeding. His cheeks hollow and gaunt. The skin at the right edge of his brow had split open, a streak of red painting the side of his face. Thomas stared at the poor man. What could he possibly be doing out here?

“Speak fast, then, Randall,” the woman said. “You don't look well. We need to get you some help.”

“Can't hide it anymore, can I?” Randall said, now bent over, leaning on his knees. “It's the darndest thing!” He lurched upright, swaying left, then right, before getting his balance. “The darndest thing, trying to hide the Flare from your bosses.”

Thomas grabbed Chuck by the hand. The snow seemed to freeze in midair, no longer swirling, no longer dancing, no longer falling.

“All right, we're done here,” the female guard said. “Open the door, Moureu. Get them inside and find a doctor. Quick.”

“You think you're special?” Randall yelled. “You really think they're not gonna do the same thing to you they're gonna do to them all?”

Moureu punched in the security code. There was a loud beep. The color on the display changed from red to green; then a click rang through the air. The door popped open. The guard pulled it wide and stepped back.

Thomas practically shoved Chuck through the entrance, then grabbed Teresa's arm and pulled her with him, running through. He didn't want to spend one more second out there with Randall, whom he could still hear yelling.

“You hear what I said?” the sick man shouted. “You're runnin' from the wrong guy. I'm not the one you should be scared about. You hear me?”

The guard pulled the door closed on Randall's ramblings. Thomas peered through the small safety window and watched the man turn around and stumble back toward the forest.

“You can sleep on my floor tonight,” Thomas said to Chuck. They stood in the hall outside his door. “I don't care if we get in trouble.”

Teresa had gone into her room to use the bathroom but had just come back out to join them. She had a troubled look on her face.

Thomas looked at her, concerned. “You wanna sleep in here, too? I'm a little freaked out myself.”

“Actually…”

“What's wrong?” Thomas asked.

She flicked her eyes at Chuck, who was lost in his thoughts. She spoke in Thomas's mind.
Let's get him to sleep in your room. Then we need to go. Now.

Wait, what?
Thomas said back.
Go where?

Things are worse than you think,
she said.
Look…just get him to sleep, tell him bedtime stories, for all I care. Whatever it takes. Tap on my door when you're sure he's out.

What's wrong?
he asked again.

“You know what?” she said aloud, ignoring his question. She gently brushed a strand of Chuck's hair out of his face and he looked up at her, his eyes filled with the weight of all he'd just seen. “I'm tired. Why don't you two go have your sleepover and I'll see you in the morning. And don't worry.” She leaned over a little to be able to look him in the eyes. “Seriously. Randall is sick and they'll take care of him. We're immune, remember? There's nothing to worry about.” She smiled a big warm smile at the boy. She was so reassuring, Thomas almost believed her himself.

“Good night,” Thomas said to her. “Come on, Chuck.”

“Good night,” she said back, then slipped into her room.

Thomas closed the door behind him and threw a couple of blankets on the floor for Chuck. As he was settling into his makeshift bed, the boy once again reminded Thomas that he was far smarter than they often gave him credit for.

“Yeah, she's right—
we're
immune,” he said in the darkness. “But what about all those people who work for WICKED?”