The Ward (11 page)

I watch the ceiling too, but I see no movie. “No, it’s not,” I say. I insist. I’ll force it to be true if I have to. “That’s just tired you’re feeling.”

“Okay,” she says. Then, a little bit more determined, “Okay.”

“Water, Ren?” Aven groans only an hour or two later.

I jerk awake, body buzzed from too little sleep, and stagger to her bed. I feel her palms, try to calm the razor-sharp queasiness I get in my stomach whenever she randomly wakes up like this. Her hands are usually cold as glass, but not now. They’re hot. Sticky. She’s red-cheeked and breathing through her mouth. When I nudge her slightly, she clutches at my wrist.

“It hurts?” I ask, confused. The Dilameth should still be working. . . .

She shakes her head. “Hot.”

I nod, and hurry to bring her rainwater from the drainage system.

In the bathroom, I light a candle to see the glass tank. This is how the cheaper buildings do it. It’s a simple setup: tank + sand = filtered water. The rain passes down the roof pipes, into each home’s individual filtration system to be cleaned by the sand. Too bad it don’t work with brack. Funneled rooftop rainwater makes up 100 percent of our water supply.

I fill a glass under the spigot and return to her in the main room. Pushing it into her hands, I feel her forehead again. There’s nothing I can do. Not right now, anyway. Without last night’s winnings, we’ve got no money for another visit from the doctor.
A few more hours
, I tell myself, thinking of my meeting with Officer Cory, when I can get the green he promised.

I crawl back onto my mattress and listen to the uneven rise, then fall, of her breathing.

Maybe it’s from lack of sleep, but when I shut my eyes again, I start to imagine Aven’s a plant—rosemary, or mint, something that grows in land. I give her water because that’s all I can do, but air and water ain’t all a living thing needs.

I want to give her sunlight, but no one bottles that.

10

5:00 P.M., SATURDAY

T
he building’s foundation shakes straight through to its bones, and I snap awake as if I’d never fallen asleep in the first place.

Damn
. Looking at my cuffcomm, I see that it’s five on the dot, and that the DI are right on time. I’m the one who’s late—I slept through the alarm. Close to ten hours.
How the hell did that happen?
I think, but I shouldn’t be surprised after last night.

“Aven—” I whisper, pulling myself off the mattress and moving to her bed. The brass frame shakes with her in it, forces her awake. “They’re coming . . . they’re coming to the ’Racks.”

She tosses the lower half of her body closer to me. I see her struggle to sit up, eyes still closed, reaching for the water at her bedside.

“Here,” I say, getting it for her. Bringing the glass to her mouth, I tilt it down for her to sip. Normally, she hates when I do this, says I’m “hovering.” Then she’ll swat me away like I’m a mosquito. But not now. I don’t like it—the swatting at me means she’s okay.

Her eyes snap open. “What if . . . what if,” she mumbles, and tries to pull the glass from my hand. Her hands shake, though, and so does the glass, so she gives up.

“They can’t be here for you, Aven. You’re not contagious anymore, remember?” I remind her, but when she gets panicked like this, there’s no talking her down. She may be wiser than your average fourteen-year-old, but she’s also been indoors for nearly three years. My sister is still a kid in so many ways.

Simultaneously, our heads turn—outside, we hear voices murmuring, the buzz of neighbors congregating in the hallway.

“I’ll check the scope to see what floor,” I tell her, and rush for the door.

The way people from some countries grow up knowing earthquakes, we’ve also been trained to know what a vibration means. But for us, it’s the Blues’ helis, and everyone knows the sound.

In the hall, I’m met with the faces of people I’ve never seen before. After all, the ’Racks is home to more than a few of the Ward’s ne’er-do-wells—mostly folks with connections Upstate and on the Mainland who source the UMI black market with water and meds. And though the Blues let that stuff slide (and other criminal activity, like murders and theft and such), they will cross the Strait to make Transmission arrests. Some residents even have periscopes installed in their homes for checking the hallway before they leave.

I can’t get to a scope; they’re all taken.

“What’s the deal?” I ask anyone who’ll answer, my heart upping its pace. Fear catches, too—not just viruses. “They coming?”

“Inside. Now,” my closest neighbor, Mr. Bedrosian, tells the crowd. “You as well, Ren,” he urges, eyes narrowing behind square-framed glasses.

Like I need the reminder.

The air hums with a muted panic, as if the sound’s been turned off. You don’t even need it. You can hear what people are saying on the inside
—not me, not me
. The halls empty, the doors click locked, and ladders drop from a few flights up. Boots pound the floor overhead.

Just like that, I’m alone in the hallway. My arms are shaking, and I can actually feel the blood knocking around in my chest, through my body. I may work for these guys, but that don’t mean I ain’t scared. Maybe that’s even why I am scared—I know full well what they can do.

Dashing back into our apartment, “It’s our floor,” I tell Aven, and bolt the door behind me. When I sit beside her on the bed, run my palm across her forehead, it comes back slick with sweat. She’s hotter than an engine.

“Have more water.” It’s all I can tell her to do right now.

The walls shudder. A troop of guards stampede the corridor outside. When they knock on a door, the sound is so loud I can’t tell whose apartment they’re in front of.

My blood stops in my body—I hear a man’s gruff voice call, “Inspection! Open the door.” A Bouncer, here with the Blues. Only after someone’s filed a complaint can they test in people’s homes. And even though I know they can’t be here for Aven, I feel myself freeze up. I imagine the what-ifs. . . .

I want to see for myself. I need to make sure. . . .

Heel to toe, steps weighted evenly and quietly as possible, I walk to the front of the apartment, then peer through the peephole. I can’t see nothing, but the silence is thick and eerie—the sound of too many people making too little noise.

Feet shuffle, a door creaks open. A woman sobs. “Wha—what do you want with us?” she asks. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

She’s stammering, frantic.
Wheezing
.

Another scuffle—

“Mr. and Mrs. Bedrosian!” The same voice. “Step back! Stay inside the apartment!”

Footsteps enter the apartment, then fall silent. The only sounds on this floor come from two shrill beeps.

“HBNC positive. Contagious, both of them,” the man says. “But the complaint’s only been made against the woman.”

I rest my forehead to the door, pushing away my sudden rush of anger.
Contagious?
All along they’ve been next door? Aven might not have been able to catch it anymore, but what about everyone else?

“Mrs. Julia Bedrosian,” a new voice barks. A familiar voice—I know him. “You are being placed under arrest for Transmission of the HBNC virus. According to an anonymous complaint, the witness heard you, Julia Bedrosian, overtaken by a wheezing fit on Broad Walk two weeks prior. Within two days, said victim developed symptoms of HBNC and was tested positive for the contagion. I’m sure the victim will be pleased to know you’re being brought to justice. Mr. Bedrosian, HBNC Patrol will be here momentarily to bring you to the nearest sickhouse for the contagious.”

My boss . . . that’s my boss out there
.

More scuffling.

“There is no justice in this!” Mr. Bedrosian yells. “You cannot criminalize a disease! You cannot take us from our home—”

“Leave it alone, Armand,” his wife pleads.

Then, the unmistakable sound of metal against bone—metal
cracking
bone—and the slump of a body as it slides quickly to the floor.

Aven gasps from the back of the room. The candle flickers, and I see her cover her mouth.

“Armand?” Mrs. Bedrosian’s voice sounds low, stunned.

The blow . . . did it kill him?

The snapping of handcuffs as they bolt into position. A body pushed forward. Feet stumbling—she’s being taken.

Behind the door, in this pathetic crouched position, my face begins to flush so red and so hot, warmth radiates against my legs. I can actually feel the temperature of my shame. I may not be happy that the Bedrosians were living next door all this time, but that don’t mean I think they should’ve been punished.

I work for them.
Them
.

If I were a better person
. . . I’d do more than just hide here, a coward, while the people I work for hurt people for being sick.

But that’s how it is here. Every man for himself. You do what you need to. You protect your family by any means. Besides, I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m one of the good guys—I scout for fresh. Even though I work for them, I’m not one of them. Right?

What else can I do?

Nothing
.

My palms press sweat into the floor as I keep my neck craned, listening for the weighty footfalls to pass our door. Soon, when I think the hall is quiet again, I choke back a sigh. Get my head on straight.

There’s a new guilt building in my chest and I don’t like it. It’s relief. I’m relieved. Relieved I didn’t have to do anything.
If I were a better person
.

“Ren?”

Aven . . . I should get her more water. Put some food in her before I leave for the Tank. I uncurl myself from my spot on the floor and return to her bedside. One more time I feel her forehead. The sweat beads are still there, though now her temp seems even.

“That was awful,” she whispers into the dark. Our candle is out.

“How do you f—”

Cutting me off, “I’m fine. You should check on Mr. Bedrosian, Ren.”

Because she knows no one else can
.

I don’t want to leave her. “I’m fine” could mean anything. But she’s right—I’m the only one. Our neighbors sure won’t risk seeing if someone who’s been diagnosed as contagious HBNC positive is still alive.

I stand and walk to the front door, but make it no farther than the knob.
Another knock
. Heavy, hammer-like knocks. And this time there’s no mistaking it.
He’s here
.
Chief is here. . . .

My muscles fire up, and stupidly, I find myself scanning the room for a place to hide. Like I could avoid making this report. Like that wouldn’t get me in even more trouble. But my brain’s not doing the thinking anymore. My guts are.

What’s he going to do to me?
A thousand possibilities race through my head: he could dock my pay, send me for correctional training. Beat the living daylights out of me.

I just don’t know.

I’m so dizzy, anxious, I almost forget—my trump card. The fresh. Maybe I missed the report, but once he hears about the spring, how angry could he be?

Gathering myself, I open the door a crack, find myself standing face-to-face with Chief Dunn.

He’s a tower in blue fatigues. A skyscraper, steel made flesh. Chrome and black hair, mustached, with a face that looks like it’d been flattened by bricks. When he sees me, he turns to one of the Bouncers, shouts, “Inspection here, too!” and pushes the door wider to let himself in.

It’s just a cover . . . it’s got to be—so that my mole status stays top secret.

With his hands clasped behind his back, Dunn strides into our apartment, followed by a yellow-and-black-jacketed Bouncer. I throw Aven a look. They don’t know about her. I thought it better that way—no one likes the sick. She’ll know to keep quiet. If we’re lucky, it’s dark enough in here that he might even miss her.

The door closes. Dunn surveys the room, stance wide-legged. Militant; he’s chief of the DI—he
is
the UMI military, after all.

“Dane. You missed your report.” He snorts, and as the patrolman shuts the door, the room goes pitch dark. Dunn’s first words are even, composed, but the way he enunciates every syllable gives it away. Something tidal is underneath.

A lump has gone and lodged itself in the back of my throat, but I can’t seem to swallow it. “Yes, s-sir. I’m sorry, sir,” I answer.

The patrolman clicks on a flashlight and a yellow glow floods the room.

I can see Chief again. Even in shadow his glare is razor edged, but he looks worn down too. “You think this job is a game?” As he speaks, he carves each word. “Something you can forget about when it’s convenient and come back to later?”

“No, sir . . . I don’t think that.” I avoid his eyes. “It’ll never happen again, I swear it. . . . I’m sorry, sir.” I’m pleading now, but I can’t stop myself. I don’t know how to do this, how to make him believe. “There was an accident—my Rimbo smashed into a spire. . . . I almost didn’t get out—”

Chief steps closer. Shuts me up with no more than a look. Across his forehead, the line of a vein rises up, red and full. I need to tell him about the fresh, but there’s no right time.

“That is not the point, Dane!” he shouts into my face, so near I see each brittle hair of his mustache, and the white K-dot stuck to his neck.

He’s too close. . . . My nerves short-circuit. His words are on my skin, and I want to step back, but it’s more than that . . . I want to break.
That’s not the point
. My almost dying is not the point.

It’s not like I expected a hug. Didn’t even expect him to ask if I was all right. I did, however, think that it would matter.

Just the tiniest bit.

He’s not done—“You missed your report, and you never contacted headquarters after the fact. Yet.” He pauses, the blacks of his eyes fixed on me. “Here you are. Perfectly fine.” He drawls those last words.

I’m about to open my mouth, say something, anything, but another voice beats me to it.

“It was my fault. . . .” Aven says, urgent. Unwavering. “I got sick.”