Duality (The Hitchhiker Strain) (7 page)

“
I have to warn them,” I say, my tone betraying not even a hint of uncertainty. “We can be there in under an hour, give them time to gather up what they can, and get out.”

“
Savannah, we can’t,” Eduardo says. He moves to grab one of my hands, but I jerk it away, betrayed.

“
We
have
to! There are hundreds of lives at stake.” I can’t even begin to fathom how he could even consider letting those people die, and for what?

“
It’s too risky. I’m sorry, Savannah, but it’s a lost cause.” Eduardo glances down at the stretch of road beneath us for emphasis, but I ignore him. We don’t have time to stand around and talk about this anymore. We have to go back and warn Paulson and everyone else.

“
Every second we waste arguing about this is one more where we could be doing something to help.” I knot my fingers in my hair, silently panicking as I try to come up with a plan. The herd isn’t moving very quickly now, but as soon as they realize how close they are to a group of healthy, living humans, they’ll go berserk. There will be no stopping them.

“
There’s no way we can fight that many off,” Dooley argues, keeping his voice infuriatingly calm. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“
We don’t have to fight,” I counter, desperate. “We can warn them! Give them time to get out. Give them a chance.”

“
It’s too risky… We’d be driving right toward a massive herd. If we get stuck in there, we’re done,” Eduardo says, a sadness growing in his dark eyes.

“
Well, give me the car keys then!” I hiss through my teeth. “You don’t have to come, but I can’t go back with you. I won’t.”

“
I know these people are your friends—”

“
That part doesn’t matter at all! I can’t believe you guys. All of you, you’re exactly the same. These are real people we’re talking about. People who need our help if they’re going to have any chance of surviving what’s coming for them. What’s the point in hiding out, working on the cure, and stocking up on supplies if we aren’t prepared to help actual survivors? The Veritas Initiative is going to…what? Repopulate the earth by themselves? Oh wait, it’ll be them and the mindless people they
cure
. That’ll be wonderful. We’ll all live happily ever after.” It’s then that I realize Liam hasn’t said anything in all of this. I spin on my heel and turn to find him.

He
’s standing not three feet behind me, his eyes set in a determined glare. As soon as I look at him, he lifts his hand to reveal car keys dangling from his fingers. “Are you going to stand around and rant or are we actually going to do this?”

“
Liam—” Eduardo starts, but he’s cut off before he can make his point.

“
No, she’s right. If we can do something to save these people, we have to do it. There’s not really a choice here. We’ll meet you back at the facility once everything is sorted. Everyone wins.”

I exhale a long, slow breath when Eduardo finally nods his agreement. After spending all night talking myself out of it, I
’ll be making my dramatic return after all—except now, the news I have to deliver is anything but triumphant.

Chapter 11 - Chelsea

I open my eyes and find myself back in my living room at 6376 Plainsview Drive. There's a book sitting open in my lap and a soft light coming from the fireplace to my right. Under my toes, I can feel the coarse, thick wool of my mother's favorite hideou
s shag carpet. I'm home. This is the living room in the house where I grew up. The house where I lived with my sister and my parents until the world started falling apart around us.

As soon as I think about my parents, there she is. Lisa-Anne Zimmerman. My
mother. Sitting on the couch not three feet away from me. She's happy, talking excitedly with... Dad?

I'm dreaming. There's no question about that. Even the quietest corners of my subconscious will never forget that my family is gone. They're not really h
ere. I'm not really here. But—it feels like they're right in front of me. And if my parents are here?

I whip my head to the left, to Jessica's beanbag chair. She
’s curled up in the middle of it, like she did on a thousand different days before. She's not that young—or she wasn't—but she's tiny. I've always been at least a foot taller than her. The oversized blue fabric of her chair seems to swallow her whole. She looks up and catches me watching her, mouthing, "What?" and giving me her famous 'screw off' look.

I can't help it; I'm grinning like an idiot. Jessica rolls her eyes and goes back to her book. It's incredibly annoying, but somehow I want to cry. They're all here. We're together again.

I look back and forth between my sister and my parents. I know this isn't a memory, just something my brain cooked up to placate me. My family was never this cliché, everyone sitting around, reading and discussing the latest news with each other, beside a roaring fire no less. This whole scene would look like something off of a greeting card to anyone watching from the outside. Entirely perfect. Something we definitely weren't, but we were the Zimmermans, and I miss that every day, even when I'm too far gone to realize why I have a pit in the middle of my soul.

This sce
ne is so perfect that it's almost cruel. Why am I seeing this? Why now?
Since succumbing to the infection, I still dream almost every night and I remember every single one. But my dreams aren't worth remembering anymore. There are no memories or nuance. My dreams now are like what I always imagined my dog Digger's dreams looked like. That's all my dreams are now. Chases. Scenes of survival and hunting. I hone my skills even when I'm sleeping.
Curious to see how much control I have over my surroundings, I try and picture our old bloodhound in my mind. Our family dog died nearly six months before anyone realized that zombies were more than a long-abused horror movie trope. He was hit by a car. At that point, losing him was easily the most painful thing I had ever experienced—or thought I would ever experience. It broke my heart. He was my best friend... And like magic, there he is, spread out on the carpet at my feet. He's fast asleep, but his oafish paws are twitching like he's chasing after something in his sleep.
Except what I'm experiencing now is more like...living.

All at once, I choke back a sob. All three of my family members look up at me, concern plain on their faces. Digger stays blissfully unconscious, concerned only with reaching whatever furry crit
ter is taunting his dreams.

I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed even though I know they aren't real. And even if they were, I know they wouldn't judge me for this. I miss them. Then my mother is there, wrapping me up in her arms. I peek over her should
er at Dad. Usually any displays of teenage emotion make him uncomfortable, but this time he looks as heartbroken as I feel.

My arms wrap tight around my mom. I want to burn the feel of her hugging me into my memory.

Something yanks at my chest, like a hook working its way into my soul. My mind starts to swim and I know what's coming—I'm waking up. I squeeze Mom tighter. I'm not ready to leave yet. I don't want to go back to a world where they don't exist anymore.

Please, no! I don't know who it is I'm beggi
ng. Myself, the beast, maybe God. But it doesn't work. The scene fades away and I'm left alone again.

My face is damp with tears as I slowly wake up, but I barely notice. Cinderblock bricks stare back at me from the ceiling. I stretch and flex my muscles t
o expel the grogginess that always accompanies deep sleep and notice something different right away. I try bending my knee to test my theory and am rewarded immediately with a freedom I haven't felt in days. I'm no longer strapped down.

I'm still in my cel
l—the same one as before, I think. They've done away with the straps because they know I can’t get anywhere, but it doesn't matter. I'm no longer bound to a sheet of metal, and I'll take what I can get.

Slowly, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of t
he hospital bed I don’t remember being placed on, giving myself time to adjust to the dizzy feeling that comes with moving on my own after all this time. I'm in a corner cell—it's obvious because, while two walls are made of equally stark cement, the other two are built entirely from steel bars. There's about a foot between my cell and the next, which is empty. There doesn't seem to be anyone in the one after that either, but I don't want to think about what might have happened to the man who had been in there before. Not now. I actually feel good today, and I want to enjoy it. But not so much as to forget about the sea of questions that are facing me.

Where am I? And why do I feel so strange? Is this a side effect of whatever they did to me?

Stretching out my hands in front of me, I examine my limbs. All ten fingers are intact, and surprisingly, my arm has been bandaged. The skin around my bite is already improving, no longer taut and red. What kind of insane people would capture the infected, torture them, and then bandage them up? They have to know I'd as soon rip their throats out as look at them.
But there's no one here to look at now. There's no one in this entire block of cells with me. Nothing about this situation feels right, but for once, the waves of rage and panic don't come. I am calm. The beast is calm. It’s still there, but...quiet. Almost content. I search the room for any other clues that might tell me what's in store for us.

It
doesn't take long to spot the cameras. One directly across from my cell's door. Another at the end of my row. There are probably others that I can't see. I'm definitely being observed. But why?

There's also a strange-looking air vent built into the back wa
ll of my cell. It's small, with a paneled cover, and doesn't look like it is part of the original architecture. Way higher tech.

After nearly an hour of pacing and learning every inch of my prison, a buzzer goes off from nearby, followed by the sliding of
what I'd guess to be a heavy metal door. Someone is coming.

I'm tempted to lie back down, pretend to be sleeping, but there's no point. If they really
are watching me, then I'll look like an idiot. They know I'm awake. They know I'm watching them right back. I snarl for effect, so my captors don't get any fun ideas. I won’t be playing along with their little experiment. Never.

Whoever is coming, they're moving quickly, and the
click clack
of boots on tile trails toward me. I expect to see guns on me as soon as they round the corner.

Instead, I
’m faced with a boy. Not the same one as before, but about the same age. And he isn’t even looking at me. If anything, he seems tired and maybe a little bored. His blond hair is mussed, and his strong, square jaw seems to be set in a permanent grimace. The structure of his body and muscles tells me he’s strong, maybe even strong enough to take me in a fight, but something about the way he carries himself suggests that he’s not really a fighter.

If it comes down to me or
him, I could take him. They’d have to remove the bars that are separating us first, but I could take him.

Instead of acknowledging me, he moves toward my cell quickly, not even looking up. Without thinking, I lunge at the bars, reaching out to grab him and
pull him toward me, trying to force the fight. The boy doesn’t even flinch. He has no reason to. There’s no way I can reach him.

I keep trying anyway. Whatever reaction I expected, I don
’t get it. The boy places something on the ground—a tray. I didn’t even notice that he’d been carrying something. It could have been a weapon, and I didn’t notice because I was so wrapped up in sizing up his build. Stupid.

He slides the tray toward me with his boot, kicking it the last two feet so he doesn
’t have to step within arm’s reach of me.

I stop the tray
’s slide with my bare foot but don’t look down to acknowledge it. Instead, I keep watching the boy, waiting until he finally looks up at me with gray eyes that look as cloudy as a summer storm. Curling my lip up, I snarl quietly, challenging him to come in himself. The look I’m giving him has paralyzed people in the past, but he doesn’t even blink.

“
Oh, shut up.” And with that, he turns and walks away.

I don
’t move again until I hear the combination of the metal doors and the buzzer. He’s gone. I glance down at what’s been left for me. Food. He brought me something to eat.

Crackers, a bowl of steamed vegetables, and…
a brownie? I don’t know where it comes from, and the noise catches me off guard, but I laugh. It’s quiet and rough, but it’s genuine laughter. Is this what these people think I eat?

Do they think they can house-train me? I
’m nobody’s pet.

I raise an eyebrow up and cock my head at the security camera directly across from me. I strain to try and shift my expres
sion to look bored or amused, but I probably look as baffled as I feel. This is not what I’d been expecting from these people. At all.

Well, I won
’t be playing their games today. I’ll have to eat eventually, but not today. Let them take their notes and make their theories. I won’t perform for them.

When I get tired, I don
’t go back to the bed. Instead, I curl up on the ground exactly where I was standing as soon as the notion of sleep crossed my mind. Getting too comfortable will only make it easier to let my guard down.

I must have been more tired than I realized, because I sleep through the buzzer that announces my next guest. She slips in and out quietly, so I don
’t see the point in even getting up off the floor. Let her think I’m still sleeping. I open my eyes once I hear her leave again. She’s left a bottle of water. That’s actually something worth getting up for, so I do. Brownies might be for those more house-broken than I am, but everyone needs water.

I stand up, snatch it off the floor, and greedil
y unscrew the cap before taking three large mouthfuls. As much of the water dribbles down my chin as it goes down my throat, but I don’t mind. I suspect they’ll bring me more.

Once I finish with the water, I start to take an inventory of my body and my inj
uries. I’m still not feeling one hundred percent. It would be a stretch to go so far as to say I feel even fifty percent. But still, I’m leaps and bounds better than how I was feeling when they first brought me here. I don’t know exactly how long it’s been, but whatever they’re doing, it’s working.

I push my shoulders back, stretching out the muscles in my chest. They
’re a little tight, but it feels good to move. My calves and thighs are close to the same. I doubt they could do much damage, but they’re listening to me again. I’m recovering. Maybe now that I’m past the worst of it my superior immune system will get to work and get me back into fighting form. But for what?

The day passes slowly, and I
’m not sure how many times I drift in and out of sleep before finally settling in for a few hours of dreamless rest.

On the morning of my second
—or is it third?—day, I manage to wake up as the door buzzer sounds and someone makes their way to my cell. I lie there for a few minutes, waiting for them to leave. The sound of their retreat never comes. Whoever has come to pay me a visit today isn’t leaving.

I turn over and open my eyes to find
that I’m being watched in a much more obvious way. The blond boy is back, still looking as stoic as before. He’s much more interested in me now though. He’s sitting against the wall across from my cage, far enough away that I don’t even bother trying to reach out and grab him. He’s not remotely concerned that I could lash out and kill him at any moment. He’s simply watching me.

“
Good morning,” he says, his voice soft and unassuming. He’s speaking to me like I’m a child or some easily startled woodland creature.

I snarl in response and pull myself up into a crouch.

“Looks like you’re feeling better.” His eyes shift down to my untouched tray. “You didn’t eat?”

I don
’t bother to dignify the food’s existence with a cursory glance. I can smell that it’s already starting to rot—only a little, but my nose can sense the difference. It doesn’t matter. I never had any intention of touching it.