Conversation between Dr. Wainwright and the
United States chief of staff:
Switzer: At this time, the president is not prepared
to take such measures.
Wainwright: Oh? Instead, he wants the homicide
rate to keep climbing? He wants to quarantine
another city? I hear you’ve already lost Phoenix.
Switzer: We have the situation in hand—
Wainwright: How is it you can even say that with
a straight face? The power to test and identify carriers
does nothing except tell us who the monsters
are. It doesn’t stop them. The president needs to
grant me more authority.
Switzer: What you’re suggesting is impossible.
Wainwright: It’s not a suggestion. I’m telling
you. If you want to keep the country from going
under . . . then give the carriers to me.
Switzer: . . . I’ll talk to the president. . . .
------------------
Four
ZAC COMES OVER STRAIGHT AFTER SCHOOL. He
must have skipped rugby practice. I hear the familiar purr of
his car drive up and rush to the window to confirm that it’s
him. Peering out, I curse under my breath and jerk back as
though the blinds sting my fingers. I look around my room as
if I can hide somewhere. Ridiculous, I know. It’s my fault I put
this off so long.
Shaking my head, I bound over my bed to my dresser mirror
and pull loose my ponytail. I run a quick brush through
my long hair and then flip my head, hoping to get some body
back into the dark-blonde mass. Slapping my brush on the
---- 43
dresser, I hurry downstairs and answer the door before he can
push the bell. I don’t want Mom to answer it. Don’t want him
to see her face and think someone died.
She took the rest of the week off. I guess she thought she
needed to be here for me. Which is kind of funny since I’ve
been in my room all afternoon and she’s been in hers. Ever
since we saw that boy, she’s been even more distant. Like he’s
the manifestation of everything she fears I will become. But
that will never happen.
I close the door behind me, clutching the knob at my back
like a lifeline. Zac’s steps slow as he advances, his gaze locking
on me. A breeze ruffles his brown hair. The sides are cut close,
but he’s always had a good inch or two on top. Enough for me
to thread my fingers through.
I smile, a lump rising in my throat.
He steps up on the porch and stops before me, frowning,
and I know he’s mad that I’ve been ignoring him. “What’s
going on? Are you okay?”
Exhaling, I lean in, press my cheek against his chest and
wrap my arms around him. His arms envelop me, holding me.
I need this. So much. His arms. His love. Right now when
everything is falling away, he’s here. Holding me together.
“Why haven’t you answered my calls? Were you really sick?”
The sensation of his hands on my back is like a drug. It
feels good . . . tempts me to forget. And I want to forget. Only
I can’t.
“Davy? What’s wrong?” he presses, his voice a soft croon
in my ear.
----
44
A hundred different excuses burn on my tongue. Lies
all. But what would be the point? He has to know. We’ll get
through this. We love each other.
I peel my face away from his chest, from the pleasant
thump of his heart against my ear. His bright green eyes dazzle
me. I moisten my lips. “Do you remember when they tested
the students for HTS earlier this year?”
He’s caught off guard. Like he doesn’t know what that has
to do with anything. With me. His eyes swing to the right,
searching his memory. “Uh, yeah. Think so. Why?”
“The results came back. I have it. I tested positive.” I say it
quickly, let the words tumble free as though it won’t sound so
bad because I’m talking so fast.
He pauses and then laughs. “Yeah. Right.”
“Zac.” I gaze into his face, waiting for him to see that I’m
serious.
Everything in him tenses. Except his face. His features go
lax with shock.
Several moments pass and he doesn’t move. I watch him
intently, desperately, waiting for him to speak, to say the words
I need him to say.
My voice shivers from my lips. “Zac?”
“The kill gene?” he whispers.
I wince, hating that. HTS sounds more vague . . . clinical
but harmless.
I nod and his arms drop from around me. He takes a step
back, staring at me with wide eyes. Eyes that don’t blink—just
like Mom’s.
----
45
I follow him, holding out a hand, trying to reach him,
touch him. He drags a hand through his hair, out of reach
from my seeking fingers. Bowing over, he tugs on the strands
like he wants to rip them free. His face twists and he looks as
though he’s in physical pain. He stares down at the porch, like
he can find something there in the stamped concrete. A truth,
something to explain away what’s happening.
I say his name again. Louder.
He looks at me then, and my heart seizes inside my chest.
Because it’s not him. Not Zac. Not like I know him. The
warmth is gone. The craving, the need for me. His green eyes
are brighter than ever but filled with bewilderment . . . horror.
Grief.
He lifts his arm like he’s going to swing. Hit something.
He holds it in the air for a long moment. A growl erupts from
him as he curls his hand into a tight, bloodless fist. I flinch.
“I’m still the same person,” I say desperately. “I’m still the
same girl you loved yesterday. That hasn’t changed.”
He drops his hand from his hair and shakes his head. “I—I
know. I just don’t . . .”
Not an outright rejection but it feels like it. Suddenly, it’s
hard to breathe. The air feels thin, but I nod like I understand.
“Yeah. Okay.” The words stumble from my lips.
He turns. His graceful loping strides are gone. He’s almost
running to his car. I watch, shaking, trembling so badly that
I can’t stand. At the door to the car, he hesitates and looks at
me. He’s conflicted. I can tell from his body. Part of him leans
forward like he wants to come back to me. And God, I want
----
46
him to. I need him to. I need this—us—to still be all right.
Then he’s inside the car, slamming the door shut after him.
I fall back against the front door and slide to the porch as
he peels out of the driveway.
I squeeze myself, hugging my knees to my chest so tightly I
can hardly breathe. Tears run hotly down my cheeks, and my
mouth opens with a silent, breathless sob even as I know his
reaction is . . . normal. Expected even. He didn’t know what to
say, what to do. . . .
Understandable. Neither do I.
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