that at least one person benefitted from the rioting, and I have an urge to tell him I was responsible. But too many other people died because of what I did, so I keep quiet.
“I ran away from Sequoia,” Jo says without being asked. “I was looking for The Grove and so was Abel once he got out. We met there. In the ruins. I’d heard about what Petra was trying to do. I’m sorry she’s gone.” I don’t tell her that Petra was a mad bitch.
“So Sequoia’s the next best thing,” I say.
“It’s a thing,” Jo says, her voice flat.
Abel steps onto the dock again, opens a compartment in his backpack, and takes out a protein bar that he breaks into pieces and shares with us.
“Did you leave because of . . .” I point at her stomach. She looks down at herself.
“Sort of.”
“Shall we go?” Abel says.
We move along the dock, up a short road, and find ourselves surrounded by hundreds of rusting cars positioned in perfect rows and columns. We weave our way through until we come out onto another, wider road, clear but for the odd fallen lamppost or overturned truck. Abel picks up his speed. Jo and I follow slowly.
“Is Abel the baby’s father?” I ask, when I’m sure he can’t hear.
“Abel? No.” She inhales deeply. “The father’s in Sequoia. He’s kind of vile.”
“A lot of dads are,” I say.
Jo comes to an abrupt halt and seizes my arm. “It isn’t a joke. If you cross Maks, he’ll kill you.”
She releases me and walks on, linking arms with Abel. I watch, feeling a bit jealous that they have each other.
I miss Bea.
15
RONAN
The road is slush, strewn with cement blocks, sheets of broken glass, and misshapen metal poles. I would take pictures to use in a piece, but it isn’t exactly the time or place to be worrying about art.
When Jude drove off, I took a moment to enjoy the solitude. I’ve never been alone before. Not truly. And I liked it: the feeling of space and freedom and sky. In the pod you’re never far from other people—a breath away. But those feelings are already wearing thin, and it’s only been a day. The reality is that The Outlands isn’t a haven for peace—it’s a graveyard. There’s nothing but human bones and the remnants of death everywhere: rotting mattresses, chipped teapots, dried-up pens, and shriveled tree stumps.
The idea of hiding out here forever is foolish. How would I breathe once my airtanks ran out? What would I eat? Who would I talk to? I’d go mad or be dead within a couple of months.
So I’m searching for Quinn because the only option left is to take Jude up on his offer—find his son and become an auxiliary.
It’ll be better than death.
It has to be better than death.
Doesn’t it?
16
ALINA
The nurse I’ve been sent to see is so tall and thin she looks like she’s been stretched. Even her nose is unusually long. She hands me a cup of water and three tablets: one white cylinder and two tiny red eggs. “Take these,” she orders.
“What are they?”
“Mandatory, that’s what they are,” she says.
I swig some water, pretending to swallow the tablets but hiding them under my tongue, and as the nurse turns, I spit them into my hand and stuff them into my pocket.
“Up here,” she says. I climb onto a table and lie down. She ties a rubber band around my arm and hands me a ball. “Squeeze this.” She taps the inside of my elbow a few times, and before I can react to what’s happening, sticks me with a needle. I jump but bite away the urge to squawk. “Stop wriggling,” she snaps as she unties the rubber band and fills a vial with blood.
Once she’s got five vials, she spins around, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor, and stores my blood in a rack in the fridge. Then she reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a tiny bottle of clear liquid.
“Time for your rocket.” She shakes the bottle, presses a syringe into the lid, and lifts the needle to the light, tapping it a few times with her finger. She studies a droplet of clear liquid rolling into the tip. We’ve been told this shot contains EPO, which will increase our number of red blood cells and drive down our need for oxygen. That’s the opposite effect from the vaccinations we were required to take in the pod, but I don’t care. I don’t want to be injected with anything. Not here. Not anywhere.
I consider resisting, and the nurse, sensing it, looks at me over the rim of her spectacles. “Problem?” She dabs my arm with alcohol. I close my eyes, and she jabs me with the needle.
I think we’re finished, and lift myself onto my elbows, but I’m wrong. The nurse smiles and tosses me a rough blanket. “Take off your pants and underwear and put this over your lap. I’ll be back in a minute.” She closes the door and is gone. I look down at the blanket and then at a string of unfamiliar metal implements lying on the counter. I stand up and pace the tiny lab.
The idea of someone examining me down below is humiliating in more ways than one. Not only am I terrified to let the nurse look at me and insert things into me or scratch things away, but my hair smells like someone’s been sick into it, and when I took off my boots last night, my feet stank—I can’t even imagine what the rest of me smells like.
I’m not a crier, but for the first time in a very long time, my eyes prickle. I rub at them roughly and when this doesn’t work, I slap myself sharply across the face. It stings, which is what I need. “Get a grip, Alina,” I say aloud.
I kick my boots into the corner of the room and stare down at my baggy, damp socks, which I leave on, climbing out of my pants and underwear and throwing them next to the boots. As the door opens, I jump up onto the table, covering my legs with the blanket.
The nurse quickly grabs a facemask from the counter, which she slips over her mouth and nose. It isn’t attached to any airtank; it’s to protect me from germs, though she’s probably wearing it to protect herself.
She sits on a stool and releases a set of stirrups hidden in the table up and out. “Put your feet in these and lie on your back.”
“What’s this for?” I ask. “I mean, the blood sample will tell you everything you need to know. I’m not carrying a disease if that’s what you think. I lived in the pod, you know. We have regular health checks there. I’m clean.”
The nurse grimaces. “I’d hardly say you’re clean. Lie down.”
I stay sitting. “What’s it
She tuts. “Shall I get Vanya to come in and explain? Maks?”
I shake my head. What if they decided to stay and watch over the exam? No.
I lie back. “Shift your butt to the end of the table,” the nurse says, jabbing something against my tummy, rolling it back and forth while she stares at a screen. She lifts the blanket and yanks my knees apart. “You’re going to feel some pressure,” she says, but it isn’t pressure—it’s pain, like I’m been sliced open. I clutch the sides of the table and hum.
After a few moments, she switches off the screen, pulls the blanket over my legs, and lowers the stirrups.
