The Future Without Hope (4 page)

Chapter
3.
The Nature of Survival

 
A RAP ON MY DOOR PULLS ME FROM MY SLEEP and I
blink sleepily as the door opens to reveal Amy, a blue acolyte, and the Black
priest from the day before.

Even
knowing that they won’t kill me today, my blood runs cold. It’s instinctive
around the Order. The Black priest glances over the room, checking it briefly
for damage or God knows what, and then nods at me. “Come with me.”

I
clutch handfuls of the bed, and snap back, “Fuck you.”

Amusement
fills his eyes for a moment—just a heartbeat and then it’s gone, and his gaze
turns severe. “Fighting is not a good idea, First.”

“I
have a name, Priest.”

His
head dips, quiet acknowledgment. “And I would like to learn it. If you would
join me, we can get to know each other.”

“Do
you get to know all the women you kill?” I demand, bitterly.

“And
the men. Yes. That is part of my duties here.”

The
calm way he admits it makes my stomach flip. But it also settles my nerves.
Because he isn’t lying to me, and he isn’t immediately threatening me.

I
might want to be as far away as possible, and he might want to see me eaten
alive by infects, but I get the disturbing feeling that I can trust him. I
scoot forward on the bed a little, and ask, “Can I see my brother?”

He
eyes me for a moment, and Amy twitches irritably. She wants to say something—I
can tell from the way she almost vibrates with annoyance. That she doesn’t is
telling—it tells me where she is on the chain of command.

“Walk
with me, First,” he says, instead of answering my question.

Finn
would. If only to get information. Finn would play them until he was in a
position to kill them all. I paste a smile on my face, and step past him into
the pristine hallway.

“Priest,
her bonds,” Amy says, sharply.

“She
is already damaged from the bonds. And you don’t really think she could escape
the Outpost—or me. Do you, priestess?”

Amy
flushes, and looks away. It’s probably true, but he’s an idiot to underestimate
me.

Here’s
the thing: People survive. After that initial change, we all found a way to
survive. Some of us did simply by the grace and good wits of the people around
us—that is the only reason a First lived long enough to see their fifth
birthday. Blind fucking luck.

But
after the chaos of the change, after we fled the East, and settled behind our
Haven walls—we all found a way to survive. Working in the plants, and if you
were desperate, the fields. Walking the Wall, and raising the next generation.

Some
found peace and the will to carry on in the mundane—raising children and
keeping house and making sure everything was right in their small worlds. It
was a coping strategy—a way to deal with the constant threat of death hanging
over their heads.

But
denial isn’t dealing. It’s burying your head in the fucking sand and hoping
your ass doesn’t get bit. It’s a luxury some get to indulge—the small children
who have parents to protect them, the wives whose husbands Walk, the very rich
who still seem to think money can buy them safety—and who aren’t far from
wrong.

Those
are the people who make up our society—what remains of it—and they are why
society can continue. Because they refuse to believe anything else. We need
people like them. They balance out the ones like Finn, and me. Who know we are
living on borrowed time, in a world that is already dead but too stupid to
accept it. We survive because we don’t bury our heads, because we know the
risks and say
fuck it
. Finn is one of
those people—it’s one of the reasons I hated him when Collin dragged him home.
I saw myself in him. And I hated him, because it was easier than hating myself.

The
Black priest is staring at me, and I see myself reflected in his eyes. A pretty
girl with a dying brother, dressed in white and waiting to be killed. And even
though it pisses me off, I let my eyes drop.

Stay alive.

Let
him think I’m meek and docile, a quiet little sheep ready to be pampered before
the inevitable slaughter. Let him think whatever the fuck he wants, right up
until the day I kill him.

Chapter
4.
The Way of It

I
FOLLOW THE BLACK PRIEST THROUGH THE OUTPOST, trying to see everything at once.
He moves us slowly enough that I can—and I see why. There isn’t a way out. It’s
all brick and concrete, long tunnels, locked doors, a military efficiency that
makes my blood run cold.

“What
is it?” I ask, finally.

He
gives me a toothy grin, and it occurs to me that he isn’t that much older than
I am. He couldn’t have been much older than five during the change. I wonder
who he knows, what life he led to be given a position this influential so
young. “A government bunker. We picked it up when a contact infection hit and
wiped out the people inside. The feds couldn’t wait to hand it over.”

My
skin crawls as I look around, and he laughs. “We cleared the compound years
ago—before I took my acolyte robes. We haven’t had a breach or uncontained
infection in four years—which is better stats than any Haven, including 1.”

I
blink, and he smiles. “Impressed?”

I’m
not—I’m still snagged on one word. “What do you mean by uncontained infection?”
I ask hoarsely.

His
eyebrows go up. “You picked up on that, did you? Interesting. Most are too
impressed with the track record to notice the details.”

I
laugh, a short, unamused noise. “Your details add up to me being killed, and my
brother somewhere in this ultra-clean hell hole. So maybe the details matter a
helluva a lot.”

He
nods and leads me down the hallway, up a flight of stairs, and into a small
office. I step into the room, and my shoulders drop. It’s messy, the desk
cluttered with paper and a few knives. The air smells of gunpowder and oil and
steel—the distinct scent of weapons well cared for that takes me instantly back
to my apartment with Collin in Hellspawn, hiding behind the curtain while he
and Finn cleaned weapons in that quiet camaraderie they always shared.

Tears
sting my eyes unexpectedly and I roll my eyes up, trying to get my shit
together before the priest notices.

I
still haven’t learned his name. “Who are you?” I ask abruptly, looking at him.

“My
name is Silas Lark.” He sits across from me, all casual grace and comfort—silent
reminders that this is his place, not mine. “And you?”

“Nurrin
Sanders. Of 8.”

He
flips open a thick file. “Ah. Yes, we’d heard about you, but you were under the
protection of two Walkers. Deemed inadvisable to attempt retrieval.”

I
stare at him, the comfort from a moment ago vanishing as suddenly as it came.
My voice is remarkably steady as I force out the words. “You have a file on
me?”

He
smiles, a little knowing. “We have a file on every First, Ren.”

That
name on his lips seems so wrong—almost an insult. I force that feeling down,
and keep my voice even. “You do realize that I’m still protected by two
Walkers?”

“We
realize that one of them is in our med wing, fighting an infection that will
eventually kill him. As for the other, well.” He shrugs. Looks around.

“You
idiot,” I breathe, and his gaze snaps to mine, anger obvious, suddenly. It
seems I’m not the only one wearing a mask here. I lean forward. “That other
isn’t going to forget he was protecting me just because your presidential puppet
stole me.”

“The
other is not my concern anymore. He has no idea where you are or how to find
you. No one does.” His tone is sharp. I’ve managed to piss him off.

And
I don’t give a fuck. “You keep thinking that, Silas. If that makes you happy,
keep on thinking it.”

He
frowns, and I shift in my seat. I’m done playing nice with him for today.
“Where is my brother?”

Annoyance
flickers at the question, and I almost grin, because Finn hated my questions.
He’d give me that—I shake my head, shake the memories, and swallow. “He’s in
our med wing. The Gray Priests are doing what they can to stop his infection.”

“I
want to see him.”

“We
don’t expose sacrifices to a live infection. You should be able to understand
that.”

“I
want to see him.” I repeat.

A
smile creases his face, and he leans forward. “You should learn this lesson
early. We don’t care what you want.”

I
flush and he smiles, slow and toothy. His boyishness is almost offensive. “You
are here for one reason, First. And we will do what we can to keep you
comfortable and happy. But in the end, it doesn’t matter what you want. Just
what your purpose is.” Silas stands abruptly and nods. “Here’s the way of it.
We will keep you fed and safe, away from infections. Our Gray Priests will keep
your family as healthy as they can. And you will die, when the time comes. It’s
a simple thing, really.”

“Easy
for you to say,” I rasp. “You aren’t the one doing the dying.”

“I’m
not a First, Nurrin. That is your unique blessing and burden.”

“That’s
an accident of fucking birth, idiot,” I spit, and he smiles again.

“Time
to return to your room, then. Until you can find a little civility, you’ll
remain there.”

The
door swings open behind me and two acolytes sweep in, flanking me.

“I
want to see my brother,” I say, the third time.

“Then
learn some fucking manners,” Silas says, his smile and voice even.

They
jerk me back by my arms and I fight them, all of my fury bubbling up suddenly.
“Where the hell is my brother, you bastard!” One of the acolytes backhands me
and I wheel on him, teeth snapping. He shouts, falling back as my teeth lodge
in his hand, catching and yanking on the meaty palm.

“Control
her!” Silas snarls and a blow slams into my temple. I bite down harder, and
blood floods my mouth. The acolyte screams, a high shrill noise that makes me
grin. I lift my head and smile, and I can feel the blood dripping down my chin,
feel the horror in Silas and the acolytes.

And
I love it. I spit out the blood, and it hits Silas’ desk with a wet splat that
makes the acolyte flinch.

Silas
stares at me for a long tense moment, and then, “Take her to Containment, and
have the Grays test her.”

“Sir,
she bit me,” the blue-robed acolyte whimpers.

Silas
spares him a cold look before he looks back to me. “Then you better hope like
hell she’s clean.”

Chapter
5.
Containment

CONTAINMENT
IS CONTAINMENT, either in a Haven on the coast, or a government bunker
underground. The unbitten acolyte shoves me roughly into a barred little room
with nothing but a thin bed and bright lights.

The
taste of blood still coats my mouth, copper pennies and rust and salty swat. My
white tank top is bloody and sticking to my skin. I’m surprised no one has shot
me—except they won’t. Even now, with the behavior I’m showing, the Order won’t
kill me until they’re very sure I’m infected and impossible to save.

And
I’m not. I’m just furious and using a cultural taboo to freak them the fuck
out.

No
one bites. Mothers will be shunned for their babies biting—it is too similar to
the infects, too much of a death sentence, and no one will tolerate that. The
acolytes slam the door behind him, his eyes wide as he watches me, and a Gray
priest hurries in. “What happened?”

“She
bit Charlie,” the acolyte babbles, pointing at his companion. Charlie looks
decidedly gray, leaning against the wall, cradling the injured hand to his
chest.

I
smirk, leaning against the bars, my hands dangling. “Don’t worry, Charlie,” I
taunt. “If I were infected, they could still save you through amputation.”

The
Gray priest gives me a sharp look, and I bare my still-bloody teeth. His eyes
narrow, and I see dislike there, before he turns away. “Charlie, with me.” He
grabs a test kit from the wall and hands it to the uninjured acolyte. “Make
sure she’s clean, Luke.”

His
eyes bulge but the Gray and Charlie are gone before he can protest. I wave with
one hand. “Let’s get it over with. I would rather not be shot by an overzealous
acolyte trying to keep your clean record.”

He
inches over and I can see him holding his breath as he catches my hand and
pulls my arm straight. I don’t object—I’m not so set on fighting that I’ll fuck
with a blood test—as he quickly draws a small vial of blood and drops in the
test dye. For a moment, the color wavers, and then the dye vanishes and the
blood deepens to a rich, dark red. I let out a tiny sigh. He stumbles to the
door, his robes twisting around his feet. As the door bangs shut behind him, I
hear him shouting, “Don’t shoot him—she’s clean!”

I
swallow my laughter and go to sit on my bunk, drawing my legs up and hooking a
hand on my knees.

Finn
would be so proud.

Part 4.

The Monsters We Become

Syntherix
will be the cure for all of the monstrous acts that are committed by the
emotional unstable. It’s a miracle in a tiny package.

Dr.
Heller-

There
are no miracles. There are only monsters and death.

Sylvia
Cragen-

Chapter
1.
The Living and Dead

BEFORE
THE CHANGE, people killed. Every year, thousands of people were murdered by
each other, and others died in accidents that were reckless and easily avoided.
Death was easy and commonplace.

But
it wasn’t the kind of commonplace that it is now.

It
wasn’t every fourth person dying, turning, and rising to join the horde of
hungry dead. Back then, people died, they stayed in the fucking ground. It was
as it should be—a natural order. Aside from the rampant killing of each other.

It
changed after the zombies. Everything changed, but murder—murder vanished
overnight. What’s amusing is that everyone is a killer. Every fucking person
alive has blood on their hands. In this world, there are no options.

Before,
we were told that it takes a certain kind of soullessness to take a life. Not
every man could, because not every man was a monster. And to kill, to be
willing to end someone so completely—that was a monstrous thing. It is still.

And
then monsters came, and they made monsters of us all.