Lockdown (The Fringe #4) Page 5

  A look of dread flashes across Caleb’s face, but we stay rooted to the spot as the rest of the staff disperses. The girl stands there stunned for a moment and then stumbles down the tunnel in the wrong direction.

  “Sir?”

  “Since none of your peers were as quick to hand over their devices, that tells me they still have some questionable data they don’t want me to see. That’s why I’d like the two of you to look after these patients from now on.”

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  “That is strictly need-to-know information, Lyang.”

  I nod once.

  Watson turns and strides down the tunnel toward the isolation zone, waggling two fingers over his shoulder to indicate we should follow him. Caleb and I scramble to catch up, my curiosity mounting with every step.

  Automatic lights flicker on in the unused portion of the tunnel, and I nearly walk right into the glass partition separating isolation from the rest of the medical ward.

  Watson swipes his key card and punches in a code, and the steel door to the support zone unlocks. This is where we would scrub up if we were going to enter isolation, but Watson swipes a second door, and we shuffle into a long, narrow chamber known as the contamination reduction zone.

  There’s already one mousey nurse in her late fifties inside. She’s jotting down notes on her tablet computer and doesn’t say a word as we squeeze inside the narrow passageway.

  This small corridor accesses about half a dozen hermetically sealed rooms. It’s where medical ward personnel are supposed to decontaminate after entering the isolation rooms where Harper, Eli, Caleb, and I were contained.

  It feels different being on the other side of those airtight doors, but it still gives me a chill.

  “I can take it from here, Berta,” says Watson.

  The nurse nods once and disappears back into the main tunnel. Once she leaves, I notice that the lights are on in the two rooms at the end of the passageway. Their vital signs are blinking slowly on the screens over the doors, and when I click my interface, two info bubbles superimpose themselves over the blank placards next to the doors.

  The first bubble just reads “Kimber” — the second, “Xavier.” The patients’ full names, sections, and other personal identifiers have been redacted.

  “Thanks to your colleague’s indiscretion, I now have a media circus camping out in the waiting area,” Watson says. “I don’t want some slimy Information hack slithering into the ward to bombard them with questions.”

  “Sir . . . why are these patients being kept in isolation?” asks Caleb.

  “For the next thirty-eight hours, we’re treating them as high-risk patients.”

  “High risk of what?” I blurt.

  Watson silences me with a glare. “Right now, we need to be prepared for anything. They’ve been missing for months.”

  “Missing?”

  “We don’t yet know why they were gone or what they’ve been exposed to. They’re to be kept in quarantine until I clear them personally, and standard isolation procedure applies. We’re monitoring their vitals remotely. All I want you two to do is to bring them their meals and observe their behavior.”

  “What are we looking for?” asks Caleb.

  “I want to hear about anything out of the ordinary.” He gives us a stern look. “Do not share your observations with anyone besides myself.”

  Caleb opens his mouth to ask another question, but Watson has already checked out of the conversation.

  “One of you will need to extend your shift,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves. “I don’t want them left unattended for even a moment.”

  I let out a long sigh. I’m at the tail end of two back-to-back shifts, running on less than four hours of sleep. I’m so far beyond tired that I feel as though I’m floating down the tunnels rather than walking.

  “I can stay,” Caleb offers. “You’ve been on call longer than I have.”

  “Thanks,” I breathe. “My shift ends in a few hours. I could use some real sleep.”

  He grins in a tired sort of way, and I peer through the six-by-six window looking into each of the patient rooms.

  Kimber is fast asleep. She’s got a heart-shaped face, pillowy lips, and long inky-black lashes. Her hair is an unusual reddish-black color, cut into choppy angles that go just past her shoulders. She can’t be older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight.

  Xavier is wide awake. He’s sitting upright in bed with his knees bent and the blankets shoved down around his ankles. He has a young face, but he must be in his midtwenties, too.

  If I’d ever seen him before, I would have remembered. His fiery-orange mane is in desperate need of a haircut. It falls over his forehead and shoulders in heavy waves and looks slightly greasy. He’s got vibrant green eyes and fair skin that looks red and burnt.

  As I watch, his eyes shift toward the door, and he fixes me with a probing gaze so intense that I actually take a step back.

  He reaches down to press a button near his bed. Then he moves his lips, and a sharp voice blares through the intercom.

  “Who are you?” Xavier asks. His voice isn’t merely curious. It’s almost accusatory.

  I glance at Caleb, feeling uneasy.

  “I’m Sawyer,” I say finally, speaking into the intercom. “This is Caleb. We’re going to be looking after you for the next couple days.”

  Caleb peeks his head in front of mine so Xavier can see him through the small window.

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’ll be monitoring your recovery. And you can let us know if you need anything.”

  “No,” he says with the tone of someone correcting a child. “The monitors will be monitoring our recovery.” He pulls down the neck of his gown to expose the tiny sensor on his chest. “Why are you really here?”

  His voice is inquisitive, but it has a sinister edge.

  “She told you why we’re here,” says Caleb. “The computers collect your health data, but a human needs to interpret that data.”

  I can’t help but crack a smile. When you spend hours with someone in here, you start to pick up on the overtones that tell you everything about how they feel. Caleb doesn’t like Xavier, and his tone is meant to convey who’s really in charge around here.

  Xavier flashes a crooked smile. “That isn’t you, though, right?”

  It isn’t a question; it’s a challenge.

  “We’re on your team of doctors.”

  “Riiiight,” says Xavier, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I know who you are. You’re the interns.” He places a careful note of contempt on the last word, and I feel my unease shift abruptly to annoyance.

  Caleb and I exchange a look. Who is this guy?

  Judging by the reddish tinge of his skin, he’s been getting a lot of sun, which means he must be from ExCon or Recon.

  Then it hits me: Watson said he and Kimber had been missing for months. They have to be two of the Recon operatives who went AWOL.

  To defuse the awkward tension in the room, Caleb pulls up the patient chart on his interface and begins taking a history.

  Do you have any preexisting conditions?

  Have you ever had any surgeries?

  Do you have allergies?

  Are you taking any medications?

  Do you drink?

  Are you on drugs?

  Xavier answers his questions with one-word responses, and I sense Caleb’s hesitation when the questions turn to the patient’s section and role.

  I know he’s burning to ask where Xavier is from and why he’s here, but we both know that goes against Watson’s attempt to keep the patients’ identifiers as generic as possible.

  When he finishes, Caleb moves to the other door and peers inside the room. Kimber is still fast asleep, and there’s no reason to wake her now.

  It’s almost the end of my shift, so Caleb moves to walk me out of the contamination reduction zone. He has one hand on the door leading back to the main tunnel when Xavier’s voice
crackles through the intercom.

  “Do they really think this is going to work?”

  I freeze.

  Caleb shoots me a warning look, but I walk as if I’m in a trance until I’m right outside Xavier’s door and press the intercom button. “What?”

  “This.” He gestures around the room. “Isolation.”

  I stare at him through the thin sheet of glass, my heart pumping a little harder.

  “I mean . . . they can’t keep us in here forever. Eventually, one of us is going to talk to the press.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. He thinks he’s here under Jayden’s orders. He thinks we’re trying to keep him quiet.

  “Isolation is just a precaution,” I say. “Standard procedure. And we want you to have a chance to recover from your ordeal before you’re bombarded by reporters.”

  “Right,” says Xavier, raising an eyebrow. “This is all for my benefit.”

  Something about his tone suggests a hidden meaning that I just haven’t caught on to yet.

  “You can talk to whomever you like once you’re medically cleared,” I add. “Nobody in Health and Rehab is going to stop you.”

  “How lovely,” he says, cracking a demented smile. “Not like you could. Some things are inevitable.”

  His tone is light, but it still manages to convey a threat. It sets me on edge.

  Trying to keep my expression blank, I back away from the door and take my finger off the intercom button. I shoot Caleb an uncomfortable look, and he leads the way back out into the main tunnel.

  Once we’re out of isolation, I find I’m glad to have two more doors between us and Xavier. Something isn’t right about that guy.

  “Why don’t you head out?” says Caleb. “I’ll cover for you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I really want to get out of here, but Caleb looks just as tired as I feel.

  “Yeah,” he says, glaring absently at the doors through the glass partition.

  “Is it just me, or did something seem off about that guy?” I ask in a quiet voice.

  “He’s an asshole.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not that. I thought he seemed a little . . . unbalanced.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s just a feeling,” I say with a shrug. “I could be wrong.”

  “Go home, Sawyer.”

  I yawn and then smile at Caleb. He’s right. I need more than four hours of sleep tonight.

  Glancing once more at the door to Xavier’s and Kimber’s rooms, I head down the tunnel toward the exit. The quiet hum of activity is strangely comforting after the stillness of the isolation zone, and I smile to myself when I see two nurses helping a recovering surgical patient out of bed.

  I have to pass through the lobby to get to the megalift, and as soon as I reach the waiting area, I’m bombarded by a swarm of reporters with flashing interfaces.

  “Hey! Hey! Over here!”

  A scrawny guy dressed all in black steps in front of me, and I squint in the bright light of his flash. “Any comment on the two AWOL Recon operatives who were admitted?”

  “What? No!”

  “Where have they been all this time?” he probes. “People want to know.”

  Before I can tell him to fuck off, a woman with voluminous brown hair bumps him aside and tries to capture my attention. “Did they leave the compound on purpose? Why did they return?”

  I can’t say a word to these people about Xavier and Kimber, but the reporters are blocking my path.

  Overwhelmed by the flashing lights and my own fatigue, I shove blindly through the crowd and make a beeline for the megalift.

  Once I break past the wall of bodies, my eyes struggle to shake off the effects of the flashes. I’m so off-kilter that I almost walk right into a Systems worker standing near the lift.

  “Sawyer?”

  I know that voice. I turn toward the sound of my name, and Celdon swims into view.

  My mouth falls open as I take in his appearance. If it weren’t for his tall gangly body and trademark blond waves, I might not have recognized him at all.

  His upper lip is swollen, and he has the yellowish-blue remains of a nasty bruise over his eye.

  “What happened to you?” I splutter.

  He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me. I need to talk to you.”

  “Shit,” I murmur, reaching out to touch the swollen area near his temple. “Have you had this looked at?”

  “Nah,” he says in a dismissive voice. “I’ve had worse.”

  “Celdon! You have some serious swelling here. You should have gotten a CT scan to make sure there wasn’t any intracranial —”

  “I’m fine.”

  I stare at him in disbelief, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into this time.

  “Look, I came to find you because . . . Harper’s been arrested.”

  “What?” I splutter, sure I must have misheard in the din. “When?”

  “Yesterday. I ran into her when she came back from quarantine to tell her . . .”

  He trails off, glancing over my shoulder at the swarm of reporters. “Look, we can’t talk here.”

  “Right.”

  We hop aboard the megalift and ride up to the next level in tense silence. We disembark and head for my compartment, which smells stale and unfamiliar to me after spending such a long time in the medical ward.

  As soon as Celdon snaps the door shut, I round on him. “Harper was arrested and you’re just now telling me!”

  “I just found out!” he snaps. “And the only reason —”

  He cuts himself off abruptly, pursing his lips together and looking as though he said something he shouldn’t have.

  “Listen. Harper and Eli were both arrested after Jayden saw the footage of Owen on the Fringe. She knew Eli lied about killing him, and she also found out that Owen is Eli’s brother.”

  “Shit,” I hiss. “So Harper’s rotting in the cages right now?”

  His expression turns grim. “It could be worse. Constance has Eli.”

  Suddenly, I feel as though the shiny faux-wood floors of my compartment are shifting under my feet. I sink down on the couch I hardly ever sit on and stare up at Celdon in disbelief.

  Just the other day, everything was fine — well, mostly fine. When we found out we weren’t infected, I felt as though I had a new lease on life. And now Harper and Eli are facing criminal charges — maybe worse — for their involvement with Owen.

  “There’s more,” Celdon mutters.

  “How can there be more?”

  “I went to see Harper as soon as I heard she’d been arrested, and she seems to think that the two AWOL Recon operatives who just came back might be carrying the virus.”

  “They’re in quarantine right now,” I say. “If they are, we’ll know before they can infect anyone else.”

  “Right. Well, I think Harper’s a little shaken up from being locked in the cages, but she seemed convinced.”

  I nod. Xavier and Kimber going missing for so long does raise some red flags, and it’s lucky Watson was smart enough to quarantine them in the first place.

  “Anyway, she wanted me to tell you, and now I have.”

  “Now you have,” I repeat. “So you can go ahead and tell me what the hell happened to your face.”

  Celdon throws me a cocky grin, but it seems a little flimsier than usual.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I demand.

  “Nothing.”

  I roll my eyes and let out a scoff of disgust. “Don’t you think we have enough to deal with without you getting yourself into trouble in Neverland?”

  “I didn’t,” Celdon snaps.

  “Whatever.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “Nothing,” I sigh. I’m too tired to deal with his bullshit right now. “How much do you need?”

  “What?”

  “How much do you need to pay back whoever did this to you?” I ask, turning o
n my interface to transfer credits to his account.

  “I don’t need your money, Sawyer.”

  “Forget it. I work too much to spend it anyway.”

  “Sawyer —”

  “I don’t want you getting beat up again!”

  “I didn’t get beat up because I owe somebody money,” he snarls. “I’m not some degenerate who can’t handle his own shit.”

  I look up at him, trying to summon an apologetic expression. “Okay . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “Well, I don’t need your help!”

  Now I’m pissed. “Clearly you do,” I snap. “People don’t get the shit beat out of them unless there’s a reason, Celdon. I know you’re in trouble, so why don’t you stop pretending everything’s fine and just let me . . .”

  I trail off as his indignant expression shifts to genuine outrage. “Because we’re not friends, Sawyer!” he growls. “I know we pretend we are for Harper’s sake, but that doesn’t make you entitled to every little detail of my life! And it certainly doesn’t make you obligated to clean up whatever mess you think I’ve made.”

  His words cut so deep it feels as though he physically slapped me. I open and close my mouth several times before I can form a response, and when I finally speak, it’s all I can do to keep my tears at bay.

  “F-fine,” I choke, throat burning. “Fuck you, too, then.”

  There’s a long awkward pause.

  For a second, Celdon looks as though he wants to take it all back and apologize. He steps forward, but I shake my head. If that’s how he feels, I don’t want his apology. I’d rather know who my real friends are.

  “Get out of my compartment,” I whisper, staring at the beige rug that some compound decorator picked out. “Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  Celdon stands there with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, looking caught between regret and hurt.

  Then he turns on his heel and stalks out of my compartment, slamming the door behind him.

  six

  Harper

  It isn’t the confinement of the cages or the boredom that unravels you. It’s having all your relationships stripped away and replaced with silent contempt.