Everland (14 page)

When I enter the lab, the Professor is peering into a microscope. I clear my throat. She holds one finger up and scribbles something in a notebook. When she’s done, she turns to me, giving me the blank expression I’ve become so accustomed to. It wasn’t always this way, at least not at first. Initially, her eyes shone with nothing but hatred for me. But as the weeks dragged into months, the fire left, leaving a shell of the defiant woman I first rescued from the rubble. If it weren’t for the hazmat suit she wore and my help, she’d have died right there. She ought to be grateful, if not downright indebted, to me. Instead, she addresses me with scorn, nothing like the fondness she shows the children. I loathe it.

“Have you made any progress?” I ask.

“Of course not! I need the girl,” she says as if reprimanding me.

I ball my fists but bite my words. I need her on my side … for now.

“Is there anything more I can do?” I ask through clenched teeth.

Leaning against the counter, she drops her chin to her chest and shakes her head. “No, there’s nothing more I can do without the girl. We are all lost.” She slams her hands on the countertop and lets out an exaggerated sigh.

I shift from one foot to the other, searching for words. It’s my fault that it has come to this, the lives of everyone, of all of humankind, hanging on a single girl. But I don’t have time for regrets. I chase the gut-wrenching guilt away with a question that has nagged me since we arrived in Everland. “Do you know why the virus is so lethal?”

“The virus’s virulence is due to a plant. A tree that isn’t indigenous anywhere in Europe.”

“A tree? What kind of tree?” I ask.

The Professor returns to her microscope and removes a slide, replacing it with another. “The plant is known as pwazon pòm. It’s native to the tropics. It is thought to have been eradicated years ago due to its effects on humans, but apparently that isn’t the case. Take a look.” She gestures toward the microscope.

I peer into the scope. A group of what appear to be cells lies on the slide. “What am I looking at?” I ask.

“Those are epithelial cells, basic skin cells. Now watch this,” she says. She picks up a vial from the counter and places a drop of the red liquid on the slide.

Immediately, tiny dark red spots surround the cells and devour them. Within a few seconds there is nothing left of the cluster. I look back up at the Professor, my breath hitching. “What was that?”

“That sample was simple dead skin cells. Epithelial tissue lines the cavities and surfaces of structures throughout the body. We’re talking your skin, lungs, heart, blood vessels … just about everything. That liquid is a blood sample infected with the Horologia virus. Now imagine if the virus had access to an entire human body. Once in contact, especially in airborne samples, it wouldn’t take long to ravage a person’s organs. That is why, when the virus became airborne, so many died quickly. I believe the base was made from the sap of the plant.”

Thoughtfully, I rub my chin, staring at her. “How is it that the virus annihilated the adults, but the children survived?”

“I’m not entirely sure I have an answer to that. The children you’ve brought in all show signs of infection, but not nearly as bad as the adults in the early days after the war started,” she says, her eyes flicking up to mine and back to her paper.

“But even they succumb to the virus,” I say.

The Professor drops her gaze before turning back toward the microscope. “Yes, and once I’ve determined they’re infected and unable to contribute to finding a cure, I dispose of them as you have requested.”

“Cremation?” I ask, watching every one of her moves. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Of course,” she says, peering into the microscope again.

I clutch my hands behind me and pace. She’s hiding something. I’m sure of it. “I’ve been told the Marauders have captured another child,” I say finally, watching for her reaction.

The Professor continues to stare into the microscope while writing down notes. “Oh, really? I’ll prepare a bed for him as soon as I’m done with this.”

“It’s a
her
,” I say, stopping just behind her and folding my arms.

The Professor spins. Her eyes grow wide. “That’s great. I should see her right away,” she says with enthusiasm.

“You will. But unfortunately, she is not the one you’re looking for. She shows signs of being infected. I’ll have my men put her in confinement until you’re ready,” I say, marching toward the lab door.

The Professor rushes toward me and grips my arms. “Captain Kretschmer, you will let me examine her immediately.”

I flinch beneath her grasp, feeling as if bugs were crawling over my entire body. I detest being touched. When her scarred hands fall away, I am grateful.

She bites her bottom lip and for the first time since I’ve walked in she meets my gaze, searching my face for … what? Understanding? Compassion?

“Please, let me see her.” This time her tone lacks admonishment, but instead sounds as if she’s pleading.

Something catches my eye. A glint of gold shimmers beneath a cot. I walk toward it, but the Professor shoves her way between me and the cot. She stares at me with intent, dark eyes.

“That little girl may be sick, but she still might be useful.”

“I don’t follow you,” I say, scrutinizing her delicate features. She’s quite pretty … for an older woman. She’s practically my own mother’s age, but there’s something about her. Something my mother never had. A beauty that lies deeper than her appearance. There’s a fondness I have for her, but not in the romantic sense. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

The Professor continues talking, but I’m distracted by the shimmering item on the floor. I kneel to pick up the gold object. It is a link from a chain belt or piece of jewelry, but as I scan the room, there is nothing that matches it. The Professor notices the chain link in between my gloved fingers and her eyes widen, stopping midsentence. “I … I’ve been looking for that,” she says, reaching for the gold metal.

I wrap my gloved fingers tightly around the link. Again she’s hiding something from me. After months of working with her, I’ve begun to recognize her slight idiosyncrasies. She’s a terrible liar. With a sigh she prattles on. I am lost in my own thoughts, inspecting the piece of metal and wondering of its origin. I miss everything she says to me except the last words.

“… if she dies, we all die.”

S
houts erupt from an angry crowd gathered at the statue of Eros as I slip into the city square. Pete stands at the base of the fountain, surrounded by dozens of other boys. With a stern expression on his face, Pete sifts through an onslaught of questions.

“Are you bloody mad?” shouts Pyro. The muscles in his neck cord beneath his dark skin. “No one gets rescued from Everland.”

“Pyro’s right. Why would we risk four of our own for one measly little girl?” Pickpocket says, fidgeting with the brass buttons on his waistcoat.

“Measly girl? Is that what Bella is to you, Pickpocket? That girl is worth more than twenty of you boys,” Pete says hotly.

“We’re not talking about Bella, we’re talking about some girl who may or may not even be alive,” Pickpocket says. “For all we know Hook’s already dissected her or whatever that madman does to kids.”

Mikey, his face cleaned of the mud stains from earlier, hides behind a wooden barrel a short distance from the disgruntled group. I crouch down beside him.

“What’s going on? They all seem so angry,” I whisper.

He wraps his arms around my neck. “They don’t want to help get Joanna back.”

“Don’t worry. Pete will convince them,” I say. “And if he doesn’t, I will.”

“This isn’t going to work,” Pyro says. “No one ever comes back from Everland. You know the rules! If you get caught, you’re on your own.”

“No one’s returned because no one has tried,” Pete says.

The gathering of boys say nothing, but pass worried glances among themselves.

“I am going, whether you choose to come or not,” Pete says, resting his hands on the hilts of his daggers. “I’ve given Gwen my word and I intend to keep it. On my own, there’s no guarantee the mission will be successful. But if you come with me, if I can count on you, I
know
we’ll get Joanna back.”

“Why us?” a stout boy says, his hands twisting the fabric of his oversize brown trench coat. His milky eyes stare past Pete. “What do you need us for?”

“Mole, who is a better tracker than you?” Pete asks.

“Nobody. I can smell a Marauder several blocks away,” Mole says, wrinkling his nose. “Among other foul things.”

“And you, Pickpocket, there isn’t a Lost Boy who can crack locks like you can,” Pete says, pointing at the muscular boy.

“That is true,” Pickpocket says gruffly. The Lost Boys nod in agreement.

“And you, Pyro, you know everything there is to know about explosives,” Pete says.

Pyro removes his derby hat and scratches his closely shaven head. “True enough. I could blow a hole a meter wide into a steel door with just a stick of dynamite.”

“So let me get this straight—we’re putting our necks on the line for her?” Pickpocket says, pointing to me. “Even she knows how crazy this is. Look at her! She’s cowering behind a barrel.”

“Stay here, Mikey,” I whisper as I creep from behind the drum.

“We’re putting our necks on the line for her sister, to be accurate,” Pete says.

“Please!” I say, addressing the boys. “I need your help to get her back. If Pete says you’re the best, then you have to help.”

“I’m not risking my life for your sister. Count me out,” Pickpocket says, storming past me. “You’re on your own, Immune.”

“Lost Girl,” Pete corrects, his expression serious. “She’s one of us now.”

I gaze at the green-eyed boy, my chest swelling at his words. Lost Girl. They settle over me and I realize for the first time that I am a part of their group. Their family.

Pickpocket halts but doesn’t turn around.

“Please, just listen to me for one minute,” I say, placing a hand on Pickpocket’s shoulder.

He turns, folds his arms, and frowns. It is then I notice them, the gloves that cover both of his hands.

“Joanna and Mikey are the only family I have, at least until now,” I say, glancing at Pete. He nods, encouraging me to continue. “Surely you had a sister, a brother, parents, someone you’ve lost. You’d want someone to help you rescue them if you had the chance, wouldn’t you?”

Pickpocket leans close to me, his hot breath whispering against my cheeks. “My family is dead. I am my own family now.” He shoves me aside, his leather-gloved hand brushing against my arm.

Impulsively, I grab his hand, curl my fingers under the leather edge, and rip it off. The Lost Boys gasp.

“What are you doing?” he yells, protectively pulling his fist into his chest.

I throw his glove to the ground. “Show me your fingers.”

“What are you talking about?” he says. His eyes dart from me to the other boys. He tucks his naked fist into the crook of his arm, hiding it from view.

“Show me your hand,” I demand, reaching for him.

Pickpocket doesn’t budge.

“Do it!” Pete says in an authoritative tone.

Pickpocket glares at Pete but reluctantly holds his hand out. His fingers are covered in boils. The skin on his palms is flaky and the backs have spots of raw flesh. He winces as my fingers barely graze his hand.

“You’re not immune,” I say.

More boys join us, erupting in a flurry of whispers. Pickpocket reaches for his glove. He shifts uncomfortably, noticing the shocked expressions on Mole’s and Pyro’s faces. “It’s only a few sores. What’s it to you?” he says, growling.

“I can help you.” I show him my hands. “I am immune. The only Immune. My body contains the cure—the antidote or whatever. I am resistant to the virus. Or at least that’s what Doc seems to think.”

Immune.
I inhale deeply as the term spills from my lips. As if uttering those two syllables breathes life, truth, and hope into a word that once tasted bitter on my tongue.
Immune
: a word that once was degrading, but now encompasses the fate of this boy, the fate of all of the Lost Boys, and possibly the rest of humankind.

Pickpocket gazes at my unblemished hands, turning them over and inspecting them as if they were a priceless work of art, a Degas in the midst of nursery-school finger paintings.

“I can help you,” I say, with a confidence bubbling in my voice that surprises me. “But I need your help, too. Together we can find a cure, for you, for Bella, and for any other sick Lost Kid.”

“You’re really an Immune?” he asks. His voice is flat, devoid of emotion.

“That’s what Doc says,” Pete interjects as he leans against the fountain.

I place a hand on Pickpocket’s arm. “Look, I know what it’s like to lose family. I’ve lost my father and mother to the war, and now I’ve lost Joanna not only to Hook but, if I don’t get her back soon, to the virus. We don’t have to lose anyone else.” I point to a group of kids playing a game with Bella. Her wings flutter and the boys mimic her, waving their arms in the air. “
You
don’t have to lose any more family.”