Thomas Imagines | ✓

23 | prologue-The Fever Code

Newt

It snowed the day they killed the boy's parents.

An accident, they said much later, but he was there when it happened and knew it was no accident.

The snow came before they did, almost like a cold white omen, falling from the gray sky.

He could remember how confusing it was. The sweltering heat had brutalized their city for months that stretched into years, an infinite line of days filled with sweat and pain and hunger. He and his family survived. Hopeful mornings devolved into afternoons of scavenging for food, of loud fights and terrifying noises. Then evenings of numbness from the long hot days. He would sit with his family and watch the light fade from the sky and the world slowly disappear before his eyes, wondering if it would reappear with the dawn.

Sometimes the crazies came, indifferent to day or night. But his family didn't speak of them. Not his mother, not his father; certainly not him. It felt like admitting their existence aloud might summon them, like an incantation calling forth devils. Only Lizzy, two years younger but twice as brave as he, had the guts to talk about the crazies, as if she were the only one smart enough to see superstition for nonsense.

And she was just a little kid.

The boy knew he should be the one with courage, the one to comfort his little sister. Don't you worry, Lizzy. The basement is locked up tight; the lights are off. The bad people won't even know we're here. But he always found himself speechless. He'd hug her hard, squeezing her like his own teddy bear for comfort. And every time, she'd pat him on the back. He loved her so much it made his heart hurt. He'd squeeze her tighter, silently swearing he'd never let the crazies hurt her, looking forward to feeling the flat of her palm thumping between his shoulder blades.

Often, they fell asleep that way, curled up in the corner of the basement, on top of the old mattress his dad had dragged down the stairs. Their mother always put a blanket over them, despite the heat—her own rebellious act against the Flares that had ruined everything.

That morning, they awoke to a sight of wonder.

"Kids!"

It was his mother's voice. He'd been dreaming, something about a football match, the ball spinning across the green grass of the pitch, heading for an open goal in an empty stadium.

"Kids! Wake up! Come see!"

He opened his eyes, saw his mother looking out the small window, the only one in the basement room. She'd removed the board his dad had nailed there the night before, like he did every evening at sunset. A soft gray light shone down on his mother's face, revealing eyes full of bright awe. And a smile like he hadn't seen in a very long time lit her up even brighter.

"What's going on?" he mumbled, climbing to his feet. Lizzy rubbed her eyes, yawned, then followed him to where Mum gazed into the daylight.

He could remember several things about that moment. His father still snored like a beast as the boy looked out, squinting as his eyes adjusted. The street was empty of crazies, and clouds covered the sky, a rarity these days. He froze when he saw the white flakes. They fell from the grayness, swirling and dancing, defying gravity and flitting up before floating back down again.

Snow.

Snow.

"What the bloody hell?" he mumbled under his breath, a phrase he'd learned from his father.

"How can it snow, mummy?" Lizzy asked, her eyes drained of sleep and filled with a joy that pinched his heart. He reached down and tugged on her braid, hoping she knew just how much she made his miserable life worth living.