The Immunity Illness

CHAPTER 1

The nightmare began when he blinked up at the dazzlingly clear sky.
       Rays of golden sunshine ignited his pupils, urging ruthlessly for him to embrace the dawn, yet he hadn't slept at all last night. He hadn't caught a wink of sleep in three days.
        Newt. Teresa.
       A bullet and a pile of rubble. The names ricocheted into his head as steely chips of debris, flying through the mental hoops and barriers he'd put up to block them out. He shooed those two pains away, deep where they wouldn't bother him again. Back under a padlock. Under a thicker net of chains. Now was the time for his new life, and neither of them were a part of it.
       Thomas sat up with a yawn. The dewy grass of his resting spot squished under his knees, glinting brightly in the early morning light. Patches of shimmering green expanded wide across the occupied valley, and under the fog of his heavy lids, the landscape reminded him of the Glade. His lips curled into a dopey smile as he rolled sideways, half expecting to see Chuck curled up in a rumpled sleeping bag. But when Thomas was able to focus clearly, he remembered. Chuck was dead—struck by a soaring knife to the chest.
       Chuck.
       He brushed a lock of messy hair off his face with his forearm. After a long stretch, he swallowed his agony and sorely arose from the plot of crabgrass, letting his gaze drift. Two hundred people scattered themselves across the great landscape; some dozed in groups while early birds roamed around, chatting amongst each other. Beyond their settlement crept the lazy tendrils of a bonfire. The stale gray puffs from last night's gathering lifted up from the woods opposite the ocean shore, swirling in effortless coils.
       The Immunes loved their bonfires. The spectacles had become routine over the past three days, bringing everyone together to huddle around the flames and hear countless stories from all across the map. Most had arrived from Denver and another place close by, Salt Lake City. A handful came from Vegas Ruinas in the southwest, and there were even a few Canadians. Periodically, Thomas would plop himself on a log next to Brenda each night. He'd listen to the tragedies, the romances, the comedies, and nod along in bliss while he stroked her hair.
       It was also a challenge to blend in when none of the two hundred trusted him or his friends. The first day had been a trainwreck. No amount of explaining quelled the population's nerves—they'd gotten antsy and wanted to go home, hardly caring about what WICKED put Thomas and the other subjects through, or what Chancellor Paige's risk truly meant for the future of mankind. The Immunes only sought to go home to their families and receive toiletries. Anything longer than a vacation to paradise broke the deal.
       The price of preventing a full-fledged riot between the former subjects and the Munies had been the smart handover of their watches, forging a mutual respect. Thomas guessed those things were the only means of telling time in the middle of nowhere, after all. Sharing was only fair, since the bounty hunters had taken everything from them and there was no sign of a civilization in sight. Nothing existed in the proximity but thick woods, unscalable beach rocks and tallgrass for miles.
       Thomas cautiously moved across the lawn, sidestepping the random snoring bodies obscured in the thicket. He peered around for Brenda, but he wasn't sure where she'd gone off to last night. Butterflies danced in his stomach as he stood dumbly in the middle of the field. Then he spotted her balanced against a tree trunk a few yards away. He walked at a brisk pace and cheesily grinned to himself, crouching in front of her to commit the perfect prank. He picked a piece of grass and held it up to her nose.
       Brenda's eyelids fluttered open. She analyzed the tiny blade in groggy fascination, and he blushed at getting caught, dropping the stem. Chuckling, she stretched her limbs and rubbed her eyes. She scooted upright against the trunk.
       "Trying to make me sneeze?" she said smugly. Her expression twinkled with delight. Brenda made room for him, and Thomas folded into a sitting position beside her.
       He shrugged. "Key word, trying."
       She nudged his arm affectionately.
       "Better luck next time, slick," she replied. "My instincts are sharper than a marine's."
       "The military's still a thing?"
       She rolled her eyes at him. "It's a figure of speech."
       Thomas assumed that was a no. He squinted across the sunny field, breathing in the brine of the ocean air. He drummed his fingers on his pant leg thoughtfully. Brenda reached over to take his hand and he accepted it. She rested her head on the crook of his neck.
       "Thinking again, mister?" she murmured. "I thought you were done thinking."
       Flashbacks of the crashing Maze walls. The explosions. The sickening sensation of him squeezing the life out of Janson. All of that was too morbid for their flirty small talk, so he told her a sweeter answer.
       "I'm not thinking. I'm wondering what we're gonna do today."
       Brenda shifted to look at him, and up this close he could see a circular pattern of honey flecks in her dark irises. She really was pretty. She pecked him on the cheek once, then whispered, counting on her fingers,
       "Let's see. There's relaxing, collecting wood, scavenging, spearing fish in the shallows, hunting, farming, mugging old grannies, exploring—"
       "Wait, hold up," Thomas laughed, "why are we mugging old grannies?"
       Brenda winked at him. "For loot, of course. Have you seen the bottom of their purses? I sure haven't."
       Thomas elbowed her in mock disapproval. He asked in a flatter tone,
       "For real, though. What should we do?"
       "Whatever you want. We're safe now."
       We're safe now. The simple sentence triggered the lock on the vault of his leftover fears. He slipped his hand out of Brenda's, balling his fists reflexively. They were safe. WICKED couldn't hurt him or his friends anymore. Brenda had disabled the Flat Trans and burned down the shed that went with it. We're safe now. Yet he couldn't stop himself from panicking every time someone mentioned that daring, bold word. Safe.
       Thomas forced his white-knuckled hands to stop shaking and relaxed them at his sides. He plastered on a fake smile for his girl—he could say that now, he thought cheerily—who observed him with worry.
       "Sorry, I'm..." he trailed off, struggling to find a proper excuse for his reaction. Brenda seemed to comprehend his dilemma and sympathized,
       "I get it, we're all a little tense right now. You don't owe me an apology."
       Tense was an understatement. Every day, every second since he'd stepped through the Flat Trans, he had been more than just tense. Time was a jumbled blur, faces were indifferent to him. He'd seen the same effects in his friends. No more smirks, sneers, or loosely held grudges.
       "Thomas? You all right?" It took him a second to realize that Brenda was tugging on his sleeve. He glanced over at her, not quite sure how to respond. He felt numb.
       "I'm great, yeah," he lied. Brenda frowned at him. She'd been checking in on him like this often, more persistently as the days went on. Thomas turned away and tried to change the topic. "I'm gonna go take a lap if that's cool. I wanna wake up a bit before we start the day."
       He cupped Brenda's face in his palm and kissed her on the lips, riding on a surge of confidence. She giggled under her breath and pulled the rest of him toward her, matching his gesture; her passion took him by surprise. Reluctantly, he broke from her embrace and got to his feet, stunned into a spellbound trance. He opened his mouth to utter something either stupid or corny, but luckily, Brenda spoke before he could.
       "You're sure you don't want me to come with you?"
       Her longing expression posed the opposite request. She wanted him to stay here. Thomas attempted to compose himself, standing taller. He shook his head.
       "Thanks, but no thanks. I think you've got some old grannies to mug while I'm gone."
       Brenda sighed overdramatically, pushing herself upward. "Ugh, you're right." She drew nearer to him and twisted a lock of his disorderly hair in her fingers. "I'll be by the coast, close by. Meet me there when you're done."
       Another short, breathless kiss.
       Blooming red in the cheeks, Thomas spun on his heel and practically skipped off through the field, hypnotized by her effect on him. He eased to a trot along the top of a long and rugged cliff, which jutted out to the ocean on a low, natural jetty. A sandy beach loomed underfoot, wrapping around the grassy terrain he followed. He took in the view as his blissful mood wore off. A cold gust of wind whipped at his clothing, and the threat of falling down the cliffside spooked him into avoiding the edge of it altogether. He navigated himself slightly farther into the field, approaching a fair pile of lumber the Horizoners had accumulated over the course of their stay here.
       Horizoners. That was what the Immunes jokingly referred to themselves as, because they'd admired the colorful pink and orange horizon on their first day in paradise. The nickname meant hope. It meant freedom.
       He almost passed up the lumber pile entirely when a strained voice called out to him,
       "Thomas, gimme a hand!"
       He swiveled around to observe the owner of the command, Minho, who distractedly wrangled a gorilla-sized log within his arms. He teetered under the superior weight of the wood but put up an impressive fight, dragging it on its crooked bottom toward the site of the pile. Thomas raced over to him.
       "Dude, why are you doing this alone?" he scolded. His hands connected with a rough face of the log and he pried it back partially to split the load. Heaving, Minho muttered,
       "I wasn't...alone at first. Then the...shuck-face I was with ditched me for a bite to eat."
       They worked together to roll the crooked log to the foot of the pile, then jammed it in between two other pieces so it wouldn't come loose. Thomas grunted as he stepped back, panting like a dog in the mugginess of the field. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans and glanced down at them. His skin bled pink with pinpricks where the wood had cut him. He crossed his arms, narrowing his gaze on Minho.
       Talking to each other had been tough. Everything that could be talked about was fresh and off limits, so Minho avoided the chats entirely. He absorbed himself in hard labor, often leaving Thomas to his own devices. Truthfully, it irritated him that they couldn't go a minute without biting their tongues. He missed his friend, and now that the euphoria of their new home had faded, a darkness was enveloping their bond.
       "You hanging in there?" Thomas prodded, trying to get into his mind.
       Minho shot him a hostile look and moved to his personal stack of lumber, collected from the woods by the team he'd assembled. As quickly as his glare manifested, it was gone. He picked up a lighter log and slung it over his shoulder, making a display of flexing his bicep.
       "Wanna help or are you here for the show?" he said in a familiarly cocky tone.
       Thomas scoffed. He complied, though, and grabbed a piece of wood from the smaller stack to lunge it swiftly into the growing pile. In another week, they might have enough lumber to build a mini house. He stole a glimpse at the nearby overhang. The ocean sparkled below—a car's length separated him from the dropoff into the beautiful turquoise waters. The salty air intoxicated his lungs, and he was beginning to get used to it. He could get used to a life of thinking less and enjoying the breathtaking horizon.
       "Where's Frypan?" Thomas asked casually, kneeling to grip another log.
       "Who do ya think left me in the dust for some breakfast?"
       "Oh." He noted the bitterness returning to Minho and steered their discussion on thin ice. "Well, Brenda and I are going down to the coast soon. You're welcome to join us if you're sick of lumber duty."
       Minho flashed him a grim smile as they dumped their logs. He scratched his head and stood silent for a moment. Eventually, he answered,
       "Yeah, I'll pay ya a visit, but I'm feeling crappy this morning. This shuck humidity from hell, amiright?"
       "Mhmm."
       "It never got so hot in the Glade. Here's got my head spinning in circles."
       "Mine too."
       Thomas brushed the wood powder off his hands and a soul-sinking numbness stabbed him without warning. He couldn't say anything to Minho without remembering what he'd done. It was like a pestilent fly that wouldn't quit biting. Restlessly, he scrutinized the final log of the smaller stack. It was the one he'd been eluding for a while: a mammoth thing, gnarled and fat. He wondered how the boys had managed to carry it from the woods in the first place. Unwillingly, he directed,
       "You can get its rear. I'll take the head."
       The two of them shuffled over to the behemoth and wrapped their fists around the tough bark. They lifted it once, but their movements weren't in sync. It toppled back down. Thomas groaned, having to channel most of his might to elevate it a second time.
       "C'mon, use your muscles!" Minho gutturally snapped from the effort.
       Thomas wrenched the log forward about a foot, then let it collapse with a wheeze. "Man, how on earth did you get this here?" he blurted out, flexing his fingers.
      Unfazed, Minho nudged the bark with a dirt-cladden shoe. He mopped a bead of sweat from his forehead and grumbled,
       "Try harder."
       "I'm trying so hard that my fingers are gonna fall off. Geez," Thomas replied.
       Like he'd yanked the string on a cannon, Minho's temper escalated. "Fine, be that way. Can't ask anything without there being trouble. Should've waited for a pro wrestler to come along."
       He released his grip on the log and stormed off to the overhang, shoving his hands in his pockets. Thomas followed tight on his heels, but he wasn't sure how to handle him. There was always someone else around to cool his flame, maybe Alby or—Newt.
       The source of bitterness dawned on him because of that one name, the one of three he'd been blocking out for days. Thomas skidded to a halt, allowing a berth of space between him and Minho. His pupils darted to his feet in shame. So they'd be doing this now. All of the aloof half-chats had led to this.
       "Every single thing in the universe is the matter. I'm blowing a gasket," Minho articulated, whirling around to face him.
       Thomas felt his stare piercing holes through him. Guilt constricted his airway, strangling him from the inside out. Such a rotten, tormenting guilt was foreign to his body. It was so insufferable that breaking his promise to hide the truth tempted him, yet their friendship would crumble if he did. You killed his close friend and he doesn't even know it. How dare you be so selfish? His thoughts echoed the most unfavorable solutions. He forced himself to meet Minho's intense glower.
       "How about we take a break," Thomas encouraged.
       A harsh gale of wind flattened strands of hair onto their faces. The waves hissed and bubbled below in the breezy weather, sending a cool spray upon them. Minho refused to stand down. He spoke through gritted teeth, pointing in the direction of the field.
       "I'm not in the mood for a break. But you can go, by all means."
       Thomas's calmness ran thin. "I'm trying to help you. What's your deal?"
       Minho slipped his hands out of his pockets to control his flailing hair. He looked away from him and locked his jaw. "My deal is it's finally hit me we're in the middle of hillbilly nowhere and no one gives a shuck about going back."
       "Go back? Go back where? You really wanna go back after what we've seen?" Thomas blanched at him.
       "Yes, no. All I want is some peace and quiet and for people to stop asking me questions twenty-four seven, including you." Minho jammed his thumb at him accusingly. "It's bad enough my own brain won't shut off. I can't stop thinkin' about...about how we left him at that place to decay like some sort of animal."
       Thomas gazed at his feet again. A rock sat in his stomach. Meekly, he offered,
       "You know...maybe Newt isn't suffering anymore. There's a chance a rowdy Crank caught hold of him before his condition could get much worse." Thomas attempted to fib on good terms, but Minho erupted into a fit of cold laughter. Hate shone in his eyes when he replied,
       "And that's supposed to make me feel better, huh? That some slinthead strangled him to death, is that right?"
       Thomas took a step backward, stuttering,
       "No, that's not what I—"
       "That's exactly what you meant. But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. Newt's gone to klunk, regardless of what's happened to him."
       You killed him. You pulled the trigger and you left him there, that's what happened.
       "I—" He bit his cheek. He couldn't tell him. He had to sustain the lie. Thomas glanced longingly toward the field.
       "What you gotta say, man?" Minho snarled.
       The confession of what he'd done stung his lips, battling to slip past them. Telling Minho would be a terrible mistake. It would go against everything he'd sworn to bury inside of himself, but what he'd done to Newt burned to free itself from his knowledge, teeming at the rim, milliliters from overflowing. It was something he could no longer bear concealing. Thomas opened his mouth—and it all spilled out. So much for being the good guy.
       "I'm so sorry, man. He made me. Newt put a gun to my head and didn't give me an option. He...begged me. Gave me a note, too." With a twitchy hand, he foraged in his pants pocket. Somehow, he'd managed to come this far without losing the folded envelope. He pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper but did not analyze it himself. Reluctantly, he passed it to Minho.
       The redness of his friend's cheeks doubled. He read the contents of the note once, twice, three times before giving it back. A glazed form of shock dominated his expression.
       "He's dead," Minho whispered, coming to an understanding. "...When?"
       The distant gurgle of the ocean filled the void in between their sentences. Thomas hung his head and tucked the note away. Quietly, he responded,
       "I found him in a street while driving in Lawrence's van." He didn't see the need in explaining anything more. He wasn't sure if he could.
       Minho looked over the cliff edge. Gradually, his anger chipped through the mask he'd constructed. "And you waited three days to tell me this?" he said, dangerously deadpan. His lips began to quiver.
       "I didn't know how. I thought you'd be better off—"
       Minho's face contorted and he kicked a mass of pebbles off the cliff, crying out,
       "Better off!" He thrust his fist into Thomas's chest before he could move out of the way. "Better off not knowing that you shot Newt!"
       Thomas's eyes widened. His heart thudded an extra beat at how close they were to the dropoff. He minimized his tone to a reasonable level.
       "He wanted it," he croaked. "I'm sorry. I was trying to save you the pain."
       "Well, don't! I didn't want that, and who gives a klunk about what Newt-the-Crank wanted? He was half psyched out of his noggin and you went and blew him to bits anyway!" Minho rammed his palm into his chest again, barging him an inch backward.
       Thomas tipped his chin over his shoulder, breathing heavily at the sight of the rocky cascade below. He explained in a frenzy,
       "Let's get off this edge before someone gets hurt. Please, Minho. It was never my intention to do what you're thinking. He was...sane enough to know his wishes."
       "You've already gotten people hurt! That's all you do, you show up in shanks' lives and hurt them!" With furious tears streaming down his cheeks, Minho wound his fist back.
       Thomas scrambled to dodge the blow. Cold blasts of briny wind roared up from the sea, disturbing his hair and pushing him sideways on his feet. A pair of knuckles drove into his stomach, and the combined propulsion tripped his balance. He doubled over himself. Reeled. Plunged off the overhang. The clear sky filled his vision in a blur as he suspended in midair. Then his reflexes activated and he threw his arms out to soften the landing, but he couldn't prepare for everything.
       His body hit the rocks fast. A jolt of searing pain cracked on the back of his head. During his descent into nothing, he swore he heard the echo of a vaguely recognizable voice calling his name.
       Thomas! it shrieked, feminine in pitch.
       It had to be Brenda, because Teresa was dead.