Frypan rushed them up the slope, muttering something to himself about stew. Thomas asked most of the extra questions since Minho insisted on giving them the silent treatment.
"Did you ever find Aris?"
A thick grunt. "Nope. He's runnin' wild in the Woods somewhere, last I checked. I gave up checking, by the way."
Thomas shuddered. He hadn't forgotten a single word said, but now he grasped that the comments weren't totally Aris's fault. Surely, he would be past Gone when they—no, if they found him alive.
Next question. "How'd you meet the twins?"
"By accident," Frypan said soberly, guiding them toward a certain spot in the crowded field. "After we buried Gally, Isaac stuck up for me when some shuck-face tried to pin the murder on my head. He helped sway the camp to be anti-Brenda and anti-Jorge, and then I met his sister. They're cool people. From Vegas Ruinas, I think."
"That's nice, Frypan," Thomas said as earnestly as possible.
The cook flashed him a quick smile, digging for an item in the grass below their feet. He picked up a wooden bowl bundled in cloth. It was terribly carved, but he didn't seem to mind.
"Lunchtime," Frypan announced. "I'll let you guys be the judge of how bland Tracy's cooking is. I'm sure she'll allow me to lend you a couple bowls."
Thomas placed a hand on his stomach, recognizing that he was starving. He couldn't recall when he'd last eaten. Minho broke his oath of silence to say,
"What's on the menu?"
Frypan nodded for them to follow him, pointing toward the Hill. "Boiled fish stew, maybe with some venison. That's all there's been to chow on while you two were gone."
"I miss your sandwiches," Thomas groused.
Minho faked a gag when Frypan wasn't looking. "I'm gonna miss not knowing what venison tastes like."
They approached a table-like platform of three logs, where the woman they'd met from earlier worked behind. She stirred a concoction in a large clay lump resembling a pot—which Thomas prayed wasn't as unsanitary as it appeared—and hummed to herself. Tracy struck him as someone who had been well put together before the Immune bounty. Her hair maintained an ornate braided top knot and her nails shone redder than rubies. She stopped stirring to grin at Frypan.
"You gonna help serve this time or stand around?" She clucked her tongue. "And are these your friends I've been hearing all about?"
Frypan ducked his head, but Thomas saw his flushed cheeks as he marched to pull out two small bowls from under the log table. He handed them out, replying sheepishly,
"Yup. That's Thomas on the left, Minho on the right."
Thomas's stomach churned with hunger. He took a bowl impatiently, getting less picky by the minute for the unappetizing scent wafting from the pot. Other Immunes anticipated the food as well, standing at a distance. Tracy acknowledged him and Minho with an arched brow.
"You're WICKED kids. My condolences about your friends."
Minho sank into himself. "We don't need condolences. We need some shuckin' justice—"
Thomas stepped in front of him before he could do any more damage. He held out his hand to Tracy, fumbling for words. "—Thank you. We appreciate your kindness."
She shook the spoon in her hand to turn down his clumsy offering, siding with Minho instead. "I get where you're comin' from. Justice is a dream. My mother caught the Flare last year and got shipped off to a Crank Palace against her will. The government boys didn't do a thing about it—they couldn't even explain the local outbreak."
Minho lit up at her confession. He murmured to Tracy,
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Like you said, we gotta find justice." She craned her neck to admire the graying sky. "It sure ain't here."
Thomas couldn't agree more. He passed his bowl from hand to hand, noting how a raindrop stained the dry wood of its rim. Another cool orb splashed on his cheek. Tracy hurriedly sampled the stew and tapped her spoon dry on the pot. She directed to Frypan,
"Call it out. Food for fifteen, max."
Frypan cupped his palms over his mouth, booming to the camp,
"Food's ready! No more than fifteen people over here till the next batch!"
Tracy looked at Thomas insightfully. "Get it now while you still can," she purred. "It's cold, but the meat's cooked."
Almost drooling, he lowered his bowl into the pot and greedily scooped the stew into it. Barely tasting, he slurped up the thick meat while Minho elbowed him out of the way to get his own. It wasn't actually that bad, and after Frypan had a taste, he argued,
"I can do better."
Tracy pursed her lips. "I'd like to witness that myself. Next batch is on you, kid."
Rapidly, the Immunes gathered behind them to form a sloppy procession. Thomas spotted the twins fifth in line. Minho split from the cluster of people to head off toward a tree; Frypan stole a bowl of stew for himself and went after him. With a final glance at the siblings, Thomas joined them at last, strolling over to the colossal oak trunk. He sat down on one of its roots as a heavy gust of wind rustled the leaves above. The raindrops progressed into a gentle splatter.
Minho finished draining his bowl and wiped his lips, gazing at the clouds. He turned to Thomas. "How can it rain? This place has a ceiling, right?"
Thomas swallowed his mouthful and responded,
"I don't know. Maybe they have giant water buckets that pour onto us like the ones in kiddie splash pads."
Minho blinked at him. "Bro, I have no idea what you're talking about."
He waved his hands in the air and made a dumping gesture. "You know, those buckets at water parks. The huge ones, the...never mind."
Isaac and Iris emerged from the hungry mob with bowls in their hands. They roamed over to their trio, issuing friendly waves. Iris plopped by Frypan. Isaac crossed his arms, requesting formally,
"Mind if I take a seat?"
Thomas shrugged at him. Iris scooted closer to Frypan. She stated with an unexpected dose of cheery energy,
"Is this your meal?"
"Nope. Are you disappointed it's not?"
Iris smirked. "Nope. I expect your food to have taste." She removed a flower from her braid and placed it on his ear.
Minho whipped his head to gawk at Thomas. Quietly, he mouthed to him,
"Iris and Frypan sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I—"
"Slim it, you shuck-face." Frypan shoved Minho.
"You're the shuck-face. I can't believe my poor sweet eyes." He faked a tortured gasp.
Isaac snickered under his breath. "Shuck-face?"
The humor evaporated.
Minho's voice hardened. "Yeah. You got a problem with that, slinthead?"
"Slinthead," Isaac repeated. He wasn't rude about it, just curious. "No, I don't."
Minho peered at him hostilely, and Thomas had to bump him in the ribs to get him to quit the death glare. Isaac's face remained inscrutable. He seemed older than all of them, maybe twenty. Thomas decided to interrogate him a little.
"How old are you, Isaac?"
"Eighteen. You?"
"Sixteen, I think," he mumbled. Minho added,
"Same. How about your sis?"
Iris proudly spoke for herself. "Older than Isaac by forty-six seconds."
"You don't know your own age?" Isaac pried, eyes widening.
Thomas sipped the rest of his soup and set his bowl in the grass. Uncomfortably, he shook his head. "No. So, um, what was your life like in Vegas Ruinas?"
Isaac reacted as if he'd spoken in a foreign language. He cleared his throat. "Uh, average. It was hot there. Lots of Cranks."
Minho cocked his head at him, rebuffing,
"I thought Cranks were kept outta cities."
Iris's smooth reply came a tad too fast. "They are. I mean, you're bound to get the regular bunch within the walls."
"Sure." Minho didn't buy a word.
Frypan stood up, breaking the awkwardness with,
"I'm due for my shift. You guys have fun catching up."
The twins waved at him together, uttering goodbyes. Thomas opened his mouth to ask another question, but Isaac beat him to it.
"Enough about our boring lives. You're the WICKED kids. What was your life like in the fancy headquarters? Also, off topic, we're sorry about your friends. They were too young to pass away."
Minho was frigid. "They were."
"Our lives were also pretty average," Thomas lied, forcing sincerity into his tone. "Mostly tests and stuff."
Iris stared at him for a moment, unblinking. Then she smiled. "Then we have something in common."
People say they're average to hide that they're not. Thomas coughed out a laugh, plastering on a smile of his own. Minho didn't bother pretending to be nice. His reply cracked like a whip.
"A pleasure meeting you, Isaac and Iris...you got last names?"
"Walker," the twins said at the same time. At least that aspect of themselves appeared genuine.
Minho climbed to his feet and everyone mimicked him. Thomas faced the strange siblings with caution, waiting to see who'd break the silence first. Iris's smile fell into a twitchy grimace. She stamped on her brother's foot, and he stammered out,
"Good meeting you too. We look forward to crossing paths again."
Thomas gritted his teeth. "Absolutely."
The second they walked out of audible distance, Minho's frustration leaked through his composure. "Paige is really sending anyone in here now thinking we're dumb enough to believe this crap. How're we gonna tell Frypan?"
Thomas kicked the wooden bowl at his feet, thinking through the situation. "He's probably crushing hard on Iris."
"Duh. She's the only chick he's liked since the dawn of time."
A torrent of heavy rain pelted down on them. Minho tilted his chin down to shield himself. Thomas dared to wonder if the clouds would unleash something far grimmer than a thirty minute rainshower. It was incredible how such weather was possible in the Dome. Drearily, he bargained,
"We can go try to explain things to Frypan. He's not gonna have much business making stew in this weather."
Minho bobbed his head, squinting. Crystal droplets cloaked his lashes. "I'm glad the Munies built those tents."
Shivering, they darted across the unruly lawn and back to Tracy's stand. The woman had since abandoned her post, leaving Frypan to manage it himself. He struggled to slice a piece of meat, and his stubbornness held even though his customers were long gone. Minho leaned against the log table, raising his voice over the wind,
"Give it up, man! We gotta talk to you!"
Frypan threw the slab of venison into the pot and squawked,
"Fine! You got a drier place in mind?"
Thomas examined the flooding landscape, picking out a couple of tents that were salvageable. He jutted his finger in their direction, saying,
"Those might hold!" He grabbed for Minho and tugged him forward, then signaled for Frypan to come along.
The rain pricked against their flesh, downpouring from every inch of the heavens. Violent gales of wind ripped the tents to bits and sent people scattering for better shelter. Thomas puzzled at its ferocity. Its realness. He pumped his legs into a sprint and dove into the nearest hut, crashing into a broken wooden spike. The structure wobbled, slanting down on him. Minho pulled him back and yanked the beam into place again.
"If this thing flies into the clouds, we're going to the cave!" he told Thomas. Minho swept his dripping hair from his forehead and frowned at Frypan once they were safe from the storm. "You met a couple of walking Variables the other day."
Frypan brow stooped. "Huh?"
"The twins are freaks. Nothin' they say seems legit." Minho peeked through the tent flap. "I wouldn't trust them if I was hanging upside down in a chamber full of bears."
Thomas fought a random wave of vertigo. He had nowhere to sit down, so he tilted to rest against a vertical beam. Frypan answered,
"No. You don't know Iris like I do. She can't work for the Creators."
Thomas closed his eyes as the world's noises sharpened, getting louder and unbearable. The tick in the back of his mind became a gong.
"Did Brenda and Jorge teach you nothing? Or Teresa? We can't trust anyone here but ourselves!" Minho ridiculed.
"Why can't you let me be happy for once in my miserable life! Why can't you get off my back!"
"I'm trying to help you, idiot!"
Thomas squeezed his lids. His legs rocked. "Guys—"
"You've helped me plenty enough! You're wrong about the twins. Iris is normal, dude. I want to be normal. I bet you've never liked anybody but yourself!"
"I oughta punch you in the nose for that!"
Thomas slumped, whispering,
"Guys, something's wrong."
His cheek came into contact with damp soil.
Tom, I have to show you this.
***
He's twelve, maybe thirteen, and his coat collar itches at his neck. Teresa is ashen with anxiety. She's overthinking things again. He shoots her a light grin, but it does little to erase the eagerness they both have. The optical-illusion technology for the Maze sky should be functioning properly so advanced in the making, but there's a glitch in the programming that neither of them can locate. Teresa huffs in disapproval, typing something speedily on the tablet a couple of technicians had given them.
Thomas sniffs the stale air, considering what could happen to them if the bug doesn't get fixed within the next two days. Suspension from the project? Punishment? Doomed for another night in the Crank pits? He wrinkles his nose at the many possibilities. None of them will happen. He'll stay up all night if he has to in order to locate that glitch.
"You think it was an external breach? We could come at this from another angle and check the projection software for disruptions or underlapping interference," Teresa offers. "I could make a run to the control room right now."
Thomas shakes his head and criticizes,
"Nah, not a chance. WICKED's got the best tech security out there. And if there's really some sort of breach, it's not our problem to deal with."
"It wouldn't hurt to check, Tom. I don't know what else to do anymore. We've tried every command and input in the system and I'm pretty sure if we started counting down the photons, those would be perfect too! It's like we're missing something so over our heads that we can't begin to fathom it, and that's what's driving me crazy."
Thomas's jaw locks. She's right, after all. They'd tweaked with the buttons and levers in the control room for hours and came out with empty hands, plus a large chunk of unfixable gray sky. Even the most far fetched option is something, so he agrees.
"Fine. Let's talk to the engineers and see what they think."
Teresa rolls her eyes. She walks through the vine-wrapped corridor with her hands on her hips, tipping her head back to scan the giant malfunctioning square of illusion above them. "The engineers won't do anything for us. I bet this is another test to see if we can solve the glitch."
"Well, we won't know unless we talk to them."
Thomas swivels on his heel to head back to the Griever hatch, but she grabs his sleeve and speaks telepathically,
Hold on a sec.
Teresa taps a colorful icon on their tablet and the screen distorts to reflect their faces at them. A camera. She giggles when she glances at the starstruck look on his face and holds out the tablet farther to fit both of their bodies into the frame.
"Are you sure we're allowed?" he sputters.
"Shh. Now smile."
As they shift to assemble themselves to take the photo, the gray block of sky shudders, then expands to twice its original size. It drapes them in darkness.
"Oh no," Thomas squeaks, and his throat swells up. A poutish whine erupts from Teresa, but she quickly swallows the discouragement and reinstates,
Smile.
Thomas forces a lopsided grin that he hopes will appear authentic. She presses a button before tucking the tablet in her back pocket. She steps past him and rules out,
"Yeppers. Guess we've gotta see the engineers. Whatever's gotten to the projection software isn't our fault. I think that guy named Kramer who was here last week seems nice enough to bother."
"I wouldn't say nice, but okay. At least he's kinder than Randall."
"Everyone's kinder than Randall." Teresa wedges herself into the Griever hatch, peering sneakily at him from the other side. "I'll try to develop the picture later. Fingers crossed they'll let me do it."
Thomas nods grimly, strolling over to the hole in the maze cavern wall.
***
He staggered upward, seeing double before his vision refocused. He licked his cracked lips and perceived that a wooly brown blanket hugged his body. Mud marinated his jeans, although his shirt had been spared by something; he twisted around and spotted a backpack elevating him. It looked like the one Jorge had obtained from the Woods. He gazed around himself, groggy and stiff.
"Hey," Thomas said to Minho hoarsely, sitting up.
Minho glanced down at him from above. "Finally, sleeping beauty. What was that all about?"
He peeled away the warm blanket and got to his feet, remarking,
"Teresa knocked me out for some stupid flashback. I barely remember what happened in it, but that picture from the envelope, I know how and when it was taken."
Minho looked faintly interested. "Anything important?"
"Not really. There was a glitch in the Maze sky that we couldn't fix, and Teresa thought someone else was responsible for it."
"That's a shame. You've been out for like an hour."
The musty air of the Maze—the maze cavern—lingered on his palate. He vividly recalled Teresa's young face. Gradually, she was making him connect with his past self, the person he'd sworn he'd buried for good.
YOU ARE READING
The Immunity Illness
Science-FictionParadise. They had walked straight through a cold wall into paradise, where time remained perfectly still. Thomas's mind finally silenced itself of all things related to the trials, tests, and lies. The Cranks of his dreams became just that: dreams...
