The hours blended together, becoming fragments of subtle movement and yawns. Minho didn't dare close his eyes and leave Thomas unsupervised. He tried having his doubts about the fact that his friend was hearing a dead boy's voice. Thomas still had that telepathic connection with Aris, for example, and Minho hadn't actually seen the body himself. But Thomas was irrational now, or maybe Teresa had planted the voice into his head for some twisted experiment. There were too many explanations.
When the sun crested a sliver over the horizon, Minho relished that the night was over. He took the early light as a cue to stand and stretch his cramping muscles. Thomas hunched behind him, bundled in the blanket. He wasn't alert, but he wasn't asleep either. Minho glanced around, placed in an awkward position. After a moment's debated pause, he crouched to his level and whispered softly,
"Hey, I'm gonna go get Frypan and head down to the beach to wash my hair. Stay here and make sure Isaac doesn't wake up till Frypan can take my place, okay?"
Thomas barely made the effort to tilt this head. Nervously, Minho brushed the grit off his pants and turned his back on him, picking out toiletries from the box. He tucked them under his arm and hiked down the rockbed, approaching a rickety tent at the edge of the camp. Made visible through a patch in its woodwork, Frypan sprawled on his side, hogging the shelter's limited space from other Munies. Minho tiptoed inside as silently as he could and kicked him in the shin. He dragged Frypan out by the collar and pinned him up against the flimsy tent wall.
"Listen, slinthead," he whistled through his teeth, "Thomas is super messed up right now. I need you to go to that heap of rocks and watch him and Isaac. If Isaac wakes up before I get back, knock him out again. If Iris shows up, knock her out. If Little TomTom spontaneously combusts, figure it out yourself because I sure can't. The twins are not your friends. You wanted validation, so here it is: Isaac stabbed Thomas. Are you happy?"
"I, um," Frypan stuttered, his eyes sharpening from sleep. "Shuck, I'm sorry. Where are you going?"
"To feed the finches and sing Heigh-Ho," Minho sneered, releasing his grip from his collar. "I'll be back soon. Don't do anything stupid."
Frypan pressed further,
"What's happening to him, Minho? Is he okay?"
"Physically, he's on the mend. Not mentally. If you hadn't abandoned us to go with Teresa on her Berg joyride, you would remember how Newt started shorting his circuits just like this. This isn't our first rodeo."
"I didn't aban—"
"When you get down there," Minho snarled, "don't talk to Thomas unless he talks to you. And if you do talk, don't say anything to make him mad."
Frypan looked away. His jaw sank into a deep frown. "Fine."
When the comment wasn't followed up by any life-imposing questions worthy of his time, Minho sped off to the beach, having to dodge puddles left and right. It's not fair, he thought to himself. He might have prayed had he not lost all faith in God. What kind of god lets this stuff happen to his own children? It's shucking cruel. He flexed his knuckles and didn't bother traveling on the slope; he found a low dip on the Cliff and leapt off of it.
The ocean waves sparkled in the early light. He strode to the waterline and opened the shampoo, popping off its cap. He lowered his head and splashed the cool water onto it, squeezing a large glob of the flower-scented hair product into his palm. He scrubbed until his scalp tingled, then rinsed it out. He rolled up his soaked sleeves.
Minho recalled that Aris would be somewhere around the Cliff wall. It would be the moral thing to give his body a proper burial, although it must have reeked of death by now. Scrunching his nose, he scoured the beach. He walked along the cliffside, crossing by nothing unordinary. The body had most likely washed away, or WICKED could have taken it out of the Dome...or what Thomas had been hearing truly was Aris calling for help. But if the latter wasn't true, going on an expedition to track him down would only worsen Thomas's mindset.
Minho glumly trekked up the slope. Having telepathy would be useful in situations like these, no matter how freakish it was. A few early risers whittled at their ruined tents, and the friendly ones said good morning to him. He was too anxious about Iris hunting him to respond and draw unwanted attention.
He continued on the path to the rockbed, and Thomas flinched at his unannounced appearance. Minho grabbed his water bottle from the package and poured a few drops onto a toothbrush. He globbed on some toothpaste and brushed in rough, distracted circles. After spitting out the foam, he grumbled to Frypan,
"Your buddy here led us right to a Gate, and it fed us this miracle package."
He bloomed with excitement. "That rock is a Box?"
"Yep. We're also in possession of Isaac's beloved pocket knife, so I'm thinking it'll be refreshing to use his own blade against him."
Frypan gawked at him. "You can't kill him, man."
"Shuck right we can't. Paige won't allow it."
Frypan hopped off the rock he'd been lounging on and climbed down to confront him. "Where's Iris?"
Minho scowled. "Missing."
"I could try to—"
"She doesn't like you, bro, never did. That's how it is, take it or leave it."
"Then what do you want me to do?" Frypan's nostrils flared. "We can't keep Isaac on a leash forever."
Minho strolled away from him, snapping,
"You're gonna help me drain him for information, that's what you're gonna do."
At a loss, Frypan went over to the box to forage for a spare granola bar. One glance at Thomas made Minho pity him, so he called out,
"Throw me one of those!" A bar soared through the air in his direction. Minho dove to catch it. Mindfully, he inched over to Thomas on the rock slab. "Breakfast?" he tempted him.
Thomas's eyes looked pinkish and glazed. He sniffed in response and took the bar, casting his pupils to its shiny wrapper. His pale fingers trembled as he peeled it. The skin was too pale, in fact—the tint of red blood ran absent from his veins. Thomas murmured something faint.
"Huh? Repeat that."
"Thanks. I said thanks." A strain hid in his voice.
"No problem. So, uh, about Aris—"
A wounded cry sounded from below. Minho whipped his head toward Isaac, silently cursing him for his timing.
"Whew," the spy hissed. He reeled upright, defensively rubbing the bruise on his forehead. Frypan lunged to prevent him from running away, but he seemed to want to stay just as much as they wanted him to. His cold black eyes hungrily searched the three of them. "You guys give some rough welcomes, don't you?"
Minho charged down to him. Frypan said unsympathetically,
"Dirty liars get what's coming to 'em."
Isaac yawned. He batted a careless eye. "You don't know jack about me."
Minho got tired of his cryptic comebacks.
"Oh, we're about to know everything, slinthead," he spat. "There'll be more jolly welcomes headed your way if you don't spill."
Thomas slinked over to their group without inputting a word. He glared at Isaac, and Isaac glared at him.
"Where are you really from?" Frypan asked, pacing around the spy. "Where's your sister now?"
Isaac made a point of sitting down on one of the rocks. He scowled up at them, recognizably bothered by their curiosity. "You subjects are so nosy," he jeered. "I suppose it's in your nature."
Minho powered his arm back for a solid blow, but Thomas swatted it down, ruling,
"Not yet." He swiveled to face Isaac. "Have you had your say? Used up all your insults?"
Isaac smirked, throwing him the finger. "I've got a few more up my sleeve."
Minho pushed Thomas aside to crouch in front of the guy. He explained heatedly, tensing up,
"If you try to kill anyone, I'll kill you, and I don't give a flying klunk about how powerful the Board thinks its control over me is."
Isaac's shell remained thick. He released a halfhearted chuckle. "Your ignorance is adorable," he purred, motioning to Frypan with a fox-like smile. "So is his." He pointed to Thomas, amused. "Oh, and his!"
Surprisingly, Thomas's knuckles bashed into his nose. Isaac flew backward, expelling a short whimper. Frypan grimaced. Flustered by the incident, Minho darted a cautious glance at both of them before towing Isaac up off his back.
"We can play this game all day, Walker," he established brutally. "Let's try this again. Where's your sister? Will she come for us?"
Isaac shakily rose to his feet. He wiped at the blood streaming from his nose, admiring its stain on his hand. "Damn, Minho, your chum can really pack a punch, eh?"
"Answer him!" Frypan boomed.
Isaac held his hands up, tame as a lamb. "I don't have to answer anything. Safer for all of us if I don't, in my humble opinion. And you should care about my opinion, hint hint."
Minho's frustration seeped through every pore of his body. "If you can't tell us, we'll find Iris ourselves and beat the answers outta her—girl or no girl!"
Isaac's cheeriness subdued. He hardened at the threat to his sister, and Minho was relieved he had a weakness. Smearing a second line of blood from his upper lip, Isaac replied darkly,
"Don't you dare strike me with that."
Minho puckered his lips in a false pout. "Aww. We dare plenty, shuck-face."
Isaac threw himself at him. Thomas and Frypan had to race to his side and claw him away. Energized by the unanticipated attack, Minho continued chipping at his frailty,
"Iris is important, right? A weasel like you. She lurks and hides, but for what? What is she waiting for? Why doesn't she pop over here and save your sad little behind?" He leaned forward, getting up close to his oily black hair and black heart.
"Shut up! You don't know us!" Isaac desperately recited. He thrashed under the boys' grips, gnashing his teeth.
"Why so powerless now, Walker?" Minho grilled.
"I'm protecting her, goddammit!" Isaac turned beet red. "I'm not powerless!"
Minho watched him get jostled as Thomas demanded from him,
"Why! From who!"
Isaac slid to his knees, cursing them foully. "The Intel! Geez, it's because of the Intel!"
Minho grunted at his first ounce of compliance. He sponged a bead of sweat from his collarbone, stating more calmly,
"Who is this Intel?"
"I don't know! I thought I did, but I don't!"
"Then tell me what the shucking title means."
A muscle protruded from Isaac's neck. He gulped. "Spy. It basically means spy."
"But you're a spy." Minho quirked an eyebrow.
Isaac huffed and squirmed in Thomas and Frypan's tight hold. "Not that type of spy. You can't—bud, don't even start with me. Everything I say the Intel hears, okay? If we get too comfortable and share our secrets, Iris gets blasted."
"Blasted, as in killed?" Frypan pried.
"Yes, tortured and killed! Blasted, smoked, scorched, the whole nine yards! Don't underestimate an Intel!"
Minho scanned Isaac up and down, dissecting him for potential lies. He dipped his chin and trained his focus on the bruise on his forehead, wondering how many more of them he'd have to inflict. He didn't like hurting people, for all he tried to convince otherwise. After a thorough inspection, he cleared his throat and clarified to Thomas,
"He's telling the truth."
The whites of Thomas's knuckles lessened as he softened his grip. "What about the girl?" he growled.
The girl in the storm. Minho had almost forgotten about her. He stared at Isaac with tireless determination. "Great question. What about the chick you chatted up last night, Walker? Anything we should know about her?"
Isaac blew a river of blood from his nose, displaying a rueful scowl. He shielded the panic in his voice with indifference.
"I didn't meet any chick."
The intensity of Frypan's anger spiked. "Minho, get the knife if he won't talk!"
Isaac straightened from his knees. He wormed to free himself as his alarm bubbled into full volume. "Don't! Hell, I can't make myself more clear! There's no room in the Endtime for this interrogation!" His expression pleaded for an end.
He wouldn't let Isaac off that easy. Minho ignored the knife in the box against his better judgement and stepped up to him, glowering. "I'll ask one more time. Who is the girl?"
The corner of Isaac's mouth pointed up. "Rosalía Lopez. You don't wanna get in her way."
Thomas stamped on his foot, and the ferocity in his motion intimidated Minho. "Could she be the Intel? Yes or no!" he hollered.
"No!" the spy fired back, exasperated. "I thought..." He sealed his lips in reconsideration.
Frypan wrenched on his shoulder enough to cause Minho to wince. Isaac cried out,
"Th-the dude who came up from the beach with Thomas! Him! I thought he was the Intel! But he didn't—"
Thomas's face contorted in recollection of something. Frypan didn't hesitate to bark at Isaac for elaboration.
"He didn't have the Mark," the spy forced out. "At least, not one I could see. I'm not sure."
Minho rolled his eyes. "Oh, the Mark. Yes, we all know exactly what that is."
A storm of impatience brewed in Isaac. The veins in his arms popped out. "Marks are branded on every Intel's neck. They're hard to miss, and they hurt like a firestorm when you first get 'em."
Minho cocked his head at him. A flock of seagulls zipped overhead, cawing in the silence that followed. He responded venomously,
"And what makes you the expert on Intels, Mr. WICKED spy?"
The chorus of the seagulls faded in the distance. Isaac shot him a funny look.
"Because I used to be one," he said. "But I'm currently far from being a WICKED spy."
Stunned, Frypan let go of him and Thomas's lips parted in a gape. The three of them backed away, speaking all at once.
"Woah, woah, hold up."
"What do you mean?"
"Then what are you?"
Isaac sighed, tutting them under his breath. He massaged the areas where their grips had been and re-embodied his carefree persona. "Fellas, there's been a misunderstanding. I don't work for your glorious leaders."
Minho stomped back over to him. Inhaling deeply, he cross-examined,
"Who, then? The Right Arm? Are you here to save us?"
Isaac scoffed. "No and no. Unfortunately for you, my guys want the cure as much as your guys do."
Wildness pulsed through Thomas's demeanor. He made a lurch for Isaac, but Minho tugged him away, authorizing,
"Easy, man. Hear him out."
"Dude, he wants us dead as much as WICKED does! I don't see what's left to be heard!" Thomas breathed heavily, clamping his nails into his palms. His eyes swirled with rage.
Minho balanced the situation on tenterhooks. He glanced at Isaac once more. "What other organization is out there?"
Holding a finger to his lips, Isaac mouthed,
"Intel."
"Why don't we just head over to Luke and double-check if he has the Mark?" Frypan alleged. "Then we'll know if it's safe or not for Iris to come out of hiding."
Isaac unexpectedly considered this, shrugging. "Sure. It'll make a nice quest since you sabotaged my escape from this hellhole."
Frypan and Minho moved at the same time to take hold of the spy's arms. Thomas stepped in their path, however, to hurl him one final question.
"Why is the Board letting you live?"
Isaac smiled without friendliness. "Think of me as a player in a giant game of cat and mouse. I'm a mouse scurrying around in your barn, and old Ava is a cat who can do nothing but send mice of her own to destroy me. The thing is, Tomcat," he rocked forward, getting in his face, "mice who fight mice don't die easily."
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...
