The Immunity Illness

CHAPTER 19, Thomas

He didn't quite get what Isaac meant by the analogy, but it unnerved him to his core. They traveled to the camp alongside this spy—this moody, sarcastic spy—whose true allegiance remained a mystery. Thomas strongly craved for him to walk out of their lives and leave them with one less problem. He had the Flare, for crying out loud. Wasn't that enough stress for one day?
       Isaac stated gravely to him,
       "You remember Luke's face the best. What's he look like?"
       Thomas bitterly avoided eye contact and mulled over Luke's features. "Tan, I guess. Curly hair. Our age."
       Minho's neck twisted from left to right, taking in the bustling landscape. He pointed across the field. "That him?"
       Carrying a crooked spear while milling with a group toward the Woods, Luke was, indeed, the figure in question. Thomas raised his brows.
       "Yeah, that's the dude." He turned to Minho. "Sharp eye."
       They continued faster through the camp so as not to lose sight of the stranger. Once they crossed into audible distance, Thomas broke away from the others, yelling out,
       "Luke!" At first, he didn't spin around. Thomas enunciated, "Hey, Luke!"
       Luke whirled to face him, perking up. His pupils flickered from Thomas to Isaac. Concerned, he jogged over to them and dropped his spear. "Hey! What's wrong?"
       Thomas advanced closer to him, fumbling for an excuse. He hadn't thought of what to say when he'd planned out their encounter in his mind. All he needed was a quick peek at his neck.
       "Are you okay?" Luke added, innocent of his turbulent affairs.
       Thomas bobbed his head like a fool. He put his hands in his pockets. "I, uh, wanted to check in on you." He found his heart pounding and realized that he didn't want Luke to have the Mark.
       He gazed at Thomas dubiously, then past him at the others, explaining in a low hush,
       "I'm doing fine. How about you? Is that psycho causing you trouble?"
       Thomas didn't immediately respond. He scanned both sides of Luke's neck and discovered it bare of anything except flesh. Normal. He breathed out in great relief, relaxing. Quickly, he answered,
       "No trouble. We had a misunderstanding. You don't have to worry about him."
       "Or the girl?" Luke's electric stare narrowed on him. His smile bordered on a frown.
       Thomas tried his own grin. "Nope. We're all cool now."
       Luke shifted his weight from one foot to another, taken aback. He seemed satisfied by the story and knelt to pick up his spear. "Wanna tag along for some hunting?"
       Thomas barely got a word out before Minho flounced to his side, announcing,
       "No thanks. Word of advice, though. Don't go farther than the two huge twin oaks. Past there is flooded with spider nests and snakes. The ick slams into you like a wall."
       Luke's face coiled in distaste. He glanced at the Woods behind them. "Will do. I hate snakes."
       Minho patted Thomas on the shoulder with an extra hint of drama. His acting skills ranged over the top in cockiness, and it showed when he said,
       "I'm not surprised. C'mon, Thomas, buddy. We've got crops to plant."
       Thomas looked at Luke apologetically and bounded off into the field, half-towed by his friend. Once they caught up to Isaac and Frypan, Minho hissed,
       "Mark or no Mark?"
       "No Mark," he verified, wrestling out of his grasp.
       Isaac swore and switched to high alert. "Then we'll have to split up. The Intel's goal is to monitor us while we monitor you."
       Frypan snorted. "No way. We're not..."
       A buzz droned in Thomas's brain, exploding into the garbled voice of Aris.
       Last chance, Thomas. I'm near Gate 35.
       He buckled in terror. Minho stabilized him before he collapsed, questioning intently,
       "What's Aris saying, Thomas? Answer me."
       He blinked at him and discovered himself able to calm down a bit. "He's—he's near Gate 35."
       Instead of becoming disappointed, Minho glowed, chirping,
       "That's an actual place! Isn't that the tube we rose out of from the complex?"
       Thomas paused his existential dread. He gripped onto Minho in turn, blurting out,
       "Wait, I'm not crazy?"
       "You're not crazy!"
       They high-fived like giddy idiots. All the while, Frypan and Isaac goggled at them as if they'd each grown seven heads. Minho's concentration fixed onto the field beyond the camp.      
       "I'm coming with you to see him," he mentioned briskly. "Frypan, stay here with Isaac and don't move till we get back."
       "Bro, hold on, no—" Frypan wasn't given the chance to speak his mind, as Minho was already sprinting through the field with Thomas swift on his flank.
       They retraced their original route to the location of the metal hatch, having to redirect themselves after a couple wrong turns. The sun beat down on them overhead, sweltering even in its artificiality. They plowed through a cluster of orange flowers and halted when a pair of knuckles burst out from the weeds, accompanied by a harried whisper.
       "Get down!"
       Thomas jumped backward, but Minho pursued the hand, uncovering the shrubbery to disclose the crouched body of Aris. He was grubby and paranoid, topped by an unruly mop of hair.
       "I'll be shucked," Minho commented. "Look what the ocean coughed up."
       Thomas slid next to Aris, eyeing him in wonder as he shriveled into the thicket. In a squeak, Aris muttered to them,
       "Be discreet! What've you done? The beetle blades are gonna find me!"
       Minho plopped onto the ground and crossed his legs. Nonchalantly, he explained,
       "Chill. Chances are you've been under their radar without you having a clue. If the Board wanted ya dead before, they don't right now."
       Aris attempted to collect himself. He bent lower in the grass, and smudges of color glinted on his skin that were smeared by wear but not totally absent.
       Makeup.
       "You were faking it," Thomas gathered, seizing a fistful of grass to quell his nerves. "You're no Crank."
       Minho glared at Aris. "Tell the truth."
       Aris's eyes glimmered their regular green, no longer milky. He didn't bother delivering a spiel of nonsense and cut straight to the point. "It was for a Variable. I don't remember why. Teresa and Na—Teresa, she told me what to do. WICKED hardwired me into the abstraction database when everyone got their memories back. I...didn't need to get mine, because I already—"
       Thomas connected two and two before he finished his sentence and threw himself on top of Aris, shouting,
       "You had your memories this whole time! This whole time!!"
       Minho pounced on them. "Traitor!" he cried.
       Aris scrambled through the dirt and weeds. He stammered,
       "Please, listen! WICKED screwed me over. I was tricked into receiving an implant. When we got back from Denver, Teresa started whispering things in my head that I couldn't object to. By the time we fled through that Flat Trans, I didn't have control over my own speech anymore. Turns out, that implant put my brain on obedience mode or something."
       Thomas snarled,
       "If you honestly expect us to believe that—"
       Aris climbed to his knees and gazed at both of them brokenly. "Everything I've said and done, it's all been dictated by the database. Every cue and Variable, every betrayal. I used to know everything about the Endtime Trial until I got better at overpowering the obedience chip, and then Teresa planted holes in my memories. When I ran down to the beach last night, she tried to disconnect me via Swipe, which would fry my brain and instantly kill me. But somehow, maybe because of the conflicting electromagnetic frequencies of the surrounding lightning, her command didn't work all the way. Now my telepathy with her is frayed. Somehow I'm half alive." The spot between Aris's brow creased with emotion. He hugged his arms around his chest.
       Thomas and Minho shared a glimpse of disbelief. They sputtered for a moment before Minho mustered the phrase,
       "Where were you when we were in the complex for those three days after Brenda and Jorge's skit? Were you some sort of robot in the Woods?"
       A hollowness passed over Aris. "No. I wasn't in the Dome. They took me out and...I don't want to talk about it. Lots of hallucinations." He stared at the ground. "There was a bad man in there. A Psych."
       Frustrated, Minho tilted back on his hands and peered at the sky. Thomas said firmly,
       "Your warning. Do you remember the warning?"
       Aris shook his head. "What warning?"
       "'Frypan's gonna—'. That one. Could he be in danger?"
       "I don't know." Aris bowed his neck, making lazy indents in the dirt with a stick. "There's so many gaps in my memories."
       Minho squinted at him.
       "Could this be related to Serum AB-6?" he relentlessly inferred. "Does anyone else have the crap besides myself, Thomas, and Frypan? Any shanks who aren't dead?"
       Aris puffed out a startled breath of air. "Frypan doesn't have it. He's safe. The Trial wasn't as dependent on the Serum before the Main Candidate, Gally, died."
       Thomas stood up to prevent his mind from swimming any deeper into the insurmountable puzzle of the Endtime. He absently touched the coil of blue liquid on his back.
       "You're pathetic," he seethed to Aris. "You had your memories and did nothing for us. You're no better than Teresa."
       Aris towered to his feet and Minho followed suit. Aris smoothed his rabid hair with his fingers, flimsily defending,
       "I am not Teresa. I may have lied, but I'm not heartless like her."
       "Liars aren't trustworthy. Don't expect us to trust you again," Minho smoldered.
       Waving him off, Aris emitted a subtle laugh. "You never trusted me to begin with. Good thing we're not buddies, huh?" He wandered around the floral territory of the field, plucking the fragile petals he collided with. Soon he had a handful of bright orange. Aris tossed the wildflowers in the air and watched them rain down with a muted expression. Through the curtain of color, Thomas heard him speak without moving his lips.
       WICKED still needs one of your brains for the blueprint.
       Oh.
       Thomas took a step backward. Oh.
       The words hit him like a brick. He placed his hand over his heart before he could do anything regrettable. Maybe he'd known this was coming; this was the only logical ending to a trial called the Endtime. Maybe he'd known, but then maybe if he had, he would have done something about it. He should have known.
       Say something normal so he doesn't catch on, Aris ordered.
       "We—we should go to the camp. Fill Frypan in." Thomas couldn't stop the monotone from seeping in. He gazed at Aris in astonishment. One of our brains? he thought.
       Yours or Minho's.
       An unswallowable lump rose in Thomas's throat. His second question stung greater than the wound on his abdomen.
       And one of us dies?
      Paige is waiting to see who the strongest Candidate is, who can resist the Serum's impact the best. That'll be the guy who goes under the knife.
       Minho snapped his fingers in front of Thomas's face and pestered Aris,
       "Quit doing your alien mind thing and walk. At this rate, we'll be hosting our very own spy club, thanks to you, Slinthead Jones."
       "Yeah, um, let's go," Thomas mumbled, coasting into a stroll beside Minho. He devoted his mind entirely to contacting Aris. Tell me how I can save him. Tell me it's possible, please.
       Aris studied him raptly, drawing unreadable conclusions. Eventually, he said,
       You'll have to fight the Flare and fight it hard. Learn what triggers your outbursts and avoid them at all costs. If that doesn't work, you better pray Minho gets worse than you. Only one of you makes it in the end, Thomas. I remember that much.