The Immunity Illness

CHAPTER 20, Minho

He noticed that Thomas was off, but he didn't push him on it. Life was slamming them both in the guts with one hammer after another. They trotted through the field, speeding up, slowing down, and speeding up again at no set pace. As Minho took the lead, his shoe crunched on the shell of something fragile. He lifted his foot and frowned at his discovery: a bird. He kicked it indecently into a shrub and resumed his saunter, restraining from a retch. Birds didn't lie in the middle of a human's path to be crushed. This one had been dead. Minho plundered forward another three feet and felt a second brittle snap.
       "Aw man," he yelped, smearing the squishy guts off his sole. "The shuck is this?"
       Aris crouched by the bird corpse with dismay. After a moment's scrutiny, he straightened and hypothesized,
       "Their food source might be poisoned. The Board will have no use for the Dome's functioning ecosystem once this trial is over, so Chancellor Paige is speeding up the collapse process."
       They sidestepped the birds and were more careful with their footing going on. Thomas appeared nauseated by the scene, and Minho didn't blame him. However, his own stomach performed in the opposite manner—he was starving. The scent of roasting meat wafted from the nearby camp, and it was difficult to put business first and postpone the needs of his grumbling stomach.
       Frypan and Isaac waited where he'd left them. Frypan's ajar mouth asked a million questions alone, although Minho ignored him. He also ignored his rising dislike for Isaac's involvement in their discussions and acknowledged that he would have to be involved with this one. Minho led the herd of boys to the Hill; fewer eavesdropper Immunes resided there. He tipped his chin an inch higher to erase the weakness from his posture.
       It was time for a Gathering.
       "Well, guys, here's Aris," he introduced dryly. "Back from the dead—"
       "He died?" Frypan piped out.
       Minho rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Clearly, we've done an awful job of explaining things to each other." He aimed the jab at all four boys. "Let's try to fix that, shall we?"
       Frypan nodded, and his befuddlement leaked through his composure. "Isn't Aris supposed to be insane? Literally past the Gone?"
       "Nope," Minho tiredly described. "Long story short, he's been mind controlled by Teresa since the minute we got here, and even lovelier, he's had his memories since he showed up in the dorms. We thought he drowned last night, but apparently not. Oh, plus, you don't have the Serum or the Flare, Frypan. Congratulations."
       Frypan's lips floundered like a fish exposed to air. "What?" He animatedly swiveled toward Aris, ready to attack him.
       Minho hopped between them, adding on,
       "Revenge can come later. Right now, we have to lay everything out on the table. That means you too, shuck-face." He glowered at Isaac. "What can you say without the Intel coming for your or Iris's throats?"
       Isaac wrinkled his bloody nose at them. He replied,
       "Listen, my job here isn't to intervene. I'm not your friend and old Ava will make sure of that." He sighed. "But my organization is...big. If WICKED's got a dollop of sense, you won't have heard of it."
       "And you can't say the name of it to us," Thomas reckoned. The cool balance of his voice soothed the tension in the air.
       Isaac adopted a shred of respect for him. "No. Unless you want me chopped in half, one-hundred percent not."
       Aris's pupils shot daggers at the spy. "Teresa told me about you. You're the one who hacked into the holotech of the maze caverns and caused the sky glitch."
       Thomas jolted, whispering to Minho,
       "That's the memory Teresa gave me yesterday." He rotated to gawk at Isaac. "That was you?"
       The faintest of smirks manifested on his lips. "Yep, that was me."
       Minho analyzed Isaac differently. He wasn't positive of what he felt for him, but it bordered on reverence. There was a story behind his elusiveness, a reason for his role here. He asked him the question before he knew what he was asking.
       "Intels are WICKED spies, correct? If so, how'd you leave WICKED?"
       The warmth leached from Isaac's skin. He turned away and provided a soft spoken response. "Correct, Intels are WICKED-bred devils. I left when I was twelve years old 'cause I had a friend, Jamie. He died right in front of me, and his only crime was revealing his name to a stranger."
       Frypan's grimace melted away, though he didn't give up on the interrogation. Stonily, he prompted,
       "So then you what, got up and escaped through the front door? 'Cause we tried that too as kids and it didn't go over so well."
       Thomas peeked at Minho, who shrugged at him. Whatever escape Frypan was referring to, he didn't recall it. Isaac fired back,
       "First off, I lied to you about where I'm from. I was raised in Salt Lake City, not Vegas Ruinas. Second, I grew up with my sister in a shabby WICKED outpost. It's a lot easier to break outta there when you're not one of HQ's precious subjects."
       Thomas approached Isaac curiously. "What's an outpost?" he said.
       Minho looked to Frypan and Aris for signs of recognition, but even they seemed confused. Isaac wheezed out a grunt of pity.
       "Wow, fellas. I thought I had been kept in the dark. WICKED has outposts all over the continent. They're in major cities under the guise of future cure distribution centers, but I'll tell ya that's a load of bull. They're actually military bases designed to establish fear and order. Not the friendliest places to live in."
       Minho walked up and down the incline of the Hill. He processed the news in bits, understanding that there was much more to WICKED than he had been let in on. After all this time, he'd still barely skimmed the surface of its evils. He thought about Jamie—wondered how he'd died. But he would not ask Isaac about that. He knew the unbridled weight such an inquiry held. So he requested instead,
       "Why are you here now?"
       Isaac curled his lip. "That's a risky topic, pal. We've been over this."
       "I bet he's the rebel organization's go-no-go," Aris guessed. "It wants the cure, but it can't decide whether to overthrow WICKED and change up the procedures yet. The next move depends on how close the Endtime is to completing the blueprint, am I right?"
       Edgily, Isaac picked at his thumb nail. "That's right. You better hope figuring that out didn't just cost Iris her life."
       Minho knew Paige would keep the Immunes imprisoned here if this trial failed like the last ones did, trapping them in the Endtime for years even as its resources shriveled up and ran out. One Final Candidate after the next, with the Board never getting close enough to mapping a cure. He shuddered, incapable of facing that reality. A lifetime in the Maze had taught him how fruitless waiting around for miracles was. When he faced Isaac again, he grasped that he was not the enemy.
       Both of them wanted WICKED gone.
       "We want to help," Minho stated. "If there's any way we can protect Iris, or—"
       Frypan boldly agreed, cutting in,
       "—we can gang up on the Intel!"
       Aris and Thomas stayed silent, twin-like with their blank expressions. Isaac replied in a stilted tone,
       "No can do. I've over-meddled with your Variables as is. What part of me 'monitoring, not intervening' don't you get? I'm telling you this stuff outta the kindness in my heart."
       Minho's hope sank, and he broodingly let his chin drop.
       Thomas mirrored his dreary mood. "How about we go eat something?"
       Aris eagerly beckoned,
       "Yes, can we?"
       "Sounds tempting. I've been dying for a meal without Frypan's beard hairs in it," Minho remarked.
       Their bickering intensified as they moved across the lawn, shifting into a mindless, steady clamor despite their mistrust for one another. Despite the billion things coursing through Minho's mind, he managed to pretend nothing was wrong.