The Immunity Illness

CHAPTER 23, Thomas

They lugged the body across the final stretch and collapsed upon the rocks, gasping and coughing. Thomas rolled off of Aris and wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. He gazed up at the clear sky. Frypan's shadow crossed above him. It was hot out today. The swampy sea breeze did little to minimize the power of the sun, and through brittle lips, Thomas said,
       "Could you get the tin and gauze from the box for me?"
       "Get it yourself," Frypan huffed. "I ain't your mommy." He knelt by Aris and forcibly tapped him on the cheek, which did nothing to wake him up.
       Thomas sluggishly propped himself on his bottom and exhaled. His head swam with vertigo. He convinced himself it was the heat doing it, not the Flare. This felt more as if he had the stomach flu where all his limbs were jello and the chills dotted up and down his spine. Suddenly, he was glad he hadn't eaten anything yet. He asked Frypan more adamantly,
       "Please? I'm not feeling so good, dude."
       Frypan whipped around, then lessened his downpour when he saw that Thomas was genuine. "You got heat stroke or something?" he pressed, hiking across the rocks to the soggy cardboard box.
       Thomas shook his head. "I'm not sure what this is. I think I oughta rest for a minute."
       Frypan shimmied out the roll of gauze and the cream vial. He brought them over to him and stooped on one knee to meet Thomas's level.
       "Whatever, man," he said. "Take a breather."
       As Thomas unbuttoned his shirt, he peeked at the unconscious body nearby. Aris was a total mystery to him. For so long, he'd lied right to their faces, pretending to be someone he wasn't. Then he'd become someone else entirely—a puppet on a Psych's strings, singing little rhymes to make Thomas's heart ache, dancing across the Horizon, knocking on death's door whenever it benefited the Board. Thomas understood that he knew absolutely nothing about him. Perhaps ignorance was bliss.
       Frypan kicked Aris in the stomach. No groan, no wince. Not even a brief flutter of his eyelashes. He was out cold.
       "Give up on him," Thomas stated, tying the gauze over his injury. Vibrant mulberry dyed the cloth. Maybe the blood loss was making him woozy.
       "I'm tired of this klunk, man," Frypan expressed. He stormed off the rockbed. "We can't talk to nobody. Shuck it, I can't even flirt with a girl without her being some forbidden rebel spy!"
       Thomas closed the tin lid and balanced it on top of a flat stone. He leaned back against a vertical incline on the rockbed and allowed his eyelids to droop. "Iris probably tricked you into being her friend," he sleepily theorized. "I bet there's normal people somewhere."
       "Define normal, Thomas. If you remembered half of what I remember..."
       He didn't quite get the last part, but he answered anyway,
       "Normal people don't lie and kill to get what they want."
       The lost sleep from the night before beckoned him now. To put a cease to the murky, lunasized thoughts of his mind, Thomas submitted to the darkness.
       This is the last one, Tom. This was the beginning of the end for you as an Elite.
***
       He's fourteen, and it's a Sunday morning. Randall has summoned him earlier than usual, but he figures it's because it's their last day on the Denver Project. He feels distressed about ending it so soon, when the simulation is so vague and incomplete, but Randall has assured him that every killzone pattern required by the Psychs will be obtained.
       The room he's in is bleak, cramped, and empty. His knee bobs anxiously as he awaits Randall's entrance, though it never comes. Dr. Paige surprises him by slipping through the door instead. She wears a saddened expression, and an extra layer of bags folds under her eyes. Thomas purses his lips as she sits across from him at the table.
       "Where's Ran—"
       "Randall's currently preoccupied," Dr. Paige reports. "Now, Thomas, can you do me a favor?"
       Thomas meets her gaze apprehensively. "Sure. What is it?"
       "Forgive me for doing this."
       Pure terror hits him for an instant before his mind empties itself, forgetting what had it been emptied of in the first place. He shudders in his chair at the sensation, then looks at Dr. Paige again.
       "For doing what?" he asks confusedly, glancing around for anything that has changed in the room. "I feel funny."
       "For disrupting your schedule like this. I apologize." She attempts to grin. "I have only one question for you, and I'll send you on your way."
       "Okay." Thomas buries the weird lightheadedness that has overtaken him and pays it no notice.
       "Do the terms Denver or Endtime mean anything to you whatsoever?"
       He nearly scoffs at the question.
       "Huh? No. Dr. Paige, why am I here?"
       "There was a recent outbreak in Denver and I wanted to check if you knew about it. It's a very serious matter, Thomas, but nothing to be too concerned about."
       "I haven't heard anything about it," he says slowly. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
       Dr. Paige clasps her hands together, displaying two rows of tightly compressed knuckles. Her responding stare frightens him. "You are excused," she directs in a voice barely louder than a whisper.
       He opens his mouth to ask her for more, but it's evident that she won't reveal anything of value. Frustrated, he gets up from his chair and leaves the room feeling abnormally emptier than he had when he'd arrived.
***
       Thomas fell back to reality shivering. Half awake, he registered that his hands shook more severely than they ever had. They were clammy. Something cold and wet covered his forehead. When he peeled it away to examine it, someone snipped at him,
       "Don't. Leave it."
       A flurry of chills gave him the motivation to open his eyes. He had a fever? Odd. He didn't recall the Flare symptoms ever listing fevers as one of them, but he figured there was a lot about the Flare he didn't comprehend. Thomas disorientedly rubbed the fog from his vision with his fists. He perceived that the sun had traveled to the far west during his slumber.
       A pair of footsteps paused in front of him. Minho towered above, owning a hard scowl. Thomas croaked to him,
       "Is Aris awake?"
       A cascade of pebbles tumbled in the corner of his eye, and he rotated to mark Aris climbing down from a high point.
       "Hi," he greeted Thomas shyly.
       Minho grunted. He dropped a water bottle at his side, and Thomas chugged it at record speed. The liquid soothed the desert in his throat. Catching his breath, he rasped,
       "What's wrong now?"
       Minho tossed him a look along the lines of incredulity.
       "Uh, you. You're what's wrong, lying here and burning up a 104 degree fever."
       "That's awfully precise." Thomas wiped a damp bang from his skin.
       "We got a thermometer from the Box Gate and more stuff to help." Minho pulled a note from his pocket and pitched it at him. "Any interesting dreams?"
       Thomas nodded weakly, patting along the rocks for the slip. He looked up at Minho. "It was when Paige kicked me off the Denver Project and erased my memories on it."
       Minho muttered a couple syllables serving as a response. Thomas tore open the folded note and struggled to read it in his twitchy palms.