Enemy Inside (Defectors Trilogy) (11 page)

Covered in blood, his shirt ripped, he jerked his head from side to side, taking in the dead all around. He gasped again, turning to scan for a nonexistent threat. Then he looked lost.

“Haven?”

The sound of my own name made me stir.

“Haven!” He was glancing around wildly. He couldn’t see me, and he didn’t remember where I was. Or he didn’t know . . .

I breathed in heavily, trying to summon my voice.
 

“I’m here,” I said. Those two small words took so much energy.

His head jerked around, eyes locking in on me.
 

“Oh my god!” He rushed forward, reaching me in three strides.
 

His eyes were no longer insane; they were swimming with confusion, fear, and shame. In one try, Amory heaved the massive carrier’s dead body off me. My lungs expanded instantly as the weight disappeared, and I choked in air.

“Oh god!” Amory muttered. He flipped me over as easily as if I were a rag doll. His eyes raked my face and body, checking for injuries. He shook his head in disbelief. “What happened?”

I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to say what had happened. He had turned into an exterminator. He had no humanity — no thoughts other than killing.

Amory scooped me into his arms, but I was shaking all over. Without meaning to, I cringed. A hurt look crossed his face, but he pushed it down. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was afraid of him.

He got up, holding me against his chest, and walked back to our apartment. Looking worried, Amory sat me down at the table. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead, he just backed silently out of the room to go dispose of the carriers.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the faded flowery wallpaper. Something was amiss with the coziness of the room and the stench of death that hung over everything. I realized it was me. The carrier’s blood and body odor had leeched into my clothes and skin. The dried blood was beginning to flake around my neck and chest. My shirt was stiff with it.

Finally, I got up and went to the bathroom. I peeled off the ruined shirt and pants and stepped into the shower. The hot water pounded against my skin, and I watched the blood mix with the water. I scrubbed my neck and chest raw. After months of bathing in a frigid creek, it should have been amazing. But every time I looked down, all I could see was blood.
 

I couldn’t think of anything except Amory slaughtering those carriers one by one. It wasn’t the killing that bothered me; killing them was unavoidable. It was the vacant look in his eyes. He was so . . .
detached.
Whatever happened in Isador, it had changed something fundamental inside him.
 

As I got out of the shower and dried myself, I half expected the white towel to come away bloody, but all traces of the carrier had been washed away. I found some more mismatched clothing in the closet and padded out into the living room. Amory was still gone. I knew I should go offer to help him dispose of the bodies, but I wasn’t ready to face him yet.

Collapsing onto the sagging couch, I watched the early fringes of sunrise peeking around the blackout curtains over the living room window. It was hard to believe that in one night, we had broken Amory out of Isador, run from the PMC, and killed a dozen carriers. My whole body felt as though it had been beaten, and I was tired of fighting.

Some time later, the front door creaked open. Amory stood in the doorway, looking far worse for the wear than I remembered. His arms and face were covered in dried blood, and several bruises were forming on his face. His shoulders sagged, but not from exhaustion alone. Something about the way he carried himself told me he was also burdened with shame and guilt.

Our eyes met across the room, and he sighed heavily, almost a shrug. He looked lost, but I didn’t know what to say.
 

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and broken. “Something’s wrong with me.”

I didn’t speak. I was at a loss for words.

Then Amory turned. His shirt was ripped, and I saw deep bloody marks forming a crescent pattern across his shoulder. A carrier had bitten him.

“Oh my god. When did that happen?”

Amory glanced down to see what I was referring to. He shook his head. “One of them got me pretty good from behind.”

“I need to clean that.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been vaccinated. Besides, that one didn’t even have the sores yet.”

“It can still get infected.”

I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet to find some antiseptic. Amory removed his shirt and stood still while I swabbed the angry red marks. As I cleaned the bite, I took the opportunity to survey his other injuries. A hand-shaped bruise snaked around his neck, and another was blooming on his jaw.

Running my fingers over the back of his neck, I felt a raised bump just beneath his hairline. I touched it. It didn’t feel like a random cut from battle. It was a raised square scar just as my CID mark had been, and it was shiny and tender, almost a burn.

I sucked in a huge burst of air, remembering how it had flared up when Amory had come within range of the rover’s frequency.

“I think I just found where they inserted your CID.”

Amory’s hand clamped around the back of his neck.

“Get it out!”

He reached down to his pile of bloodstained clothing where he had dropped his holster and drew out a small knife.

“Cut it out. Please!” he said, shoving the knife into my hand.

“I can’t,” I whispered. Holding the knife between my fingers, I wanted to. I wanted to cut out his CID and end the pain — end the PMC’s hold on his life. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to find it. You could bleed out and die before I ever get it out.”

“No. They just inserted it there so I wouldn’t be able to cut it out myself.” Amory jerked around, cupping my hand that held the knife. “Please. Do it, Haven. They made me this way. I don’t want to be their puppet anymore.”

I stood there, weighing the possibilities. I didn’t want to tell him that removing the CID wouldn’t solve all his problems. We were nowhere near a rover. The way he slaughtered those carriers was likely the result of weeks of brainwashing, not a signal beamed to his CID. On the other hand, if we couldn’t get rid of his CID, it was unlikely we would make it out of Sector X undetected. The George Washington Bridge was the only way out, and it was equipped with over a dozen rovers.

“It’s now or never,” he said. “We have everything we need: antiseptic, gauze, bandages, good lighting . . .”
 

My hand shook as I brought my eyes up to meet his gaze. His bright gray eyes were burning with hope, pleading with me.

“All right,” I sighed. “Tell me how.”

Amory cleaned the kitchen table, prepped all the supplies we would need, and tested the sharpness of every available knife we had until he found the best one.

Before sterilizing it, he showed me the proper technique to make an incision. My hand shook a little, but he pretended not to notice. I knew he did not want to shake my confidence.

“If it’s like the last one, they inserted it directly in the center. This one won’t be as deep as yours was because they would hit the skull.”

I nodded, feeling the bile rise up in my throat.

“Just stick the tweezers in and feel for something small and solid.”

I followed him into the bathroom. He was rummaging in the cabinet. “Can you shave the hair that’s covering the scar?”

I nodded, and he handed me a disposable razor.

Amory grinned. “I’m not picky, but a smallish incision would be nice.”

Running the tap, I splashed some warm water on the back of his head and positioned the razor at the bottom of his hairline. I pulled it down, and pieces of his dark hair fell away. I wondered how I hadn’t noticed how short his hair was at the bottom, as though it had just grown over the scar. It looked a little funny, but now I could see the telltale scar where the PMC had inserted his CID. It was no wider than a quarter of an inch across, and it was perfect, mechanical.

Amory ran a hand along the back of his neck, jerking his head to try to see his reflection in the mirror. “Those bastards,” he breathed.

We returned to the kitchen, and he produced a bottle of clear liquid from over the sink.
 

“We have real antiseptic,” I said, confused when he handed it to me.

“It’s for you.”

I threw him a dubious look before putting the bottle to my lips. The smell of alcohol stung my nostrils, but I tipped my head back and took a swig. The fire shot down my throat, warming my insides.

Without warning, Amory pulled me against him and brushed my lips with his. The kiss was warm and inviting, but the moment felt all wrong. I couldn’t shake the image of him stabbing the carriers with that possessed look in his eyes. I pulled back.

His face was flushed, and his eyes were hungry.

“I need to focus,” I said, managing a weak grin.

Lying down on the kitchen table, Amory watched me pull my hair back into a ponytail and wash my hands. I took my time swabbing the back of his neck with rubbing alcohol, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. My eyes took a final quick inventory of everything I would need, and I picked up the knife.

Hefting the blade in my hand, I drew an imaginary line over his scar exactly where I would make the incision. I only hesitated for a moment. I remembered Amory writhing on the ground in pain, and the decision solidified in my brain.

I bent over the tender skin of Amory’s neck and placed the tip of the blade against flesh. In one smooth motion, I pressed down and drew straight across his scar. A perfect line of red blossomed at the incision, but Amory did not flinch or make a sound. I quickly traded the knife for the tweezers, pressing the prongs together as I slipped them between the folds of skin.
 

Blood pooled over his neck, and I felt my breath catch in my chest. There was no going back. I moved the tweezers, releasing more blood, but I couldn’t feel anything. I pushed them deeper, wincing before Amory sucked in a burst of air through his teeth.

My throat constricted.
Where was it?
Trying to make infinitesimal movements, I searched with the tweezers. I heard Amory’s great intake of breath again, and my heart rate increased. I
hated
causing him pain.
 

More blood trickled down his neck, but I forced myself to refocus. Again, I remembered him writhing on the floor and retching in pain. I could end that.

Finally, I felt the tip of the tweezers graze something solid. It was so hard it could have been bone, but it wasn’t. Clumsily, I found the other end of the CID and gripped it. Slowly, carefully, I pulled.

Amory yelled in pain, and I almost dropped the CID in panic. I pulled again, but it was stuck. Amory whimpered, trying to stifle his cry, and I blinked back tears that were threatening to drop.
 

Just get it out!
I thought desperately. I pulled again, and Amory screamed. I felt the CID disconnect with something — perhaps a bit of flesh or bone, and I coaxed it out of the incision.
 

The CID was covered in blood, barely recognizable. I laid it on the table and returned my attention to the blood gushing from Amory’s incision. I pressed a towel to the cut and applied pressure. Amory was breathing heavily, and his skin was damp with sweat.

“What do I do now?” I whispered.

“Is it out?” he breathed.

“It’s out.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing. Hopefully it won’t need stitches.”

My stomach contracted in revulsion at the idea of suturing his skin back together. I held the towel in place as I waited for our breathing to return to normal. The cut wasn’t bleeding as profusely as Amory’s head wound during the riots, so I felt comfortable cleaning the incision and bandaging it. When I had finished, he sat up and grabbed the bloody CID.

“This one is a lot smaller than yours was,” he said. “It’s a miracle you even found it.”

“We should destroy that.”

He nodded but grabbed my hand instead. “Hey.” He waited until I looked him in the eye before continuing. “You did a good job. I’ve never seen someone that calm on their first try.”

“I’m not calm,” I said, my voice shaking a little.

“It’s okay. I’m fine. You did it.”

I nodded and sank down into the chair. I realized I still had his blood on my hands, but I didn’t get up to wash them. Amory wandered into the kitchen and rummaged in the cabinets. Watching him curiously, I saw him come back into view holding a cast iron skillet and a roll of tape. He taped the CID to the floor, raised the skilled over his head, and brought it down onto the floor with a heavy
thunk
that resonated in the air. He hit it again and sighed with satisfaction.

As he peeled the tape off the floor and showed me the glistening shards of the broken CID, I felt a huge weight lift off my chest. Amory was no longer on the grid. They couldn’t control him, and they couldn’t track us down from satellite rovers. We weren’t safe yet, but we were no longer risking exposure every second.

I washed my hands and followed Amory into one of the bedrooms, watching him as he sank back onto the bed. He winced slightly when his fresh wound made contact with the pillow, but there was an unmistakable look in his eyes. It was as if he was the old Amory once again; he looked strong, in control, and he was burning with that intensity that made my stomach flip. I wasn’t scared of him — I wanted him.

Cautiously, I sank down on the bed. I didn’t know what I expected — maybe he wouldn’t want me to sleep there. Maybe he would think it was too much too soon. But he grinned and put a hand on my hip, rolling me closer until I was right against his shoulder.
 

It was very strange that, just hours ago, I had not known if he was alive or dead. Now that he was here in front of me, all I wanted to do was touch him.

We lay back against the pillows that smelled like mothballs, and he cradled me in his arms. I rested my head on his chest, listening to his gentle breathing and drinking in the secure warmth of his arm around me. Even though we were in the heart of Sector X, I felt safer than I ever had at the rebel camp.