Torn

torn

ALSO BY AVERY HASTINGS

feuds

rival

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

TORN
. Copyright © 2015 by Paper Lantern Lit. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Designed by Anna Gorovoy

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-1-250-05927-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4668-4533-6 (e-book)

St. Martin's Griffin books may be purchased for educational, business, or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or write to [email protected].

First Edition: July 2015

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torn

1

DAVIS

The rocking sensation of the ferry should have put Davis to sleep, but all of her senses were on high alert. The guard had led them down in the dark, single file. Davis's eyes had barely adjusted in time to see the stairs that she stumbled down, and when they did, the trapdoor above her had slammed shut, allowing only narrow beams of light to filter in through tiny gaps in the wood. She could hear the water lapping against the side of the boat, just a few inches from where she sat. Smells and sounds compensated for a complete lack of light in the small cabin. The space was dimmer than dim, and the faint smell of mildew was inescapable. The air in the room felt oppressive, yet Davis had been shivering uncontrollably for at least an hour, from shock and fear.

There were no beds, only rows of benches, and there were so many sick passengers that children were piled on top of others' laps, and some sat on the floor. Davis felt lucky to have a surface to sit on and a wall to rest against. The sharp elbows of the people next to her jabbed her rib cage in rhythm with the boat's movements. She hadn't had food or water for hours and wondered how long it would be before they were fed. She felt dizzy, weak. Sweat and the sounds of moans permeated the air around her, and with each rise and fall of the boat, Davis's stomach lurched. She was a carrier of Narxis. She hadn't died immediately, like Priors who'd contracted the disease, but that didn't mean she wouldn't eventually.

A faint lapping sound and the echo of footsteps above suggested that they were in the lower level of the ferry. And the smell. It was unmistakably the scent of dead bodies. It was immediate enough that Davis suspected they were right there in the cabin with her. It took everything she had not to gag at the smell, but at the same time, a sense of hopelessness overcame her. This was how the dead were treated? She couldn't believe her father would stand for something like this—though, it suddenly occurred to her, perhaps he didn't
know.
She didn't believe respect should stop the second a person took her last breath. All of this—this
casual
treatment—left her horrified and confused.

When a hand wrapped itself around hers, Davis jumped. It was possible, in the dark anonymity of the room, to forget about human contact. But something in her craved it. She didn't move away. Instead she gripped the hand in return, moving toward the light that cut a slim path across the floor. The beam of light was maybe six inches long, a centimeter wide. Through it she could see his knuckles, the tips of calloused fingers.

The hand was large and strong against her own. Comforting. It squeezed hers before removing itself. Then it moved more directly in front of the beam of light. Davis saw it form a circle, thumb and index finger touching. Then another hand reached from the dark to grab hers, folding her palm closed and drawing her own index finger against the circle, forming a line that intersected the perfect shape his fingers made. Then a figure leaned toward her—a shadowed, masculine form barely illuminated. The figure kept a tight grip on her hand. Davis's heart beat wildly, but something told her not to be afraid. She moved closer, resting her forehead against his shoulder for a brief moment as she relaxed fully into the tears, allowing them to bring her relief.

Then his voice, a faint whisper in the dark, meant only for her.

“Hope,” he said. A single word before the boat hit a wave, the motion pulling him back into the darkness as his fingers were ripped from hers.

 

 

The passage of time was incalculable. Davis could tell some hours had passed; the sliver of light was waning. She dozed off briefly, only to awaken to pitch blackness and an eerie silence punctuated only by the deep breathing of sleeping passengers around her. She nestled on the floor, stretching out her legs as far in front of her as she could. She thought maybe she'd fallen asleep again. She couldn't tell; it was impossible to tell what was real and what was a dream. She'd never felt so lost.

There'd been a moment when, boarding the vessel, the guard herding her in had lifted his hand from her wrist. She'd been bound, but it wouldn't have mattered. The urge to hurl herself off the plank and into the water below, hands and feet tied tight, had been more than tempting. It had been nearly irresistible. She still remembered the air, crisp against her skin. It wrapped its tendrils around her cheeks, beckoning her forward into the placid water below. The water had looked cool, inviting. Peaceful, even. It could have all been over then, this suffering and overwhelming despair.

And then she'd thought of the people she'd miss.

Her sister's face flashed through her mind. Fia's soft curls brushing against her face in the morning, when Fia snuck into her bed for a snuggle. Cradling Fia close while reading her a story—enacting the voices the way Fia always begged her to, and dissolving in giggles along with her little sister, until they were both gasping for air. Her heart ached at the thought of never seeing Fia again. She couldn't give up when Sofia's fate was undecided. She couldn't be responsible for causing her little sister any further pain. It would be too great a betrayal.

But Cole was dead.

She couldn't stop replaying the image of him reaching for her, cupping his hand around her neck and kissing her on the hospital roof deck—the way the sun streamed through his hair in the morning light as she rested her head against his chest. That moment—their night together—had been perfect. It had been the first time they'd told each other how they truly felt. She'd known for sure by then that she loved him. When she watched him fight in the FEUDS, she experienced every punch, as if Brutus's fists were hitting her, and not Cole, square in the heart. Loving Cole had always been beautiful and painful at once, but she'd never have traded it. Losing him was a loss of a large part of herself—the part that felt wide open and innocent.

She was grateful in some ways for that lack of innocence. It was impossible to tell where she was headed, what would happen once she arrived. Whether she'd even still be alive tomorrow, or the next day. She realized she might never know what really happened to her mother. Everyone around her was dying; how long would it be before she followed them?

A creaking noise broke her train of thought. Then the craft jolted, and Davis slid a few feet from her spot against the wall.

“Sorry,” she said to no one and everyone. “I'm sorry.” Then Davis heard the sound of hinges, and a broad door in the ceiling swung open to reveal a uniformed guard outlined against the twilight.

It was dark, but the light of the just-rising moon illuminated the room around her. She was prepared to see others like her—thirsty, grasping. She wasn't prepared for the bodies. She wondered how she'd adjusted to the smell.

She recoiled, leaning against the thick, damp boards that lined the boat. She pressed a hand to her mouth, sickened and empty, and felt tears slipping silently down her cheeks. It was as though she'd entered a new world in which nothing and nobody really mattered.

She thought of her mother, and what her mother had been through. Her mother would want her to be strong. The thought gave her courage.

“Everyone up,” shouted the guard, holding a gun at his side like a threat. “Form a line! Single file!” Another officer emerged from behind him and used his own gun to shove them into a rough approximation of a line. Davis moved between a middle-aged man and a woman holding a baby, before the gun could touch her. She shuddered, narrowly avoiding a body slumped against the ground. A hand reached up for her and she grasped it in her own, attempting to hoist what looked like a twentysomething woman up and into the line, but the weight of the woman's body nearly pulled Davis down, too, and she had to let her go. She prayed that the guards would help the sick.

Davis allowed herself to be shepherded roughly up a ramp and through the gate to a narrow dock. A white sandy beach stretched out beyond the craft, trees rising beyond. The wilderness sloped gently upward, and she could just make out several crumbling stone structures beyond. Narrow paths cut through the trees, linking the buildings to the beach. They seemed to be on some sort of island that would've been beautiful if it weren't so creepy. Where were the houses, the other people? Davis felt cold, shivery. She moved with the line toward two officers standing ahead.

“Men that way,” one of the officers called. “Women, there!” One woman fell and Davis tried to help her stand, but she shook her head and cried. She pulled away from Davis, her eyes wide with fear and her hair matted like animal fur. As a guard approached from behind, the woman turned and ran.

Davis watched as the woman pushed her way through the crowd, kicking a guard when he tried to grab her.
Where will she go?
Davis wondered. The woman broke for the water and ran in, her torn dress pooling at her waist. Davis watched on, her heart accelerating and her hands growing moist.

But the guard trampled through the waves and grabbed the woman's arm, yanking her back on shore. She struggled all the while, and when they reached the group he threw her to the ground.

“You can't go anywhere,” the guard announced. “None of you. You are contagious, and by order of the Territories' Center for Disease Control, you are to stay on this island.”

“Until when?” a man's voice called out.

“Until I say so.”

Davis felt as if the ground had split open, leaving her to hurtle down an endless black void. It was an island. They were trapped. Wordlessly, the woman allowed the guard to haul her back to her place in line.

Shaking, Davis looked back toward the boat and saw several other officers hoisting bodies from below onto stretchers. She turned back ahead, quickly, frozen in fear. Her eyes panned the line of males, pausing on a muscular boy with blond hair and a broad frame. He held her gaze, drawing one finger to his lips. Then he used the other hand to form a circle, striking the circle in half with an index finger.

Hope.

Davis jumped, her whole body alert. And then he was gone, pushing into a wagon marked
TOR.

Davis's own wagon was just ahead, already so full of female passengers that the door on the side refused to close and women hung from the sides. Her wagon, too, read
TOR.
Davis allowed herself to be lifted and shoved inside the wagon. She would have fallen if there hadn't been such a crush of people in there already. She clung to the wooden frame of the cart, one of the last to be loaded, as the engine revved and the vehicle swung into motion. Davis looked back toward the other wagon, already moving ahead on one of the dirt-lined paths. She tried hard not to fall as it bounced against rocks and moved into the thick of the forest, the beach—and the bodies—disappearing behind her.

2

COLE

Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sound of fists on the door grew louder, more insistent. Cole jerked out of his reverie. He'd been in that curious space between sleeping and waking, where dreams are jumbled and begin to feel like reality. He moved from the corner where he slept on a narrow pallet, and reached for the door, a mere three feet away. Now he was fully awake, and he remembered. He remembered running from the police. Getting lost in the chaos of the riots. Using the violence and mayhem to his benefit, in order to slip away. Michelle, one of his oldest friends, agreeing to help him fake his own death. It was the only option, she'd said. She'd been right.