Dead Time Page 7

  “Well then, let’s eat.” Dave rings a tiny bell next to his water glass.

  Soleil tosses her keys and bag onto the polished wooden table, pulls off her sweater, adds it to the pile, and plops down in the chair.

  Dave frowns but doesn’t comment.

  Soleil reaches for a strawberry, still glancing at me like she half-believes I’m Lucas, and half-believes I’m a monster.

  “Where is that woman?” Dave says to no one. An instant later, a Latina scurries in, carrying a large serving dish.

  She sets it on the table in front of Dave, whisks off the silver cover, and curtsies.

  “Thank you, Sally,” he says, not even looking at her.

  The woman disappears, and a minute later comes back with more food—and then even more.

  It’s a feast fit for Caesar and his fifty generals.

  Soleil notices me staring. “Don’t worry, Sarita will send whatever we don’t eat over to the barracks.”

  “Your Uncle Dave must be very popular with his men.” I haven’t eaten a decent meal since I left the Bub. I fill my plate.

  “That’s an understatement. He’s pretty much a demigod around here.” She glances in Dave’s direction. “Mom and I owe him everything.”

  Dave nods at her like he’s Mahatma Gandhi.

  “Good for him,” I say. “Who’s Sarita?”

  “Oh, that’s Sally’s real name. Uncle Dave thought Sarita sounded too foreign. So he calls her Sally.”

  “How nice of him.”

  Dave spends the next half hour telling us about how he single-handedly saved humanity while Soleil nibbles at the fruit and Bella scarcely lifts her fork.

  The moment the plates are cleared, Bella pushes back her chair and stands. “Good night, David. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Dave—still chewing a dinner roll—struggles to his feet, and I follow suit.

  Bella floats over and kisses Soleil on the cheek. “It was wonderful to see you, sweetheart. We should do this more often.”

  “G’night, Mom.” Soleil leans back in her chair and wraps her arms around her mother’s neck. “Will you be at the hospital staff meeting tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so, dear. It’s all too tiring. You’ll let me know if anything important happens?”

  “Of course, Mom.”

  Bella nods at me rather stiffly, “Mr. Crusoe,” and floats out of the room. A few seconds later, we hear a puppy bark—and then toenails skittering down the hallway.

  Bearhart comes racing into the room, bumps into a table leg as he tries to turn on the polished floor, and leaps onto my chair.

  I smile and ruffle his ears. “Hey there, buddy! They taking good care of you here?”

  He wags his tail and starts licking my plate.

  Soleil laughs, but Dave smacks his hands down on the table and yells, “Goddamn it, Bella, will you get that foul-smelling mutt out of my dining room?” Dave grabs the puppy by the collar and drags him off the chair and back into the kitchen, muttering about dog hair. I can’t recall Gandhi acting like that, but maybe my memory’s faulty.

  Soleil stands and picks up her belongings. “Welcome to our little fishbowl, Mr. Crusoe. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I say, still standing up. “It was nice to meet you, Soleil. And I’m very sorry about your father and brother.” I move to kiss her on the cheek, but she steps away.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” she says and offers me her hand, “but given the circumstances, I think it would be best if we maintain a strict physician-patient relationship, Mr. Crusoe.”

  “Of course, Dr. Kirk.” I incline my head. “Please forgive me.”

  “It’s Dr. Nadales.” She turns on her heel and walks out.

  8

  The Room

  Shannon

  We’re locked inside a windowless chamber that smells of musky perfume, stale sweat, and cleaning solution. In the middle of the room is a giant bed with sheer curtains hanging from the ceiling like some harem tent in The Arabian Nights. There’s a heavy wooden stool at the foot of the bed and a padded piece of furniture that looks like a headless horse along one wall. A tall, narrow chest of drawers stands next to the bed—its shiny red finish out of place in this dingy biodome.

  Subdued light spills from lamps in each corner, casting eerie shadows on the paintings of naked women—and other creatures—in suggestive poses. Although I have no idea what all the metal rings on the ceiling and walls are for, it’s pretty clear what we’re supposed to be doing in here.

  “Shannon?” His voice is a whisper.

  I try to cover myself with the flimsy curtain. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “No-thing,” he says, his voice cracking. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to…” He looks away. “…you know, touch you or anything.” He clears his throat and looks back at me. “Do you need to use the toilet?”

  I nod.

  “The door’s behind the painting of the woman and the squid.” He shifts his weight. “You’re welcome to use anything you want in there, but don’t drink the water.”

  “What’s wrong with the water?” I ask and release the curtain.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But the people who drink it get sick.”

  “Don’t you filter it?” I ask, shuffling sideways toward the bathroom, unsure what to make of all this.

  He shrugs.

  I stare at the painting of a woman with a squid in her lap, trying to figure out what the creature is doing. “I think it’s an octopus,” I say. “Squids have ten tentacles.”

  “I never looked at anything except the woman.”

  “Ah,” I say, feeling like an idiot.

  I pull the recessed door handle and peer into a lavish bathroom. “Wow.”

  “There should be a nightgown on the counter,” Peter says. “And tomorrow someone will bring you clean clothes.”

  “Okay,” I say, not really listening, and walk in.

  All of the fixtures are golden, and the floor and counter are made out of some sort of polished white stone—beautiful but cold. After I use the toilet, I stand there staring at the huge shower area. It’s bigger than my bedroom at home, and there’s a raised bathtub at one end and six showerheads at the other: two at the top, two in the middle, and two coming out of the floor.

  What could anyone possibly do with all that water?

  My clothes smell and I could use a hot soak, but bathtubs are considered extravagant at home. Plus, I have no idea how to work the shower. So, I take everything off except my underwear and wash as best I can using a bar of soap that is hard and cracked. When I’m done, I splash water on my face and tangled hair, careful not to get any in my mouth, and then dry off with the largest towel I’ve ever seen. I wrap it around myself and rinse out my clothes—including my underwear—and then hang everything up in the shower to dry.

  There’s a black, lacy dress folded up on the counter, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s the nightgown Peter mentioned. Back at home, I sleep in an old T-shirt. I’ve never seen anything so frilly, not even in the movies.

  I slip it over my head and then stare at myself in the mirror. The girl looking back at me is a stranger. Her hair is a tangled mess, there are dark circles under her eyes, and a bruise is forming on her left cheek. I shiver in the thin nightgown and then notice that it’s totally see-through—right down to the mole I have on my tummy.

  I consider taking it off, but instead, I wrap the huge towel back around myself and sit down on a small stool and cry. When I run out of tears, I wipe my face on the towel, blow my nose on the wet washcloth and rinse it out again, and then spend a few minutes finger-combing my hair and braiding it into a single plait. There’s not much more I can do. I make sure that the taps are all the way off, straighten the remaining towel, and take a deep breath.

  Then I walk back out into the room.

  Peter has his shirt off, and I notice that his shoulders are broad—but his ribs a
re all sticking out.

  I clear my throat, and he lets out a startled yelp. He turns away and slips a clean shirt on—but not before I see the scars all over his back.

  “Um,” I say, feeling super self-conscious. “Did you want me to stay in the bathroom?”

  “No, of course not. I… I didn’t expect you to come out so soon.” He backs away from me. “I mean, I wanted you to come back…” He stops talking and stares at me, his mouth stuck open.

  It’s like he wants to look at my body but is afraid to move his gaze below my bare shoulders. I cinch the towel up, wishing there was something less revealing to wear to bed.

  “I like your hair that way,” he says. “In a long, golden rope.”

  “Thanks.” I edge over to the back side of the bed. “It’s called a braid. My mom usually does it for me before bed.” I drop the towel on the floor and dive under the covers.

  Peter’s eyes get big, and then he looks away. “Uh, would you like something to drink? A glass of water?” He opens some sort of hidden panel on the wall.

  “Yes, please. Assuming it’s not poisoned.”

  He jerks his head around. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t try to—”

  “I was kidding, Peter.”

  “Yeah. Right.” He takes a plastic bottle out of the cupboard, opens it, pours water into two glasses, and then hesitates. “Shall I bring it over to you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He tiptoes around the bed and offers me the glass, his gaze averted.

  I sit up and tuck the covers under my arms. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He backs away.

  “Tell me about your mother,” I say. “Do you remember much about her?”

  He shakes his head. “I was only a child when she died.” He looks up at me. “Anyways, folks around here don’t talk much about the past, except to mention how terrible it was.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “About your mother, I mean. I’m sure she was very kind. Just like you.”

  He nods, looking uncomfortable. “How about your mother?” he asks, looking at my braid again. “I bet she misses you a lot.”

  I bite my lip, trying not to cry. “My mom’s the best doctor this side of C-Bay, and she’s smart too—smarter than me.” I take a drink of water and spend a moment fighting back tears. “She didn’t want me to come on this trip.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I miss her a lot.”

  “There’s no way she’s as smart,” he says, “or as pretty as you.”

  I cover my face with my hands, unable to contain my tears any longer. “I want to go home, Peter.”

  “I know,” he says in a whisper. “I don’t want to live here either.”

  I sniff my nose and look up at him. “You don’t?”

  “Of course not. All those nasty rumors about us are true: We are monsters. My mother killed herself rather than submit to my father’s brutality. She hanged herself in the chapel—the same place where they forced us to get married. I found her body hanging from a crossbeam. I was five.”

  “Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry.”

  He takes a deep breath, his gaze downcast. “And now that they have you, they won’t let you go. If people try to rescue you, my dad will shoot them.” He looks at me, his face drawn. “Grizzly was right. You’re stuck here, Shannon. You can never go home again.”

  “I have my biosuit,” I say, my heart pounding. “I’ll find it and put it back on—and then I’ll walk home.”

  He sits down on the bed, careful not to make me spill my water. “It’s hundreds of miles to the nearest biodome. What are you going to do when your suit runs out of air? And even if you could find enough oxygen tanks—which you can’t—you don’t have any way to carry them. And it would take days, weeks probably. You’d have to go without food and hope you could find clean water and some way to filter it.”

  Better than staying here.

  He tips his head to the side. “If you let me… I mean, if we, you know…” He glances at my bare shoulders, his eyes getting big. “Then I can protect you, keep the others from hurting you. But if they take you away from me…” He narrows his eyebrows. “They’ll—”

  “You’re right,” I say, pulling the covers up to my chin, “the biosuit is a bad idea, but I have a better one: I’ll use a rebreather mask. I’ll find one and fix it—and then use it to escape. Madders says they last for months.”

  “Even if you could find one, how are you going to mend it, Shannon? Nobody knows how to repair the old technology. Once something stops working, it goes to Oblation, and the Giver prays for a new one.”

  “Surely you have tools to fix things? Hammers and screwdrivers and stuff?”

  “Sure. But it’s forbidden to touch them—unless the Giver says so. She controls everything, and the men are all afraid of her—even my father.”

  “Then we’ll have to be sneaky.”

  He scrunches up his eyebrows, looking confused.

  “That means we won’t let anyone else know what we’re up to. I’m good at that.”

  “You are?” He looks surprised.

  “Yeah. Do you know where they keep the spare parts for things: light bulbs, cleaning supplies, and extra gloves for the biosuits? Some sort of giant room full of stacked and numbered boxes?”

  He nods. “Grizzly goes there sometimes, and he takes me to help.”

  “Good. I’m guessing you have hundreds of masks sitting in boxes somewhere, just like we did. If we can find them, along with some silicone sealant and a couple of vises, I know how to make them work again.”

  “Vices?” he says. “You mean like pride and gluttony?”

  “No, silly. Like vise grips. They’re tools that help you glue two things together.”

  He gives me a blank look.

  “Never mind. You must have a tool shop around here somewhere too. There’ll be vises in it.” I exhale. “But it might be harder to find the sealant.”

  “There’s a big room full of bottles and jars,” he says. “My mother used to go there to make ointments, and I used to go with her. I remember the bones painted on the door. People don’t go in there anymore.”

  “That sounds like the right place. Do you think you could show me how to get there? Maybe draw me a map?”

  “I can do better than that,” he says, sitting up straighter. “I’ll take you there. And I’ll help you fix the masks so you can escape.”

  “Oh, Peter!” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you!” He pulls away, looking uncomfortable, and I let go. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to apologize. I knew it wouldn’t last.”

  “What wouldn’t last?”

  “You staying here with me. I knew a girl like you wouldn’t want to, you know, be with me.” He gets up from the bed. “You’re too pretty and smart to ever be interested in someone like me.”

  I cross my arms. “That is complete bullshit, Peter.”

  His eyes widen. “You think so?”

  “Of course I do—not as your wife or anything, but still…” I shrug.

  He nods and looks down at his hands.

  “We’ll make two rebreather masks,” I say. “One for each of us, and then we’ll escape together. I can go east and you can go west, and we’ll see who gets to safety first.”

  “Sure,” he says, his shoulders slumping. He takes the empty glass out of my hand, careful not to touch me. “Would you like more water?”

  I shake my head.

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you in the morning.” He sets the glasses on the floor by the door, shuts the cabinet, and turns off the light. In the soft glow coming from the bathroom, I watch him sit down in the corner, wrap his arms around his legs, and put his forehead down on his knees.

  I hop out of the bed, grab a pillow and a blanket, and take them over to him. I feel exposed in the thin nightie, but I’m hoping it’s too dark to see anything.

  “You’re not a monster,” I say. “I’m sorry I said that about you
.” I set the bedding down next to him. “And I don’t hate you or anything, I just want to go home.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I tiptoe back across the room and crawl into the huge bed.

  “Good night, Shannon,” he says. “Thanks for marrying me—even if you’re only pretending.”

  9

  Drawing Blood

  Diego

  When Soleil enters the examination room the following morning, she’s all business. “Good day, Mr. Crusoe. I’m officially in charge of figuring out how you survive Outside.”

  “Morning, doctor.” I offer her my hand and then think better of it. I swallow and run my fingers awkwardly through my hair. “Uh, thank you for taking my case, and I apologize for last night. I had no idea my appearance would stir up such painful memories.”

  She looks at me, her lips pressed together, and shrugs. “That’s neither here nor there, Mr. Crusoe, but I appreciate the thought.”

  Her resemblance to her mother is uncanny, and I have a difficult time not staring at her.

  She clears her throat. “Mr. Kirk asked me to tell you that he’s contacted Catersville and will have an update on Shannon Kai soon.”

  “That’s great news. Thank you.” I steal a look at her hands, checking to see if her fingernails are more similar to mine or her mother’s. Against my will, the image of those tiny hands wrapped in a blanket and buried near the cabin fills my head.

  Why couldn’t I figure out a way to save her?

  The thought leaves me struggling with my emotions.

  She holds up a thick manila folder. “It says in here that—with the exception of a slightly-elevated white blood cell count, the laceration on your left cheek, and some mild contusions—you check out perfectly normal.”

  I sit there staring at her.

  “You’re lucky,” she says. “The doctor who put you back together knew her stuff. Most of the patients who come here from remote biodomes aren’t so fortunate.” She drops the stack of papers on the counter and crosses her arms. “So, what else should I know before we get started?”