A wistful smile tugs at Jack’s lips. He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I. The silence, heavy yet content at the same time, says it all for both of us.
In a way, the antidotes are the world’s biggest joke.
No one knows where they came from. The days directly following the Turning are a blur to many of us, hours of fright and despair and pure unadulterated fuckinghorrorblending together so that it’s impossible to remember one detail from the rest. To be fair, the survivors saw so many terrible things when the lurkers first appeared that it’s probably a good thing we can’t remember them all.
There are so many things I’d giveanythingto forget.
The antidotes were dropped from the sky, little wooden boxes filled with cotton, attached to a pristine white parachute that was meant to soften their landing. It happened one night when the lurkers were feasting outside and those who hadn’t Turned were locked inside of their homes, waiting desperately for some news that this would all be over before long.
News that would never come.
I have no clue how many parachutes were dropped, but most of them were destroyed by the lurkers as they rampaged and fed. By the time we realized just how valuable those boxes were, there were hardly any left—and that was the only delivery.
Me and Jack and Hallie, we were some of the lucky ones. One box was dropped right in the backyard of our old house. It got stuck in the branches of a gnarled and twisted oak tree that took up most of the yard. Jack waited until sun-up one morning when the lurkers had fled from the light to grab the parachute. Heused to be a big believer that the government could fix any mess; he hoped it was some sign from them that help was at hand.
In a way it was. At the very least, it was the only help those fuckers ever gave us.
Nestled beneath the cotton, four narrow glass tubes sat side by side. A thin strip of red ribbon was tied neatly around the stopper at the top; the end of each ribbon was stamped with a serial number. A clear liquid, more like syrup than water, filled the vials. A piece of card stock had one word written in a clear hand:antidote.
In my opinion, it was a little too little too late. Rory had already Turned. My mom was gone. I had no intention of letting one of those monsters get near enough to me that an antidote would be necessary. I remember looking down at the little glass vials and, for the first time since the Turning, I got angry. Red hot fury like I’ve never known swiped away all the fear and the self-pity I’d been wallowing in for days.
Before anyone could stop me, I grabbed one of those vials and smashed it on our kitchen floor. My twin gasped. Jack snapped the lid closed, moving the box out of my reach. He didn’t say a word, and I didn’t apologize for my reaction.
That was the beginning of the anger for me. It only got worse after that. Just the thought of the antidotes—the idea that we could’ve been saved before the Turning, but were helpless now—always seemed to make me want to do something rash and reckless.
As soon as the survivors discovered that lurkers burned, I channeled my bitterness and rage into fuel for my own personal fire. When I killed my first lurker, when I delighted in how easy it was to kill again, I decided that this was how I was going to survive—not by relying on a supposed antidote that came too late.
Now I regret smashing that vial. I threw away the one thing that could save a survivor if they ever got bit, so long as they drink the antidote within the first twenty-four hours. When the Grave banded into a community, the survivors all pooled together any antidotes that were recovered. Together, we managed to salvage about twenty antidotes. Jack took half of them and locked them away. The other half are hidden at St. Matthew’s.
Those are the only antidotes we have, and probably the only ones we’ll ever get. None of us know where they came from or why they arrived so damn late. All wedoknow is that they work—our people haven’t had to use many, but the few ones that we’ve used have kept a survivor from Turning after a lurker attack—and that we should only use them in an emergency.
No matter what, I won’t let myself be that emergency.
CHAPTER 8
Last night, I charged my phone while the electricity was still up, then set my alarm for seven o’clock. Pointless. I’m already wide awake by the time it buzzes loudly the next morning.
I spent the rest of yesterday with Jack, knowing that—despite my confidence—they could be our last moments together. Eventually, he told me that Maverick would be leaving first thing after he got a good night’s sleep, bartered with other survivors for supplies, and had breakfast before the Grave all but kicked his ass out of our settlement.
He was a curiosity, but while we were willing to listen to a stranger, he was too close to being a rogue for Jack’s liking. Either way, he was leaving today, whether he convinced one of us to accompany him or not. According to Eddie, he’d spoken to six neighboring communities in New Jersey over the last few weeks, but he couldn’t find a single taker to join his suicide mission.
Until me, that is.
For those who don’t want to dip into their rations, we have a basic meal rotation: three simple meals a day, served at seven in the morning, noon, and five in the evening. Breakfast, lunch,and dinner. While I scarfed down the last of Mrs. B’s pancakes, my travel partner would be chowing down in the cafeteria with some of the other survivors.
His plan is to head out at eight. With the sun coming up around six-thirty, dusk sneaking in around twelve hours later, if we leave at eight, that gives us a good ten hours of sunlight to move without worrying about lurkers. They come at dusk which means, if we want to keep from Turning, we have to hunker down and be prepared to fight before then.
For now, I get ready to go. I rush through my shower, though I should probably be relishing it since there’s a good chance it’ll be my last one for a while. I double-check my pack one final time, cast a wistful look at my abandoned collection of glass bottles, and exhale softly, shaking my hands as if releasing any lingering tension.
There’s nothing to be nervous about, I tell myself. I’ve killed plenty of lurkers and—no matter how the Grave voted—I know Jack wouldn’t let me go if he didn’t think I could handle this mission.
Besides, I have an antidote now.
The glass vial is wrapped up in a plastic bag, then tucked inside of a thick sock to protect it. I’d heard it’s nearly impossible to shatter the antidote’s glass case accidentally—it took a lucky hit and all my strength to smash the one I first found—but hell if I want to be the one to prove that it can be done. Besides, I know how valuable they are. I really don’t want anyone—my new hunting partner included—to find out I even have one.
Jack is already gone. I’d begged him to do it, to leave the condo before I did. He’d fought back, determined to walk me to the borders before passing me off to Maverick, but I refused.
If he did, I wouldn’t go—and we both knew that.
