Chapter 14

New Kids

I thought I'd seen most of the complex, but when Dad started down a corridor I didn't recognize, I realized the place was far bigger than I thought.

After a short walk while I ignored him and filled Abigail in on everything that happened, I was startled when he stopped at a large door and waited for us to catch up. I tried to get a look through the small windows into the room beyond, but couldn't see much.

"It's almost time," he said. "I wanted you to meet them first."

"Time?" I said. "Time for what? Meet who?"

Instead of answering, he slid a keycard through the electronic lock and stepped aside. Growing unease dancing along my nerves, I released Abigail's hand and pushed open the door.

And stopped in the doorway. Six hospital beds lined the room, arranged along the walls, three on each side. All full. The general's promise came back to me as I stared at the disabled kids waiting for their turn to be like me. I didn't notice Abigail as she brushed past me into the room until she spun on my father, her voice a hiss.

"What's going on?"

"Wyatt is about to get some new friends," Dad said.

She took a step further into the room before retreating, face flushed and angry.

"Please tell me you aren't planning what I think you're planning." She just managed to choke out the words. Her honey voice and dimples were long gone.

"This has nothing to do with you, Abigail," my father said in no uncertain terms.

"Wyatt." She turned to me. "Talk to your father. These kids…" she trailed off, face hopeless. "They don't deserve to be tested on like animals."

"All of them are terminal or unable to live normal lives," Dad said. "And each has had full disclosure."

"That's a first," I said. Nice of him to offer me the same courtesy. I was drawn away from their argument to the first bed, ignoring them as Abigail continued to berate my father. I needed to see these kids, to meet them. Dad was right, for once. If he could make them well, use the Hercules beam to fix their bodies like he had mine, I was okay with it. Besides, I was tired of being alone. I wanted friends who knew how I felt.

He did say they wouldn't survive without the test, though. That wasn't being selfish, was it? Trying to save them?

"What about emotionally?" Abigail's voice carried enough I had to hear, if not pay attention. "Are they ready for this, Edison?"

Okay, attention captured. I hadn't thought of that. But what could be worse than getting better?

"They have all undergone psychological testing," he said, though there was a twitch near his left eye telling me he was hiding things again. "They all want to live enough to undergo the test and are willing to devote themselves to the project to do it."

I walked away from them as Abigail continued to whisper her questions at my father. I heard enough. It was time to make my own observations.

The first bed's occupant was a small-statured boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, perched on the edge of the mattress. He clutched the top sheet over his pinstriped pajamas, hugging it to him like a lifeline while he rocked back and forth, back and forth, shaggy, sandy blonde hair falling across his face. His bare feet made a pattering sound against the metal bar beneath him, green eyes locked on a spot on the floor as he hummed to himself the same note, just taking time to breathe. I ducked down to get a look at his face and he jerked away from me, eyes refusing to meet mine as he hummed louder.

"I'm Wyatt," I said, not sure what to expect from him. When he didn't answer, I backed away, spotting his chart hanging from the end of his bed. His name was Tosh Durango, thirteen, from Fairbanks, Alaska. The listed disability was severe autism.

I looked up and tried again. "Hey, Tosh," I said. "Nice to meet you."

His humming grew louder still, rocking more severe. I winced. Did I cause that?

"It's okay," a soft voice said from the next bed. "It's not your fault or anything." I glanced over at the pale blonde girl lying crumpled beneath the sheets, her blue eyes sunken into dark pits. She smiled and waved me over with her fingers. "Autism is pretty tough. He's in his own world. When you try to talk to him, it distracts him from it and he doesn't like it." She glanced at him with a sweet, wistful expression. "And don't be offended if he won't meet your eyes. It's just a thing, you know?"

Her smile was lovely despite her wasted appearance. I knew I looked like her only a short week ago and felt amazed by her frailty. In that moment, I would have taken her to the chamber myself just to save her life.

"I'm Wyatt," I said. "Nice to meet you." The chart swung from its hook when I returned it to the end of Tosh's bed and helped myself to hers. "Elle Monticello, sixteen, of Naples, California."

Her smile widened even more. "You know so much about me already," she said, long, blonde lashes fluttering in the harsh light. It made her appear a horrid shade of green, veins showing through her near-transparent skin. "And all I know is your first name."

Her smile was infectious.

"Wyatt Simons," I said. "Also sixteen, of Santa Fe, New Mexico."

She gasped, eyes widening. "So you're him."

I shrugged, uncomfortable. "I guess." I gestured at Tosh to change the subject. "How do you know about autism?"

"One of the kids in my last foster home had it," she said. "We were the two sickies, so I spent a lot of time with him." It took obvious effort for her to turn her head, but she did it. "He wasn't as bad off as Tosh. But nearly."

I couldn't imagine being lost inside myself. It was hard enough when my body didn't obey me. To have a damaged mind would have been worse. Except, of course, maybe he didn't know it so it didn't make much difference to him.

I looked down at her chart again. Her illness made me flinch. She must have seen my reaction because she made a face. She was really cute, even sick.

"Yes," she said, voice dropping as she hammed up some drama. "It's true. Poor Elle. I'm afraid after everything we've tried, the leukemia is terminal, doctor."

I laughed, even as shaken as I was. "How much time?" I wasn't sure if I was supposed to ask, but for some reason I needed a number.

"Don't know," she said. Her voice caught and she coughed. Elle tried to reach for a glass next to her but I beat her to it. She sucked gratefully on the straw a few swallows, her eyes locked on mine.

"Thanks," she said. "Stupid meds make my mouth so dry. Anyway, you wanted to know about the final tragic days of Elle Monticello. They say any day. Or a week. A month. I wasn't supposed to last much past two years ago, so it's hard to say. Although, to be honest," her face fell for the first time and she let me see her sorrow, "I think it's closer than ever. I can feel it coming, you know?" She shrugged, thin, delicate body barely moving.

"So you're sure you want to go through with this?" I needed to know they had been told everything, although I understood now Tosh would never be able to give informed consent.

"Yes," she nodded once, voice firm. "Absolutely. Dr. Simons, your father," she blushed, flooding her pale face with pink for a moment as she made the connection, "told us everything. About how you used to be so weak and ill and how the experiment made you stronger. Showed us pictures, even. Well." She looked at me with something like awe. "Will I be okay, do you think? Like you?"

I had no idea what to tell her. Was my father honest with them? She answered the question for me before I had the chance to ask.

"I know it may not work for me," she said. "No guarantees, that's what they told us. Still, the thought of being healthy. More than healthy. Wow."

"What about your folks?" Even as I asked, I remembered she mentioned a foster home.

"Dead," she said. "A car accident five years ago. Just before I got sick."

We had that much in common. I flashed back to my father telling me about my mom.

"No aunts or uncles, either, or grandparents. Only child. It's just me and the foster system." She didn't seem bitter at all like I know I would have been. She had it so tough! And here I was whining because I was super strong and bored about it. I felt like a jerk.

"At least I'm getting good health-care," she said. "My dad was a marine."

I didn't know what to say, had no words of comfort or encouragement. Elle didn't need them.

"This is my last hope," she said, voice soft, as if she didn't want me to hear her. "I need to know. And no matter what happens… I just need to know I tried everything."

I couldn't take her gentle patience any longer. Like a coward, I set down her chart and moved on.

***