The Treatment (22 page)

It’s a crushing blow, and I lower my face. Pain, sharp and jagged, rips into me before the medicine can try to mask it. Kevin isn’t in The Program. He’s dead. “You killed him,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Don’t be silly,” the doctor says with a twinge of annoyance. “We wanted to help Kevin, but he chose another way. They do that sometimes—the sick ones. My question is”—he takes off his glasses—“what will you decide? Given the chance, would you kill yourself, Sloane? Would you go that far to keep your infected memories?”

Yes. I think my short answer is yes—but why is this the question? Why are there no other viable options? I want to be strong. I shout inside my head that I
have
to be strong, but really I start to fall apart. Kevin—my handler, my friend—is dead. The Program could have thrown him off the bridge for all I know, but even if he did jump, he did it to protect us. The Program pressured him into it. And when they start to
exert that same force on me, what will I do? Everything is gone. They’ve changed Lacey. They’ll change me. Is life worth living?

“Do we have to keep you restrained for your own protection, Sloane?” Dr. Beckett asks gently.

“Yes,” I respond, defiant and angry. “Yes, you do.”

Dr. Beckett exhales and then falls against the backrest of his seat. “That’s too bad.” He presses a call button on his phone. “Have Nurse Kell stand by with the next dose,” he says, shooting me a wary look. He takes a moment to compose himself, folding up his glasses before tucking them into his pocket. I have a thought that he wears them only to appear more official. We’re apparently skipping that stage of our relationship.

“We can be friends,” he tells me in a soft voice, “if you want. But there is one definite to our equation: You will never, ever, leave this place with your memories. We just can’t allow it. Try and understand our position.”

“You’re monsters.”

“Are we? Or are we the cure for a worldwide epidemic? All vaccines came with an initial loss. Aren’t you willing to die for future generations?”

“No. Are you willing to kill me for them?”

“Yes. Simply, the answer is yes.”

I don’t remember my time in The Program. Were they always this blunt? This terrifying? Or has my current situation stripped away the niceties? Part of me wishes he’d lie to me, say something to placate the fear. Then again, his honesty will keep me grounded, keep my purpose renewed.

“Now,” Dr. Beckett says, “I know you’ve been under extreme duress. Have any memories resurfaced?”

There’s a jab of grief that comes with the knowledge that I’ll once again lose the pieces, lose Miller. But if I hope to get out of this alive, I’ll have to play along—at least for a little while. “Yes,” I say. “But not negative ones. I’ll . . . I’ll tell you about them, no fighting. No lying. But first you have to do something for me. I need to know that Dallas is okay.”

The doctor smiles, seeming pleased that I’m willing to participate in my recovery. “Ah, yes. Dallas Stone. Seems her illness is fairly progressive. They don’t expect her to survive the night without extreme measures. She’s in solitary until further notice.”

“What? You can’t just lock her up. She’s not an animal!”

“She was ripping out her own hair. She’s a danger to herself and others. For God’s sake, she stabbed a handler.”

“He deserved it!” I shout.

“She’s gone completely mad. She’ll kill someone.”

“Let me talk to her. Please.” I yank on my restraints, wishing I could clasp my hands in front of me to show him how sincere I am. Dr. Beckett tilts his head, seeming to weigh his options. “She’s my friend,” I plead. “I can calm her down.” Dallas
is
my friend, one I would fight for. I wish I would have realized this sooner, gotten us out that house before The Program showed up.

“You really think you can get through to her?” he asks cautiously.

“Yes.” I breathe out. “I really do.” Although helping Dallas is part of the reasoning, I’m more concerned with her keeping her shit together until I figure out what to do. We’ll need each other to stay sane.

After a long moment Dr. Beckett nods and presses a button on the intercom—watching me as he talks. “Please take Miss Barstow down to solitary to speak with the patient. Keep them both close.” When he sits back in the chair, he picks up my file and glances through it once again.

“I hope you really can talk her down, Sloane,” he says, slapping the manila folder on the desk. “Because if not, you’ll really hate what comes next.”

THE HANDLER PUSHING MY WHEELCHAIR
smells like cigarette smoke. He’s the same one who brought me from my room earlier, but Nurse Kell is nowhere in sight. This small fluctuation, the fact that he doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid, is a bit of hope. It reminds me of—

I lower my face, tears gathering now that the medicine’s calming effects have started to wane. Kevin is dead. Lacey will be devastated. The painful fact is that it really could be my fault. If I had followed the rules, Kevin wouldn’t have had to help me. He would still be alive.

There’s a brush against my shoulder, and then a cloth is wiped across my eyes, over my cheeks, under my nose. I shrug away, and when I look back at the handler, he’s tucking a handkerchief into his pocket.

“You’re crying,” he says in a low voice. “Don’t do that.”

I scoff, ready to tell him to drop dead because what does he care? I’m crying over a real tragedy, and he’s just some asshole working for The Program. Before I can, the handler stops at a doorway with a small rectangular window and then takes a keycard from the retractable chain at his waistband. He pushes the door open, weaving his head as he tries to see inside the dimly lit room. He takes the Taser from his hip and disappears inside. I’m listening for Dallas’s scream, or worse, the sound of her hitting the floor, but the silence stretches on until the handler emerges with a stony expression. He comes behind my chair again and pushes me inside the room. He unfastens my hands, giving me a stern look as warning, and then walks out, closing the door behind him.

Solitary is darker than the other places in the hospital I’ve seen, but it’s not gloomy. The floor is covered in gray rubber tiles, and the walls have white padding. There’s a small set of track lights, but there are no windows. The corners of the room are set in shadows. That’s where I find Dallas, sitting on the floor with her hands bound in front of her. She’s wearing bright-yellow scrubs that wash out her complexion. When she recognizes me, she smiles broadly. Her gap-toothed grin is no longer charming, not when she looks insane.

“Did I kill him?” she asks.

Has she been focused on Roger this entire time? “I don’t know,” I say. “Last I heard, the ambulance was coming for him.” I hate the disappointed look in her eyes. What’s become
of us—wishing for someone’s death? What has The Program done to us?

“Did they find Realm?” she asks.

“I don’t know. They haven’t mentioned him yet.” I don’t want to voice the possibility that Roger could have hurt him. This way I can hope that Realm got away. Right now he might be the only person who can save us. James will be able to remember—he took The Treatment—but he’s still somewhere in The Program. I just hope he’s all right.

“No one gets away,” Dallas says, rocking gently. Her entire demeanor is smaller, vulnerable. “The Program will find Realm. It’s only a matter of time, because somewhere in your head is a clue that will help find him. They’ll get it out of you. Or me,” she reasons, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. “But probably not me because I’ll be dead.”

“Dallas,” I whisper, leaning forward in the chair. “I need you right now. We need each other. Pull yourself together or it’s over.”

“It’s already over.”

“No.” I climb down from the chair, my body still lethargic from the earlier medication. I take Dallas’s hands in mine, trying to draw her back. Trying to wake her up. “We survived The Program before,” I say. “We can do it again. Do you know who I saw? Lacey—she’s here.”

This seems to invoke mild interest in Dallas’s expression. Her dark eyes widen, a slight curve in her lip. “She’s alive?”

I nod emphatically, hiding my despair at Lacey’s actual condition. “She is,” I say. “And now we just have to hang on.
You have to hang on, Dallas, until I figure out what to do.”

“I’m tired of fighting,” she whispers. “Cas was right—it’s too hard. I think I’d rather die.”

Her sadness fills the room, fills me. I wrap my arms around her in a hug, absorbing her pain as best I can. Her hair no longer smells earthy; it smells of wet paper. Of something breaking down and dissolving. In a way Dallas is exactly where she belongs—she’s suicidal, and without this intervention . . . she’d be dead. I can’t let that happen.

“You have to be stronger,” I say bleakly. She feels tiny in my arms, fragile. “You don’t get to quit. I won’t let you.”

There’s a click behind me, and the door opens. The handler stands there, his face hidden in gray shadows. It’s time for me to leave. I pull back and put my hands on her cheeks, but I see she’s not there—not really. Her eyes are unfocused, unfeeling. It’s like Dallas is already dead.

I’ll save us,
I mouth, feeling the sting of tears.
Just fight a little longer.

The handler walks over and takes my arm; he isn’t rough, but firm. He sets me back in the chair, reattaching the restraints and keeping an eye on Dallas. She watches, but doesn’t have any reaction. She’s lost inside her head right now.

I murmur my good-bye to Dallas as the handler backs me out of the room. We’re gliding through the hall, and I’m completely grief-stricken. Dallas is crazy, Lacey is erased; right now I’m the only one left standing, and ironically enough, I’m strapped down to a wheelchair. I can’t wait around for James
or Realm to show up and rescue me. I’ll have to gather information, explore this facility, and figure out how to get out of here. I know what The Program wants from me: complacency. I’ll need to brush up on my acting skills.

“Any chance you could take me on a tour?” I turn to the handler, asking as sweetly as possible. There’s a small tug of a smile on his lips as he flicks a quick look in my direction. He has hazel eyes, not remarkable or arresting like James’s, but they seem kind. He’s definitely more human than the other handlers I’ve seen—with the exception of Kevin.

“It’s a little late for guided tours,” he says in that same soft voice. “Maybe tomorrow.”

I straighten up, disappointed but not completely deterred. I’ll block out the sadness, get rid of the emotions. I was telling Dallas the truth. I will save us.

I have to.

*  *  *

There is quiet humming when I open my eyes. The morning sun filters in the surely sealed window of my room. I blink quickly and then turn to see Nurse Kell sitting in a chair next to my bed, knitting, of all things. I watch her, a bit disoriented, before I clear my voice to talk.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She doesn’t glance up, but the humming stops as the clicking of the metal needles continues. “I was letting you sleep in,” she says. “You looked so tired yesterday.”

I clench my teeth but then remember my promise to myself
the night before. I have to play along. “Yes, well,” I say reasonably, “it could have been the medication you gave me.”

She stops and lowers her needles. “I suppose. But maybe we won’t need them this morning. Dr. Beckett would like to see you.”

“Okay. But any chance I can get out of these restraints on a permanent basis? They’re rubbing my wrists raw.”

Kell’s face flinches and she looks down toward my arms. “Poor thing,” she says, examining the skin. “I’ll check on your progress and see what I can do. The answer will be up to you, of course.”

It’s so hard to keep my sarcastic tongue from lashing out at her. Because if it was up to me, not only would I not need to be tied down, I wouldn’t be in this horrible place. I want to spit in Nurse Kell’s face, tell her how cruel she is. I just lower my head.

“I’ll try my best.” I sit there passively, but inside I’m boiling over. “Why do you do this, Kell? What’s in it for you?”

She seems genuinely surprised by the question, and sets her knitting aside. “I’m saving lives. I’ve even saved yours once.”

Does she really think that? I look her over, seeing that she does. Her round face, her short, curled red hair isn’t sinister. She could be someone’s doting grandmother. “You know what they’re doing to us,” I say, my facade falling away. “They’re changing us against our wills. They’re ruining our lives.”

Nurse Kell’s small green eyes weaken. “I know you think that, honey,” she says, “but you’re wrong. I’ve been a nurse for thirty years, and nothing,
nothing
could have prepared me for
what happened when the epidemic started. I don’t think you realize—”

“I lived through it,” I interrupt.

“Yes, you were sick and lived through it. Which means you never saw it clearly. Those infected have thoughts that are skewed and false. I pulled a butter knife out of a fifteen-year-old’s throat. That’s when The Program decided spoons were a better option in the cafeteria. I got on a chair and cut the sheet a thirteen-year-old hung herself from, spirals carved with her nails into the soft flesh of her forearm.” Kell’s cheeks glow pink and she leans closer. “I buried two grandchildren in the past year, Sloane. So don’t assume that I don’t know about the epidemic. I know it far better than you do. I’m just a person willing to do what I can to stop it.”

I’m speechless. She’s a human being after all. “Why are you at this hospital?” I ask finally. “Why did you request to be my nurse here?”

She smiles and reaches to brush my hair behind my ear. “Because I’ve seen where you started—I saw the darkness in your eyes. I’m not going to give up on you until you’re well again.” Her expression tells me she thinks this is a noble cause and that I should be grateful. Maybe if they weren’t my memories she helped erase, I’d see her good intentions.

Inside I’m screaming,
Thank you for ruining my life!
I can barely keep my voice steady when I murmur, “Thank you for saving me,” instead.