Chapter 10

Peacekeepers live by their aliases. The esteemed panel sits across from us, known only by their masks and changed voices. After the United Nations dissolved, all the Proxy leaders agreed to have a Council dealing directly with politicians and citizens.

No one knows the exact number of Peacekeepers in the Council. Even now, there are only two of them here. I'm sure others are watching the show through the cameras, but I focus again on the people standing before us. Their coats hang loosely at the sleeves, and their ebony masks cling to every dip and curve of their faces like a second layer of skin. Finally, the taller one steps forth, gesturing to both of them. "Call us the First and Second Peacekeeper."

"We need a new approach and a solution that everyone will understand and believe in." The First Peacekeeper moves to stand by the window. With his hands clasped behind his back, he surveys the sprawling sea of people marching toward the building. They hold up red signs of rebellion, screaming and crying for the children who've died from the mutations. Strangled cries of protest erupt from the crowd, but they're snuffed out as the Sentinels rush to contain them.

A rock skids across the window, leaving a whitish trail of cracks across the glass. The First Peacekeeper ignores it and points to the girl sitting in the corner. "Why was the Sanctuary built?"

"To protect us from the nuclear winter and to give us a safe place to—"

"We know that. But that's not the answer we want to hear, and it's not what they want to hear anymore." The First Peacekeeper points to the mob outside. "We forget what we promised everyone and why they trusted us to give them a better life. They must know there's hope, even if half the population goes mad by tomorrow."

The Second Peacekeeper takes a step closer to us, moving close enough for the edges of her coat to brush against our legs as she strolls by. "That's why we'll show them the potential in the Trials. The world's leaders have decided on a deal, so those who pass the Trials will be shipped off to other nations and try to grow the numbers from there."

I catch a glimpse of her obsidian eyes. They're too dark-colored to be natural, so I file that information away in the deepest reaches of my mind.

"We've discovered plots of land in other countries that we could salvage. Data shows that the success rate is better than what it could be here, and we've got results from the false immunes to prove it. With the different environmental conditions, we could have survivors spreading out from these areas." She lets out a shaky breath before continuing. "So, we're thinking of pairing you with someone from another country."

Sometimes, I wish Proxy would let us sit around and live out our days in peace. Krystal's right about that. We've got no system, and this feels too sudden. I don't know what else we've been doing the past three years except for living day by day. Maybe, we're just trying to convince ourselves that humans won't die out. We're doing everything we can, but it may not be enough this time.

I study the Peacekeepers, taking their careful steps and listening to the calculated taps of their feet against the linoleum. Now, they've settled back into their seats, and they study us with vacant expressions. That's enough for the murmurs to die down, and everyone goes back to minding their own business or staring blankly into space. I fiddle with a hangnail, waiting for this to be over. When the First Peacekeeper makes his way to a door at the back of the room, he speaks without turning back. "This is where we've been testing the false immunes, and I'm hoping you'll better understand what we're doing for you."

The Peacekeepers step outside, and the guards force us to follow.

Four experiment zones are lined up to form a perfect square, two on the top and two on the bottom. Each area is separated only by thin metal fencing. Before entering the first room, I pause at the plaque inscription hanging on the open door.

Madness overtook the population. Those who did not have immunity died while their families mourned. We honor the dead in what we do now.

The nearest one is filled with medical equipment and flimsy hospital beds. Surgical tools of all shapes and sizes sit on a shining tray in the middle of the torture chamber. "Come here," Seth tugs me away from the main group. He gestures to the back of the experiment room and steps inside. Scrunching his nose at the stench of decay, he walks to the garbage can stuffed to the brim with white hospital gowns. Flies hover over the sodden pile, but there's also a pile of identification bracelets hidden between the heaps of cloth. They're broken into tiny shards now, dead like the false immunes who once wore them.

As the chatters grow softer and further, Seth nudges me to rejoin the rest of the group. We move on to the other compartments, but there isn't much to see since they're mostly empty.

From across the field, the Peacekeepers finally conclude the tour. Their robes sweep the ground, picking up the dirt as they walk along the damp grass. "You should see this too," the Second Peacekeeper says. She leads us across the lawn until we reach a set of electrified fences. It's the same kind that kept us trapped within the Institution's walls.

The people behind the fence scramble to their places before standing at attention. They stay completely still, not even swaying in the sudden heat. When the Peacekeepers dismiss them, they scurry away and go about their business. Most of them pretend that we aren't there, focusing instead on lifting bricks, raking the leaves, and doing everything else with too much gusto. They move out of the way, putting several feet of space between them and us.

The First Peacekeeper sizes them up, nodding while the experiment subjects toil away in the blistering sun. "These false immunes have shown us that our solution is real. Soon, they'll be trying out the living areas for future paired couples. If they develop complications, we'll know what's wrong, and it'll be easier to tweak the conditions for the rest of you."

"But what happens if they die?" I ask.

"They were going to die from their mutations anyway, so we might as well use them while we still can. In this case, this is their purpose, and it's not like we're mindlessly killing them off. We're using them to perfect the environment for real immunes like you." The First Peacekeeper sighs and shakes his head like he can't believe my question.

"The researchers said they wanted to save the false immunes."

"It's all for the cameras. When they brought you to the Gene Bank, everything was broadcast live during President Wright's speech."

This time, I duck my head and clench my jaw. The Peacekeepers direct their gaze someplace else. When it's safe to look up, I take in everything, trying to commit every little detail to memory. Though I can't recognize faces well, I'm better at memorizing building layouts. I need to find the fastest way out of here.

Seeming pleased with themselves, the Peacekeepers lead us away. As soon as their backs are turned, the false immunes drop their gardening tools. Their bodies tremble with a murderous need. Their expressions are shrouded in seething rage, but they know better than to try anything with all the guards here.

How many of them are left?

Proxy does everything it can so the rest of us can cheat death, and I don't know if it's worth it.

Before the Peacekeepers take their leave, they tell us that we'll be getting our serum shots after this. Soon, the guards lead us away to a pale building, dropping us off in a holding chamber and locking us inside. Their retreating footsteps are thunderous against the wooden flooring, and the ensuing silence suddenly seems worse than having them here. I take my time to study the surroundings. Paintings of Presidents Finley and Wright hang on the walls. They wear stiff smiles that show too many teeth, like a grimace. Cameras and audio recorders are in all four corners of the room, watching and waiting for someone to slip up.

I'm still lost in thought when the door clicks open, and a man steps into view. He stops briefly, studying us with a taunting smile before weaving through the crowd. At one point, I could even smell his breath behind me. It reeks of Bourbon and all kinds of alcohol. I don't know how he gets his hands on those since the distilleries were all destroyed. He smiles stiffly and walks away. Squinting my eyes at the retreating figure, I see the curves of a gray tattoo at the nape of his neck, the swirling strokes cascading beneath his white coat. His wrist bears a silver burn mark as his Inspector's employment pass.

The guards lead us away after checking our identification bracelets. They break us up individually and march us off to makeshift rooms made of old shipping containers. I walk down the rows of brightly colored compartments, noting that many still bear the faded logos of companies that don't exist now. Then, the doors to the nearest one swing open, and I'm dragged inside while the guards take their leave. Drudgers in gray coats strip me down to my undergarments and fit me with skin-tight spandex.

The material is hot and itchy. Each bead of sweat that escapes my pores is promptly absorbed. My suit tightens around me, making it impossible to move as I'm suddenly hauled onto the bed. My arms and legs are strapped in, sprawled as widely as my muscles can manage without ripping apart. A machine clamps my head into place, and its cold metal plates sting my ears. The room turns completely pitch-black. I think I hear movement, but it could just be someone outside.

"What's going on?" My voice is strangely muffled now. After a few moments of silence, my hopes for a response are shattered. Instead, I face the ceiling and wait for whatever comes next.

"Seems like they didn't tell you anything, but you should know that the serum hurts. A lot," someone says from one end of the room.

A needle pierces my arm, and a searing sensation radiates through me. A plastic covering goes over my nose and mouth. Rubber bands smack my cheeks as they extend around my head. My consciousness fights against the dreaded gas. "I'm sorry." Those are the last words I hear before everything fades away.

...

The sheets are warm. Rough polyester strokes my fingers, bunching up under my grip as I open my eyes. The rest of me is hidden under an unfamiliar patterned gown. On my left, a thick observation glass takes up almost the entire wall.

"It took double the amount of anesthesia to keep you down."

I turn my head to the other side, where a blonde-haired lady scrutinizes me. Her brows are knitted together, showing a sunburnt crease between them. She adjusts her rimless glasses and looks down at her tablet. I look away. Gradually, the sensation in my legs returns to me. For now, it feels like a tingle. I can barely feel the comforter. Tubes feed neon green liquid to my veins in both arms. Under the tapes that keep them in place, black bruises stare back at me. I shift uncomfortably in my bed, vaguely aware of the sweat that stains the bed. While she's busy checking charts and scribbling notes, I peek at her name tag.

Cleo T.

That name seems familiar, but the face isn't. After a while of staring at the spider on the ceiling, I adjust myself. Cleo sighs and pushes her glasses up her crooked nose bridge. "Get plenty of rest before Remembrance Day rolls around. Since the serum takes a day to kick in, we'll give you time to visit any relatives before the Trials begin." She stands up and starts towards the door, spinning on her heels at the last moment, "Also, if you need, I can always give you a shot of Wanderlust to get you through it. Proxy is giving out some later."

I remember people at the Institution taking the medication to numb themselves. After the war, Wanderlust was made for those with intense flashbacks. It brought their consciousness to anywhere they wanted to go for a while. Many chose to relive the years before the war and when their loved ones were still alive. Others decided to numb themselves instead. They didn't want to feel the loss and the pain, so the drug was also their way out.

But that's not what I want. It feels like I'm running away, not wanting to face the harsh realities of a new life. Cleo shakes her head at my silence. "Let me know if you change your mind. Since it's free, you should take the chance now." Standing up, she moves quickly to the door and slams it shut.

I sink back into the bed, tossing and turning as the minutes tick by. My hands itch to rip off the intravenous tubes and walk out of here, but it isn't quite so simple. Slowly, I prop myself on my elbows and swing my feet off the squeaky mattress. Grabbing onto the intravenous pole, I shuffle to the windows and part the blinds to reveal the remnants of twilight chasing away the last of the sunlight. Though I'm wobbling a little on my legs, I force myself to keep standing until I can't do it anymore. Sweat beads on my brow and stings my eyes by the time I'm back in bed.

"What happened?" Jax's voice is muffled behind the mostly closed door. He peeks through tentatively as a silent question. I nod, and he lets himself inside. "I knocked, but you didn't hear me," he says while awkwardly rubbing the nape of his neck. His arms are ridden with small holes where I presumed the tubes once were, and his cheeks are flushed. Then, he holds out some vanguard sheets to me, the papers wedged between two pieces of cardboard. "I figured you might want these."

They're drawings and paintings of my parents, and I always do a unique piece before Remembrance Day. That's the day the bombs hit. After that, I let the artworks float away in the wind. It's childish, but that's my way of telling them that I still remember them. Jax settles next to me, and I frown at him. "The guards should be making their rounds soon. What if they see that you aren't in your room?"

He shrugs. Whipping out some paper from his pocket, he starts to write. The words fly across the page, but they eventually get smudged with tears. Jax always writes letters to his father and brother as if they were still here. Yet, there are certain things that we'll never get used to, so some days are better than others. I start on my paintings, mostly relying on muscle memory to depict my parents' likeness. Every stroke of my brush goes with his scribbles, the sounds blending seamlessly.

"When was the last time you dreamed about them?" Jax asks, pointing to the likeness of my parents on the vanguard. I stare at their faces and consciously remind myself that I know them. They aren't strangers. Meeting Jax's worried gaze, I shake my head since I can't remember, and he nods sadly. The creature rules my nightmares nowadays, and it suffocates me until I step outside to face the world again.

This time, our messages won't reach the clouds of the sky. Instead, we'll take them to a resting place. Jax seals everything in a brown envelope he stole on his way here, and he'll arrange for someone to send it out at sunset tomorrow.