Everland(62)

“Has the Professor seen the girl?” I ask Smeeth.

“She’s just finishing up in the crematorium down in the basement. She should be up shortly.”

I nod curtly.

“I’ve seen worse,” Smeeth continues. “She doesn’t appear to be too far along. In fact, I’d say she’s the healthiest specimen I’ve seen. She is in remarkable condition. I’m not sure how she’s managed to survive this long, but I hope she’s a good candidate for further testing.”

Seizing the patient’s chart from the bed, I flip through the pages. “Do we have any identification on who she is?”

Smeeth stares at me with a puzzled expression. “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

The chart offers nothing out of the ordinary: height, weight, and description. I watch the girl with a newfound appreciation, and I sort through jumbling thoughts as if piecing a puzzle together. “If she’s been able to stave off the virus for this long, she must have had some help, something to assist her in building enough immunity to keep the virus from affecting her like the others. Maybe the Professor is wrong. Perhaps it may be possible to concoct an antidote from her cells. You do know what that would mean, Mr. Smeeth?”

“What, Captain?”

“She could be our ticket out of Everland. We might not need the other girl,” I say, observing this girl with interest. “When can we wake her?”

“If you’re right, I’m sure the Professor will be interested in speaking to her to find out if there’s an environmental factor or something else keeping her alive.”

I place the patient’s chart on the foot of the bed. Footsteps echo in the staircase that leads from the basement cremation chamber to the lab. The Professor steps into the room, pulling on a pair of gloves.

“So let’s see who our …” She stops midsentence. Her eyes stare in shock at the young girl. Suddenly, it clicks.

Upon seeing the Professor’s expression, rage strikes me in the gut like lightning, confirming what I’d just deduced. I ball my fists, holding back the anger, reminding myself that she, like my own mother, will lie through her pretty white teeth as long as it is to her own benefit.

“Professor?” Smeeth says, furrowing his brow. “Is something wrong?”

The woman draws near to the patient and gently touches the girl’s cheek.

“You know her, don’t you?” I snarl, more as a statement than a question.

The Professor regards me, shaking her head, seeming to search for lost words. Finally, she drops her gaze back to the patient.

She brushes a ringlet of hair from the girl’s face. “This is my daughter.”

“You said you had no children,” I say, my voice trembling behind clenched teeth.

The Professor nods, her worried eyes flicking from me to the young girl. She glances at her watch as she rests her fingertips on the girl’s wrist. “I thought she was dead. I’ve watched hundreds, thousands, of kids come through here, hoping any of them were Joanna. When she never showed up, I assumed the worst.” The Professor strokes Joanna’s hair. “I can’t believe it’s her. She’s grown so much.”

“She obviously is not the one you said was immune,” I declare, tossing Joanna’s file onto the counter. “This virus has annihilated the adult population and almost every female we’ve come across. Yet somehow both you and your daughter managed to survive it, and you claim that there is only one child that is immune. How is that possible?”

The Professor says nothing. Fury boils over within me. I swipe the counter, sending the file and medical tools clattering to the floor. I growl and grab the Professor’s frail arms with viselike hands. She yelps in pain.

“What are you hiding?” I demand.

With a frightened but defiant stare, she glares back at me.

Her insubordination rattles me. I press my lips together, fighting the urge to slap her.

“Perhaps this will convince you,” I say. Pulling my revolver from its holster, I raise it to the Professor’s chest. She shudders but stands tall.

“Captain, wait!” Smeeth says, stepping between the gun and the Professor.

He is like kerosene, fueling my anger.

“Soldier, stand down!” I snarl.

The Professor guffaws and stares at me with unintimidated, unyielding eyes. “You’ll never pull that trigger. You need me.”

I cock the hammer of my gun back.

“Think this through,” Smeeth says, holding his palms up. “She is the only one left who knows how to develop the cure for the Horologia virus. You kill her, you kill any chance we have to find the antidote.”

I study the Professor, searching for any sign of fear. There is nothing. Smeeth is right and she knows it. “You have a valid point. Your daughter, however”—I turn my revolver toward the unconscious girl—“is not vital to my plan. She is not the Immune.”

Just as I expected, the Professor’s resolve dissipates. She throws herself over the girl’s body, shielding her from my aim. “No!” the Professor pleads, the blood draining from her face.

Smiling widely, I lower my weapon. “Ah, just as I thought. I want answers and I want them now. There’s something keeping her alive. Start talking.”

The Professor’s eyes glisten as she sits up and laces her fingers into her daughter’s hand. “Sixteen years ago, I had just begun working for the biological weapons laboratory. Three other researchers and I were assigned to study the Horologia virus. It was sent to us by an anonymous rebel of …” The Professor hesitates, as if struggling to continue. She sighs. “It was sent from Germany.”