Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(52)

“. . . for the protection of this great nation, the time has arrived to give full attention to the HTS threat so that we do not have a repeat of last week’s tragedy.” There is a pregnant pause as the president stares out at the room. “Detention of all carriers has become an utmost necessity. . . .”

“Mom,” I whisper, still staring at the screen, hearing nothing else. “What does he mean?” I understand his words, but none of it seems real. She waves a hand for me to quiet, her gaze riveted to the TV.

“The Wainwright Agency in conjunction with the Department of Justice, Homeland Security, and FEMA are mobilizing as I speak to amass all registered carriers throughout the country and transfer them into suitable locations. No small undertaking, but one that shall help us achieve the ideals upon which this great nation was founded . . . life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. . . .”

Mitchell grabs the television and wrestles it from the wall. Mom screams his name, but he ignores her, howling with rage. I watch, stunned as my brother wrenches it free and sends it crashing to the floor.

I look up from the sparking TV to my brother, his face flushed with rage, chest heaving with exertion.

“I’ll help you,” he pants. “We can run away, Dav.”

“And go where?” I ask, a strange calm coming over me. I’m listed in the national database and I’m wearing an imprint on my neck. There’s nowhere to go. No border I could cross. No plane I could board. Nowhere to hide.

“They can’t do this to you.” Mitchell looks from me to Mom, his eyes pleading with her, seeking support. She stares ahead, her features pale and drawn.

I touch my brother’s arm, sliding my hand down to his. “No running, Mitchell. I’ve got to stay.”

He steps back until he collides with the wall. His face scrunches up and a choked cry breaks loose, rattles from his chest. He slides down the wall until he hits the floor. I watch as he buries his face into his hands. I feel every one of his jagged sobs like a claw-swipe to my heart.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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PART TWO:

MOUNT HAVEN





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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The situation of overcrowding must be attended. Please stop sending carriers to this location. Our present population demands relief. I can reach no solution against the rising tide of disease that has befallen this camp. We lost six carriers this month alone, and even a guard died, infected with the same illness that has plagued the camp since we opened. . . .


—Correspondence from director of Camp 19 to Dr. Wainwright





TWENTY




WITHIN TWO MINUTES OF THE PRESIDENT’S address, we receive an automated phone message informing us that we would be contacted soon with information regarding my assignment and that I’m not to leave my residence for any reason under threat of arrest. Funny, that doesn’t even strike a chord of fear in me. Not when I’m about to be forced into some kind of camp for carriers.

Days pass. Mom flinches every time the phone rings on the counter. If Mitchell’s around, he goes still, his eyes fixing on her as she answers. Dad, if he’s even home, quickly flees into another room. The days roll into a week. I move about in a fog. I know they haven’t forgotten about me. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me.

The media shows around-the-clock coverage of carriers being rounded up and forced onto buses. Well, maybe not forced. Most go along with it.

There are a few instances of runners that make it on to the news. One car chase outside Detroit replays every thirty minutes. A carrier tried to escape with his family. He used to be a high school art teacher until he was identified as a carrier and dismissed from his job. I shouldn’t watch. It’s just a blatant ploy to sensationalize what’s happening, but I’m helplessly captivated, watching as the Mini Cooper drives off a bridge and crashes into a gravel pit, killing the entire family instantly. A wife and two small children. They show footage of the burning car. For a split second, you can even see the dark shadows within the vehicle.

All that night, I dream of dying in a car explosion, flames licking at my flesh, devouring me as I fight to get out. The weird part is my family stands outside the vehicle, watching me trapped inside the car, doing nothing to reach me or put out the fire. Mom, Dad . . . they make no move to help me. Even Mitchell. He weeps and pulls at his hair, but can do nothing.

I can’t deny that I feel a bit like that in reality. That my family is doing nothing, merely standing on the sidelines as I go up in flames. They’re passively watching everything happen to me. There’s nothing they can do. I know this. I said as much to Mitchell when he suggested we run away. Still, I can’t help feeling abandoned.

Walking into the kitchen, I find Mitchell watching TV. All evidence of the one he broke is gone. Someone moved a television from a guest room into the kitchen. It’s smaller and sits on the counter. Mitchell balances his weight on a bar stool in front of it.

“Hey.” He looks up, his spoon freezing from scraping the last of his yogurt from the container.