Code(3)

Shelton stood in the clearing’s center, arms crossed, boredom etched on his face. He wore a yellow Pac-Man retro hoodie and oversized basketball shorts, which hung from his scrawny frame like clothes on a hanger.

“Why all the Haterade?” answered Hiram Stolowitski. “We found buried treasure once before, right?”

“A perfect reason to quit,” Shelton said. “We’ve filled our lifetime quota.”

“Not yet.” Hi returned his attention to the device in his hands. “The geocache is supposed to be right here. Somewhere. I just have to find it.”

“So far, all you’ve found are bottle caps, some pliers, and a Diet Coke.”

“I re-jiggered the settings to ignore trash metal. No more false alarms.”

“No more anything. It just beeps.”

Hi wore a jarring arrangement: red Adidas headband, blue Hawaiian shirt, and white board shorts. In his hands was a Fisher Labs F2 metal detector, fresh from the package as of that morning. He’d been combing the clearing for thirty minutes, insisting something was buried there.

Chubby-faced and red-cheeked, Hi looked like he’d been running sprints rather than carefully walking a grid. No question he could be annoying at times, but we all respected his scientific curiosity. Hi loved experiments and gadgets, figuring things out. Usually I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

That day, not everyone was feeling as charitable.

“This is stupid.” More a computer guy, Shelton preferred hacking websites to tramping through the woods. “Check the GPS again. We could be in the wrong place. And who’d bury something out here, anyway? It’s private property.”

Loggerhead Island is a private veterinary research preserve, complete with troops of free-ranging rhesus monkeys. The habitat is almost wholly undisturbed, with no permanent buildings outside the main LIRI complex.

We visited often. Loggerhead was one of the few places we could be totally alone.

“The geocaching website listed these coordinates,” Hi repeated stubbornly. “This is the first cache ever posted for Loggerhead, and I intend to find it.”

“When’d you adopt this wonderful new hobby?” Ben asked.

“When I ordered the detector. So last month, I guess. Now stop bugging me and let me finish scoping the clearing. The cache is within a hundred-foot radius.”

Lazy Sunday. With no other plans, we’d selected our default option—messing around on Loggerhead. Our safe haven. We’d taken Sewee, as usual, then hiked over to explore the woods bordering Tern Point, a conical stone peak on the island’s southeastern corner. Hi had insisted.

“Explain this again,” I asked, not sure I fully understood the concept.

“I’m searching for a geocache.” Hi, with infinite patience. “It’s a game. Someone buries or hides a box with an object inside, then posts the coordinates online.”

Shelton, skeptical. “How do you know a box is buried here?”

Hi continued at his deliberate pace, slowly sweeping the detector back and forth in front of him. “Because my iPhone says we’re on the exact coordinates, and the clue told me to ‘be sure to scratch the surface.’”

“All in all,” Shelton said, “this is a tremendously dumb game.”

“You’re a dumb game,” Hi shot back.

“Let me practice linking while Hi works,” I suggested, knowing they wouldn’t like the idea.

Three groans. As expected.

“We have to master our powers,” I insisted. “What’s the point of having special abilities if you can’t control them?”

Hi grunted, eyes glued to the detector’s LCD screen.

“It’s creepy.” Shelton shivered despite the warm October afternoon. “Invasive.”

Ben nodded. “You should stay out of other people’s minds.”

Exposure to the supervirus had one major . . . side effect. Benefit? Curse?

We call it “flaring.” When the changes come, our minds warp and snap, then the powers break free. Our senses shift to impossible clarity. Sight. Smell. Hearing. Taste. Even touch.

The wolf comes out, making us sharper and stronger.

Viral.

But evolution doesn’t follow a single set of rules. The virus affected each of us differently. Perhaps the mutations were unique to our individual genetic sequences. Whatever the reason, our strengths vary. Hiram has eyes like an eagle with Lasik. Shelton can hear feathers flutter as a sparrow flaps its wings. Ben becomes strongest and fastest, like a bull on steroids. My nose gets so sensitive I can sniff out emotion, deception, and fear. And other things you’d rather not consider.

And, recently, our powers reached a whole new level.

For me, anyway.

The boys can’t do it. Don’t like it. But when our pack flares in close proximity, I can sometimes touch the other Virals’ minds. Hear their thoughts, and pass on mine. This talent has come in handy more than a few times. Has saved our lives.

“Just one try, please.” Firmly. “I need to gauge what Coop adds to the mix.”

More dramatic moans, but the boys stopped what they were doing.

“Fine.” Hi.

“Whatever.” Shelton.

“One time.” Ben held up a single finger. “One.”

I nodded, then closed my eyes and stilled my mind. A deep breath, then I reached in a way I can’t fully describe. My thoughts delved downward, backward, deep into the primordial center of my brain.