The Immune

18. Ultimatum

Two days pass of the same routine—wake up, eat, work, eat, sleep, and repeat. I lose track of time as I work. With the constant hum of activity around the Alma, I never get bored, so I don't need to check the time or count down the hours until break. I stop whenever I want. Or really whenever my hands need a break.

Yet, no matter how busy I am, a pinprick reminder sticks in the back of my brain. Every day that passes puts us one day closer to our deadline. I wait for Ollie to come and send me back home, but she doesn't. Instead, I see less and less of her. Her entire crew seems to have disappeared.

When they do resurface, black circles outline Ollie's eyes. She fidgets constantly with her hair, and her lips are raw from being chewed on. Mandy will drop by occasionally to check on me, but her conversation is always short. She hurries back to their corner where the yelling seems permanent nowadays.

The stress leads to me chewing my nails down to the bed. Once their bleeding, the soap irritates them further. In the end, my fingers are red, tender, and hot to the touch.

Isaac and I see less and less of each other. His strengths lie in working with the construction crew, lifting and pushing and repairing. The other men and women who work with him take up his time until late at night. We barely get a good night in before both of us collapse.

Lunchtime rolls around on our third day at the Alma. Because of my hands, I sit patching the seam of a pair of jeans. I'm a decent seamstress, but it's slow work for me. It's a beautiful day outside; why am I not out there?

At that, I fold the jeans up and sit them down on a nearby table. I tuck the needle and thread inside one of the pockets so I won't lose it. Turning on my heel, I head across the building to find Isaac.

"Wanna take a break and get some fresh air?" I ask once I find him. He looks up from the shelf he's repairing and smiles.

"Sure."

We slip out the front door and climb the hill that lines the right side of the parking lot. There's a few scraggly-looking trees there, but only one provides a decent amount of shade. Isaac and I sit in the grass— me all spread out flat on my back and him sitting Indian-style with his sketchbook in his lap.

I can't get over how pretty this valley is. Even while laying down, the twin mountains are in perfect view on either side of me. The reds, oranges, and yellows of the trees that blanket their surface blend seamlessly into a collage of autumn. They contrast perfectly with the cloudless blue sky. In the shade, it's warm, but a lazy breeze gives us a break from the heat.

I consider asking Isaac about the night in the basement. Why did he do what he did? Does he regret it? Have his fears lessened? I don't want to upset him, though. Parts of that night still give me shivers. Maybe it's better not to bring it up.

Isaac looks up suddenly from his work. "Did you say something?"

I can't help but laugh. "Why is everyone always asking me that? Are you all deaf?"

"Just thought I heard something." Isaac smirks, and with a shrug, he goes back to work.

That's when I notice he has his earplugs in. The orange foam melts into the shape of his ear and looks like a wad of chewed gum. I push myself up and glance over his shoulder to see what he's drawing. Turns out it's a landscape. Ever since he found some colored pencils, his art's been getting better and better. I'm jealous that he can block it all out like that; I can't escape the chaos in my head.

What weighs the heaviest in my mind is my father's name scribbled across that thin black line. I've spent every free moment trying to come up with some reason why he would create the virus. Yet it all seems crazy. Did they have some leverage on him? Maybe they held him at gunpoint and made him, or maybe they hypnotized him. Or maybe Ashford drugged him. Honestly, the best idea I've been able to come up was that it was an unfortunate accident. Either way, it doesn't make sense.