"We can't tell them."
The four of us sit on a cracked, leather couch. Bits of leather stab me in the legs through my jeans, but my mind is too preoccupied to care. Ollie has her knees pulled up into her chest. When she talks, her chin rams into her knees and cuts her words short.
"We can't," she repeats. "They would panic."
"We don't lie, though," Mandy reminds her.
"I'm not saying to lie. Just withhold the truth."
I lean my head on Isaac's shoulder and take a deep breath. The air around us seems too heavy. With every passing second, the fear recedes, but not the worry. The headache growing the back of my mind presses on my eyes and nearly blinds me.
"We can't let it happen," I mumble, rubbing a circle in my left temple.
"Obviously," Ollie snaps.
Mandy shoots her a look and shakes her head. "Don't get hateful, Olivia." She opens up the folder again. "Are you absolutely sure about the numbers?"
"One hundred percent. There's no error." Ollie yanks her legs out from under her and stands up. She starts pacing again, hands running through her hair. "And it has to be real. It's signed by thirteen different officials. Check it out."
I sit up to read over Mandy's shoulder. The thirteen signatures line the bottom of the page. I wouldn't be able to read them if the names weren't printed underneath.
The first and largest signature is Nicolas Ashford, President of the United States at the time of the outbreak and current President of Compound 1. Under his jagged mess of a signature, there's nine more names. I skip the ones I don't recognize and pause at Evan Hartley. The rest must be the eight other presidents.
Farther down on the page, smaller and barely noticeable, are three more signatures. Sai Patel and Ava Julien don't sound familiar to me. But the last one does. It makes my heart jerk in my chest. I stop breathing for a second.
Jacob Price
The letters mesh together in an unintelligible knot. High, sharp arching cursive letters sprawl across the black line. It may be unreadable, but I've seen that signature a thousand times.
Now, I can't deny that Dad played a part in this. It's staring me right in the face.
Jacob Price: Head of Research and Development.
My father created the virus.
"We have to go back." Everyone looks over at Isaac as he speaks up. He continues to stare down at his fingers, which twirl a pencil. "Me and Jay and a few others. The only way we're going to stop this is from the inside."
My headache worsens. It's a dead-end situation. If we go back, the guards will shoot us before we get close to The Wall. On the other hand, though, staying here means certain death. Do we sit around and wait to starve or go on a suicide mission to save the world?
Even I know the answer. I'm not selfish enough to stay here and let Hartley release the second strand of the virus.
But how do we stop them? The people here can't launch an attack on Compound 4; they don't have the manpower for that. It has to be an inside job.
I groan out loud and chew on my thumbnail.
"Getting back in won't be easy," I say, settling for the fact that returning is my only option. "The night guards are no joke. We're trained to shoot on sight. If anyone sees us, they won't hesitate. And we don't leave gaps, so sneaking past them isn't an option."
YOU ARE READING
The Immune
Science FictionCompound 4 was supposed to be a sanctuary away from the virus and the Infected that came with it, but to Jaelyn, it's prison. It's too crowded, she's treated like a disgrace, and her only friend is an old man who loves Checkers. But outside The Wal...
