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  “Gone,” he says turning his head away. “Must’ve died sometime last night. I never heard them come to take his body.”

  My mind flashes to the bloody mess on the floor from yesterday—his lifeless body causing the mattress to sag, the muffled drip of his blood hitting the concrete floor. I press my palms into my eyes and shove the images down. The feeling that this will become my deathbed makes me feel nauseous. This is where all my friends and family members went when the chips started malfunctioning; Billy, Emma, Jocelyn—there were too many to remember. "Who are the people that brought me here?"

  "I don't know their official title," my neighbor responds. "But my old neighbor—the one before this last one—he said they go NGs."

  "NGs?"

  "It's short for Negative Guard. NDs are Negative Doctors. So on and so forth."

  "Oh." I nod and look off in the opposite direction.

  “I’m Atticus.” My neighbor gazes up at me from under the curls that fall in front of his eyes. “I realized I never introduced myself to you yesterday.”

  “What’s the point of doing that?” The answer that comes out of my mouth shocks me. I swallow and hug my knees into my chest. “I mean, we’re Positives, right? We’re just going to die anyway.”

  The silence that responds makes guilt slam onto my shoulders; guilt that’s filled with truth.

  “It’s not all bad,” Atticus responds. “We’re not my neighbor. We’re alive. They’re trying to help us—”

  “Then why do I feel like I’m in prison?” Tears well in the corners of my eyes. I look away from his tired stare toward the door to my cell. “You were the college kid. Do the math. Our chances of getting out of here are slim to none.”

  Atticus clears his throat and shifts closer to the dividing wall. “Never really was one for math,” he says, attempting to laugh. “ Listen, I can understand why you’re so scared about all of this. But trust me, being in here is better than getting gunned down in the street for treason.”

  "At this point, I'm gonna have to disagree with you."

  "You'd rather get gunned down?"

  "Like the alternative is better?"

  He looks around his cell and shrugs his shoulders "I'm safe for the time being. I'm not dying yet which is also a plus—"

  "I'd give anything to be away from a glass cell," I respond, looking out the side where my door is. "We're like zoo animals in here."

  "Hm," Atticus says, scratching the back of his head. "Did you come here alone?"

  "No."

  "How did you get here?"

  "Failed surgery." I run my fingers over my incision. Each bump my finger runs over brings a small bit of pain along with it. "My parents brought me here afterwards."

  Atticus nods and look of recognition flashes across his face. "I'm sure they did it cause they care—"

  “You didn’t see the way my parents looked at me.” Images of them standing in the testing room fill my head in an instant; my mother’s hands hanging by her sides, an empty stare in my direction, her mouth a thin straight line. And my father. I squeeze my eyes, blinking away tears. He was supposed to fight for me. They both were, but my father especially. I was his little girl. His miracle. The one daughter he had left.

  Now, I’m just a Positive—just another number to add to the dead.

  “They didn’t even try to stop the people when they took me,” I whisper, afraid that speaking about my parents would tear me apart at the seams. “The ones in the hazmat suits—NGs or whatever—dragged me through the red door, and my parents stood there and watched.”

  I glance at Atticus—a glimpse of a wince flashes across his face. A half smile replaces it in an instant. “I’m sorry. To be completely honest though, they didn't have much of a choice than to stand there.”

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "If they tried to prevent the NGs from taking you, they're committing treason," he responds. "Treason is punishable in two ways now; death by firing squad or imprisonment. And judging by how recent deaths have dwindled the population down to basically nothing, I'm assuming they would've exiled your parents."

  "Really?"

  "Most definitely," he says, nodding his head. "Death by firing squad stopped weeks ago."

  I swallow remembering the gunfire that plagued the streets after the malfunction went viral online. Entire families went missing overnight because they'd rather run than find out if they were a Positive. Now though, I can't blame them. I've only been here a day and already I feel crazy enough that I'd probably be declared insane by one the NDs here.

  "What's a doctor do?"

  "Seriously?" Atticus raises an eyebrow.

  "Well, I know what they did before I was born," I respond, rolling my eyes in response. "But I mean here. What are they doing to us here?"

  The door in the hallway swings open and a tall figure in a yellow hazmat suit stalks past my cell. He opens a small latch on the outside of Atticus’s cell and the dull clink of glass reaches my ears. I can’t make out what the man says to him, but it seems like they know each other.

  The person in the hazmat suit waits with their hands on their hips. Atticus pokes something into his finger and squeezes blood onto the sliver of glass. He places it back into the clear box, and the person in the hazmat suit cradles it into a carrying case.

  I watch as they walk to the box attached to my cell and drop in a clean piece of glass. “Please come to the box.”

  My muscles freeze. The beating of my heart hurts my head—I’m petrified of needles.

  “Positive, I won’t ask again.” The person in the suit nods their head to the box. I can make out the outlines of a young man’s face as I drag myself closer to the wall of my cell. “Remove the needle and slide.”

  I reach my fingertips into the box and swallow down bile. With a shaky grasp, I pick up the glass and thin metal needle. My vision blurs and beings fading. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that I’m going to pass out. I look up at the man in the yellow suit and hear, “Oh great.”

  My vision tunnels, and I collapse to the concrete.

  * * *

  “Miss Cuevas.”

  I open my eyes to my ceiling. The cold from the concrete underneath me goes straight through my scrubs. The glass slide still remains in my hand, but the needle is missing.

  “There you are,” the same voice says. Hands slide under my back and help me sit up. “You’re alright.”

  I turn to my right and see a new man in a hazmat suit peering at me. His eyes are the brightest green I’ve ever seen, almost like emeralds. He has a thick beard of reddish blonde hair. A smile spreads across his face. “Not a fan of needles, I take it?”

  My voice catches in my throat. I rub my fingertips together trying to alleviate the uncomfortable feeling crawling up my spine. Glancing over the man’s shoulder, I notice Atticus is missing from his cell.

  “He was taking to Testing,” the hazmat man answers before I can force a question from my mouth. “Every once in a while, a Positive shows signs of improvement. We’re trying to find a way to prevent those chips from infecting you.”

  I bite down on my lip. Every part of me wants to believe him, but I don’t. I can’t. If they were trying to help us, there wouldn’t be a need to lock us in these cells. I would still get to see my parents. Tears blur my vision—why can’t I just push past all this?

  “I know you’re scared.” The man grips my shoulder with a rubber-gloved hand. I don’t look up at him. Instead, I watch my teardrops splatter on the concrete below me, just like the man’s blood did in the cell next to Atticus. “Believe me when I say, I’m just as scared as you are. If I can’t get you better, everyone who dies from this disease is my fault. I refuse to let that happen anymore. One way or another, I’ll get you healthy. Okay?”

  I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. My vision clears after a few blinks, and I glance in the man’s direction. Even though he looks sincere, I can’t bring
myself to nod. My gaze wanders to his other hand; the glass slide and needle rest between two of his fingers.

  “Mind if I take some of your blood? It’s just to see if there’s any change.”

  Any change from what? Am I getting sick already? Were they already seeing the disease that had claimed so many lives take hold of me? Atticus did look sick this morning—I could see it in his eyes.

  Am I next?

  Chapter 6

  I'm at the dining room table, watching the news with my father; another memory that I can't seem to shake.

  My mother hadn't left her room since they took Elaine's body from our house. I can remember her dull sobs that reached the dining room that night. We were still waiting to be told what the next step was. My dad squeezes his hands until his knuckles are white with red splotches.

  "Tonight, I'm asking you as one human being to another," the President says. "Go to your nearest medical facility and get tested or sign up for surgery. Not doing so will result in your swift arrest for treason. Thank you."

  I watch the President walk to the right of the screen and disappear behind a deep blue curtain. My dad leans back in his chair and breathes a long sigh. He won't make eye contact with me—it scares the crap out of me.

  "What are going to do, Dad?"

  He doesn't answer me at first. Instead, he sits, staring at the television at the edge of his seat. His hands are crossed over his chest. The silence makes my heart pound faster.

  "Dad?"

  "Go get your mother and go to bed."

  "But Dad—"

  "Now, Salvatora!"

  His raised voice makes me jump. That was the first time I heard it; the fear. I stare at him for a moment hoping that he would crack some stupid joke, but when he rushes from the dining room table to his office, I know it's real. My father is afraid which means I should be too.

  I sprint to my parent's bedroom and push open the door. My mother is tangled in a mess of sheets and comforter in the bed. "Mom?" She stirs a little, but doesn't wake up. "Mom, wake up?'

  Her head lifts off the pillow just enough to make out puffy red circles under her eyes. She looks at me, but doesn't say a word.

  "Dad said to come get you," I continue. "The President finally gave us instructions."

  She throws the blankets off of her and groans as she comes to a standing position. Without anymore acknowledgement than her looking at me before, she shuffles past me and down the hallway until she's out of site.

  I leave their bedroom and start to head to my bedroom until I hear my mother's voice. It was the first time I'd heard her speak since Elaine died. I sneak down the hallway and sit just on the other side of the office wall hoping her voice would calm my nerves.

  "They want us to—get them removed?"

  "Those were the instructions the President gave," my father responds. "That or get tested."

  "But George, how will I—"

  "I know. I know. That's why I'm looking for somewhere we can go. Just for the time being."

  "You mean, hide? Like fugitives?"

  "Not exactly—"

  "Then,what do you mean?"

  "Clare—"

  "Just let us get tested. It doesn't mean it'll come back as Positive. There's a chance we'll be fine."

  "I don't want to lose anyone else, Clare. I can't lose anyone else. Elaine was enough."

  "So you'd rather leave and risk our chips malfunctioning when we're on the run?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," he responds. "I have a plan."

  There's a silence long enough for three clicks of the second hand to go by. "No."

  "Clare, just hear me out—"

  "Hear you out!" A crash comes from inside the office. "You're talking about getting surgery in a different country and hiding! You're insane Todd if you think I'm signing our family up for that."

  "Clare, please. They're going to take her. They're gunning people down already in several cities across the country." My father's voice cracks at the end. "It's not safe here anymore. They're not looking out for our safety."

  I hear my mother pace a few times across the wood floors. "Maybe there's another way."

  "The President gave two options. Get tested or surgery," my father responds. "If you ask me, that doesn't sound too convincing."

  There's a few moments of silence before my mother's voice cuts in again. "What about me then? Do you—do you think, well—that—"

  "No," my father says. "We just have to find a place to lay low for a while and everything will be all right."

  If only I knew then, how wrong he was.

  * * *

  Dad.

  My lips curl around the word. I feel like that just happened yesterday—even if it was only a dream allowing to bring that moment back. The taste of freedom still lingers in my mouth from hearing my father say we were leaving. The next day after he said that, the DPA showed up, knocking on people's door, asking them to sign up for surgery or testing.

  It all started out civil. Sure, there were some bad cities out there, but most people were willing to get the help mostly because they were scared. Being a Positive meant there were special programs for you. There would be traveling doctors and state-of-the-art treatments being given to you. Testing Positive meant that you would be looked out for and given things to help you.

  Eventually, the lingering fear got the best of most people. A handful of people got caught trying to skip the tests or surgeries and make a run for it. Seven people were shot and killed two blocks from me. The government declared the shootings justified, and that's when the label of Positive became a target.

  After my mother's and father's surgeries went so smoothly, they thought mine would be a breeze. I remember my father's voice before they wheeled me to the OR telling me that I'd be normal again. That I didn't have to be afraid that I'd be like the Positives. That it'd be quick.

  Joke's on him, I guess.

  The door to my deposit box pops open, followed by the clink of the glass slide. When I look up, a tall NG stands with his arms crossed in front of my cell door. He rolls his eyes when I shudder. "Place the sample back in the box when you're done."

  I shuffle up to the box and prick my finger with the small pin. "Where's that one ND? The one from the other day?"

  The NG stares at me and raises an eyebrow. He shakes his head and looks down the hallway toward the other two cells. I bite my lower lip and place the slide back inside the box, locking the panel back in place afterwards. He marches us to each of our cells and places the slides into a long tray. Without another word, he leaves through the gray door across from my cell.

  "That one isn't a good one." I turn and see my neighbor sitting on the other side of the glass. "He's usually the one I try and stay away from."

  "Why?"

  "He doesn't like our kind—his words, not mine."

  That same feeling of disgust courses through my veins. I remember feeling it the first time I saw a Positive on the street. The DPA took any means necessary when it came to detaining us out there. Pistol whips, shotgun barrels to the bridge of the nose, warning shots, bullets to the arm or leg—or just plain, old shoot-to-kill shots. Even in this place that's supposed to help us, we're treated like animals.

  "What about the green-eyed ND?"

  "What about him?" Atticus says, looking up from his white shoes.

  "Is he a good one?"

  "Don't really know him to be honest," he responds. "He just started showing up here a couple days ago. Actually, it was a couple of days after you got here."

  The door across from me swings open. The same tall NG marches through the door with two trays of food. He punches in a code to open my door first. I stand to meet him, but he drops the tray on the ground and closes the door almost at the same time.

  "Seriously?" I mutter.

  He turns and glares at me before doing the same thing to Atticus. As he makes his way back toward my cell, he stops when gets to my door.
"If it were up to me, I'd let you rot in here. People like you are what's wrong with this country—"

  "Aw, come on man," Atticus says, coming as close as he can to him in his cell. "You can't possibly be inferring that you're what's right with the country. I mean, you're basically a glorified security guard."

  The NG closes his eyes and turns his gaze toward Atticus.

  "Don't you hate it when I'm right?"

  The NG clenches his jaw and fists then, stomps out the door.

  "See you later, square badge!"

  The doors slams shut.

  Atticus laughs and grabs his tray from the ground. I turn and look at him, feeling the shock on my face. He makes eye contact with me and laughs a little louder. "You're face is priceless."

  "Aren't you scared he'll hurt you?"

  "No," he responds, shoveling a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. "They never actually come into our cells. Some violation or something."

  "You're crazy."

  He laughs. "Yeah, something like that."

  I sit across from him and place my tray on my lap. The food looks gray in the bright lights. Atticus chows down as I get more nauseous by the second. I can't tell if it's from being so hungry that I'm losing my appetite or that food looks bad enough to cause my nausea.

  "You all right?"

  "I don't know if I can eat this."

  "You really should," he responds, pointing to the lump of potatoes on my plate. "It's not everyday that you get potatoes. Most of the time it's just bland healthy portions. Trust me, you do not want to let this opportunity slip through your fingers."

  I shovel a spoonful of potatoes into my mouth and force myself to chew. The only reason it makes it down is because of the enormous amount of butter mixed into them. Kinda reminds me of my father's.

  "Do we ever get to go outside of our cells?"

  Atticus looks up from his tray with wide eyes. "You mean like, to go to Testing?"

  "I mean like, outside outside."