The Girl Who Punched Back (Death Fields 2)

See, the summer before the E-TR virus popped up in Florida, two major events happened on the other side of the world. First, ISIS was formed. Our first view of them was a caravan of trucks and Jeeps blazing through the desert. The talking heads showed footage of dust trailing their vehicles—discussing how this couldn’t be good, that they were headed straight toward civilians.

Second, was Boko Haram kidnapping and enslaving three hundred school girls in Liberia.

These two events, along with dozens of other human rights atrocities, spurred Jane to develop a super bug to use as biological warfare on the enemies of mankind. Using their unlimited cash, PC hired mercenaries to track down terrorist groups and infect them with the virus with the intent of having them eliminate themselves. Ultimately, PharmaCorp planned to do what official, bureaucratic organizations couldn’t.

The targets were to take place in isolated locations. AKA: the middle of nowhere. They were to infect the leaders and bring down the followers. But like all warfare, there were civilian casualties. Long story short; an infected person reentered society and the virus spread.

So the part of history you won’t read one day (if there is a one day) is that my sister, Jane Ramsey, helped created the E-TR virus and PharmaCorp let it loose on the world.

It should come as no surprise that they are the only ones that can save humanity by creating a vaccine. They, along with my father, and their state-of-the-art facility we now use as a bunker to protect us from the Eaters outside.

The big question is; can we trust them?

Chapter 3

The ride back to the Fort is uneventful, passing only a handful of wandering Eaters. Once we enter the fortified gates, the people we brought with us head to quarantine while we enter decontamination. I’ve never been in the quarantine unit due to the fact we basically ambushed the place, but typically, most new people head there for a day or so and eventually end up in the general population of the fort.

I follow Wyatt to the showers, which is a large stall with a partition down the middle, our shadows mirroring one another from opposite sides. Before we enter the washing station, we strip down to our underwear, discarding our uniforms into bins. A nurse checks me first, assessing my body for possible wounds or signs of infection. Her hands are methodical, taking my temperature, my heart rate. We do this quietly, with no conversation other than the occasional “thanks” or “turn your head.” When she finishes and I pass the exam, she moves over to Wyatt’s side and I hear their chatter through the thick, canvas curtain.

“What’s it like out there?” the nurse asks. She’s one of the regulars down here.

“Quiet,” he says. It may sound like a typical, Wyatt-like blow-off answer, but he’s right. It’s still the first thing you notice, even after all this time.

“Find any survivors?”

Her words are benign. Post-Apocalyptic small talk (is it ‘post’? Or are we still mid-apocalyptic?) but I hear the lilt in her voice, the smile. She’s flirting with him. A flash of shirtless Wyatt pops in my head and I can’t blame her for trying.

“Yikes, where did you get this one?” she asks.

He hesitates for a beat. “On a boat filled with Eaters. One nearly got me.”

“You stitch it yourself?”

I lean my hand against the cool tile wall. “No. A friend.”

“Looks a little wobbly.”

“Well, yeah, I said we were on a boat.”

I step under the water, wondering how I feel about the description of “friend.” We certainly weren’t friends when I stitched up that wound, shaky-handed, hiding in a boat cabin surrounded by Eaters. I’d been terrified. He seemed completely unfazed. Back then I barely knew him. In some ways that hasn’t changed.

I hear the nurse laugh and I dunk my head under the showerhead.

It’s not that I’m interested. Because I’m not. He’s more like an older-brother-friend-of-my-crazy-sister’s, I guess. Plus I have Cole, even though I’m not sure what that’s all about either, although I can admit my heart races just a little thinking about him.

And before you get the wrong idea, this isn’t some teen-love-triangle situation either. It’s just life. And it’s increasingly complicated.

I scrub myself with the liquid antiseptic soap hanging from a container on the wall. By the time I step out of the shower area, dressed in a new, clean uniform, Wyatt’s standing at the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. His back is ripped with muscles. Tattoos are branded into his skin.

I walk over to him and he looks at me through the mirror, razor paused in his hand. His face is covered in foam. I glance down at the jagged mark on his stomach.

“Sorry I did a shitty job on that,” I say poking him in the side. He flinches, just a little, and it amuses me to know he has a weak spot.

“Never said you did.”

“Nurse Opinionated back there seems to think so.”

“Nurse…she wasn’t there.”