The Girl Who Punched Back (Death Fields 2)

“My classmates rebelled in the most typical ways. Wearing all black. Dressing goth or whatever-the-hell you call it. They consumed tiny tabs of acid and later, ecstasy, while holding poser raves in the basement of their parents’ 1960s ranch-style houses, pretending they were fighting the system. They were pathetic then, even before the E-TR virus ran rampant. They were trapped in that god-forsaken town just like I knew they would be.” He swished the razor through the water, leaving trails of deflating foam and tiny hairs. “While they faked their rebellion, I was actually rebellious. I’d been obsessed with the military since I was a kid, which was absolutely unheard of in my uber-liberal town. All I wanted was to become an elite member of the Special Forces. I read about it, dreamed about it, watched every movie I could get my hands on about it. I had no real clue what Special Forces really meant, but I enlisted in the Marines the day after I graduated from high school and never looked back.”

“So you went in and kicked ass, huh?”

“Not really,” he says to my surprise. “I was middle of the pack. Average at running, shooting, and combat. The weird thing was that all I needed to be was average. That’s what they’re looking for. Someone trainable. Someone with discipline. They don’t want the best. They want to mold you into being the best.”

“So the Marines taught you how to be a bad-ass, ninja, fighting machine?”

“Yeah, along with some skills I picked up along the way.”

I’m not really sure why I’m getting the Wyatt info dump right now, but there has to be a reason. I sit patiently and wait—even if it’s killing me not to ask a million questions.

“All the little things that made me average helped me excel when I finally got a combat assignment. I led three invasions on terrorist cells. Three successful campaigns. What I learned at the end of my time there is that I am very good at war.”

“So that’s how Jane found you. She wants to work with the best.” And it means Jane thinks we’re at war. But with who? The Eaters? The government? Each other?

“When I came back from combat and was discharged, I was used to a highly structured lifestyle. I immersed myself in sharpening my hand-to-hand skills. Learning martial arts. My reputation was out there and I would get the occasional call for a consulting job.”

I raise an eyebrow and ask, “Consulting?”

“Mercenary.”

“Ah. Right.”

“I was called in to provide security all over the world. To help handle conflicts and smaller political skirmishes. To organize and orchestrate defense against coups or other potential warfare.” He splashes water over his now-smooth face and wipes it with a threadbare towel. “I was also contacted by a private agency interested in studying my skills. I didn’t know the full context of it but I was told it was to assist in training future soldiers—something I could get behind. I lost friends in those campaigns. Good men and women. I’d do anything to keep that from happening. So I signed up and went through a series of tests—blood and physical. They wanted to know everything about me. My DNA. My family background. I was pushed to my limits physically and with combat simulations. When we were done, they asked if I would be willing to lead an operation in Africa—the military wasn’t being proactive with the Boko Haram kidnappings and the agency wanted to try their methods. We were to remove the victims and infect the radicals with a new biological agent that incited them to kill off one another. It was perfect for this isolated group out in the desert. Everything went according to plan. The girls were extracted. We poisoned the soldiers, watched them turn into soulless canni

bals, and eliminated any survivors.”

My stomach drops to my toes as the reality of what Wyatt is saying hits me. He was at ground zero. He participated in unleashing the E-TR virus on society. I wave of nausea rolls over me, and I fight back the urge to vomit. When I gather the courage to look at him, he’s avoiding my gaze.

“As usual, my campaign was successful, but what I saw in that desert shook me, and I’ve seen some really bad, fucked-up stuff over the years. I came back to America, put my check in the bank and took off for the mountains, hiking and camping away from civilization. When I finally emerged, that’s when I realized something had gone wrong. Somehow the virus got loose. I hadn’t done my job properly. I’d allowed this poison to infect the whole world. Like, destroy the entire, freaking world. Or at least that’s what I thought.”

He finally looks at me and it’s clear as day what happened. Jane. She did this. She sucked him into her world. Her horrific, virus-infecting, end of civilization apocalypse.

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have.”

He’s leaning against the sink with his arms crossed over his chest. I stand and face him. I’m so angry right now. At him. At Jane.

“So you came down out of the mountains, found out about the infection, and went back to work for her?”

“I went back for answers,” he grinds out. “She assigned me to track you.”

“Why?”

“Because you were the answer. The key to the vaccine. Finding you was the way to fix everything. Plus, you’re her sister. Believe it or not, it means something to her.”

For the first time since I’ve known Wyatt, during all those days and nights together traveling, driving across the farmland in the smelly truck and running for our lives from Erwin, he looks ashamed. Vulnerable, even.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand moving to touch my chin. “I didn’t know she was using me to make another vaccine—something worse.”

“The EVI-2?” I ask, but he doesn’t have to reply because it all clicks into place. Cole said Jane was developing an army to work and fight for her. My eyes travel over Wyatt, taking in his taut, muscular chest, the lean, bulging biceps. His hands are quick. His movements sure.

She used his DNA to build the vaccine.

We’re fighting an entire army of Wyatts.

I grip his arm to steady myself and he moves both hands to my waist.