LENNON FELL FOR several seconds before his brain clicked into place.
He opened his chute. He had no idea if it was the right time—he didn’t know how far up they’d been—but earlier seemed better than too late.
He grabbed his toggles. Maybe, if he steered east or west, he could land outside the quarantine zone. It was fifty miles north to south, but only about fifteen east to west.
Which way was west? Fuck.
The sun. Right. It was rising in the east.
Problem was, the wind was pushing him south.
And he was pretty sure the kidnappers dropped him directly in the middle of the quarantine zone, which meant that his odds of moving several miles east or west were very slim.
He looked down at the ground below him.
It was coming at him too quickly. He needed a plan. He needed time to think. He was desperately trying to remember what those CDC people had said to him about vaccines and a cure for the virus. Vaccines had been impossible so far because of how the virus kept mutating, but they had said some hopeful shit about possible cures and progress with short-term vaccines.
He should have listened closer to that hopeful shit.
If he was being honest, he hadn’t really bought into his dad’s whole “I’m going to save the quarantine zone!” shtick. A lot of people thought it was only a matter of time before the whole zone revolted and tore down the walls. It was a miracle it hadn’t happened already. They’d been in here for over twenty years.
President Howard had made it clear that he would destroy everyone inside the walls before he let the people inside infect them all.
So. Lennon was going to get sick or he was going to get blown up. Or both!
The ground was approaching faster now. The quarantine zone didn’t care that he hadn’t made a plan or made peace with his terrible options.
There was grass, at least. This would be his first solo landing, and he had a feeling it was not going to go great. At least he wasn’t landing on concrete.
He put his feet together and prayed. He wasn’t religious, but it couldn’t hurt.
His feet touched the ground, and for a hot second he thought he might nail the landing. Then he was rolling and grunting and there was grass in his mouth. He was tangled in his parachute. He had not nailed anything, and for a moment, he was glad that his friends weren’t there to capture it on video.
He finally stopped. He couldn’t see anything but the orange parachute. His body felt numb, panicked, and he didn’t want to move for fear of discovering he’d broken several limbs. It took him a moment to realize that his mouth was still wide-open from screaming. He snapped it shut.
He shifted his arms. They felt fine. He moved his legs. One knee ached, but it was probably just bruised.
Slowly, he crawled out of the parachute.
He stopped with just his head peeking out, bracing both hands on the ground.
Grass and rolling hills. In the distance, he could see an old boarded-up gas station and a two-lane road.
He shrugged off the parachute and stood, turning in a circle. There was no one.
He had no idea if he was in the north or the south. The quarantine zone didn’t have a formal government, just rival gangs that controlled the two halves—the Spencer family in the north and the Lopez family in the south.
He had no idea which to hope for.
It occurred to him suddenly that if there was no one nearby, there was no way for him to catch whatever form of the virus was floating around this place. Maybe if he just stood right here and waited, the military would send a helicopter. There was plenty of space for it to land.
His heart lifted. It wasn’t totally unreasonable. Surely people had seen the plane over the quarantine zone. And the people in here had ways of communicating with the US government. They just chose not to, for the most part.
But they’d loosened up a bit lately. They’d even agreed to some audio recordings, which Lennon had lobbied hard for.
The airspace above the quarantine zone had been restricted for years, but they could make an exception. It was an emergency.
Of course, he would need to talk to someone in here about this plan, which was a problem. But he could try to maintain enough distance not to catch anything and just yell for help.
It was a solid plan. It could work.
“RUNNER!”
Lennon whirled around at the sound of the voice.
“RUNNER FROM THE NORTH!”
He spotted the source of the voice—a man stood on the roof of the gas station, holding a megaphone.
A rumbling noise sounded from behind him, and he turned to see three people on motorcycles zooming his way.
He stumbled backward, holding his hands up in the air. He wasn’t sure why. It just seemed like the right thing to do.
The motorcycles all stopped about twenty yards away. Lennon slowly lowered his hands. None of the riders wore helmets, but they all had on black masks that covered the bottom half of their faces.
He tried to think of what his dad would do in this situation. His unflappable father, who could cheerfully converse with people who were screaming at him. He’d once waved at a person who’d thrown an egg in his face at a campaign stop and quipped, “I prefer them scrambled!”
His father would say to be polite and friendly. No one ever regretted being too nice, son.
Lennon doubted that was true, but he begrudgingly had to admit that it was good advice. He took a deep breath to steady himself.
“Uh…hi?” he yelled. “I—”
He cut himself off at the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned.
Four men were charging straight toward him.
“No, no, no!” he yelled, putting his hands out in front of him. “Stop! Please! Just stay there!”
The men did not stop.
They came at him faster.
He turned and ran.