EPILOGUE

 

 

SAMANTHA HERNANDEZ LEANED her shoulder into the stilled subway car door and shoved it open the remainder of the way.

Inside the car, the smell of death hung thick, billowing out and filling the station behind her. She pulled her bandana back over her mouth and nose.

She squinted into the darkness, but nothing moved. She reached behind her and was handed a burning torch, then stepped inside the subway car and looked around in the glow of the torchlight. It was a distasteful scene. Bile gathered in the back of her throat.

The support of her friends filled her mind with reassurance. She was protected, there was nothing to fear.

She knew this.

She swallowed the bile and with a calm assurance, stepped further into the subway car, the strength of her people filling her.

The car was full of people, too—but not of the living. Skeletal remains from the Infected lay slumped together in groups, as if connecting with their dying commune had been a source of comfort near the end.

Sidestepping over the bodies, she pulled strength from her family members waiting in the station, and made herself walk deeper into the train, changing cars and slowly making her way toward the front where she knew he would be.

She could smell him.

Anger flooded her mind, but she was experienced enough with the sensation to recognize the anger she felt was not wholly her own. The Archaeans were angry with him—to the point of riot. But allowing a riot would undo the growth the Archaeans had achieved over the last year, so she had made the decision to come alone.

She would handle this.

If anyone could identify their own emotions in the swell of the Infected, it was Samantha. Between the pheromones in the truck, and the emotional turmoil driving the horde of the Infected stampede, it was Samantha who had driven the truck to the compound and picked up the Archaeans, who’d led the caravan to the outskirts of New York and safety.

She hadn’t known what Alex had planned—but she knew him well enough to heed his warning. She was glad they were long clear of the city when the bomb blast hit.

There would be fallout; perhaps for decades. But the Archaeans were used to adapting to a changing environment. If the radiation caused mutations, they would meet them just as they had met every evolution the Archaean parasite had brought them—with love, respect, and acceptance.

It was only because of him that she’d had to return to the city so soon. He was a source of conflict that needed to be quelled—permanently, quickly.

At the head of the train, she found him, just where she knew he would be.

Jimmy Swift looked nothing like the charming, assured newscaster he had once been. Now, he was crouched in the corner of a death-filled subway car like a scared, mangy dog—bald, bleeding, and in tatters.

He’d clearly been topside when the blast had hit: he was covered in radiation sores and breathing in short, hurried, shallow breaths. His eyes were yellowed. His head rested on the floor. His hair, eyebrows, lashes—everything—was gone. His eyes went wide at the sight of her and his breathing increased. He opened his dry, cracked mouth.

She felt the pull of his fear, and the depth of his despair, but she also felt the anger and hostility of the Archaeans back at the station, and she said nothing—only watched Swift struggle for breath. Mixed in with his fear and the crowd’s anger, she felt her own sense of satisfaction.

“H-how you…?” he whispered.

“How are we not covered in radiation sores?” she asked.

He nodded, barely perceptibly.

“Because we knew better.”

He swallowed, lips wide open, although she doubted there was a drop of saliva left in his mouth.

“H-help me,” he begged, panting faster still. “P-please.”

She felt his flicker of hope and her heart swelled at the power of it. It took effort, but she was able to push it down, away from her mind, so that she could concentrate on her own words—her last shard of individuality.

“I can’t help you,” she said, honestly. “But I can’t kill another Infected either, even if I wanted to. All I can do is tell you that you’ve lost. The whole of New York City is lost. You didn’t win the city away from the humans like you fought to. All you did was give them no choice but to destroy it. And now, those of us who are left, we will be better off without either of you.”

“N-no,” Swift gasped, fighting for air.

“You will be dead soon,” she said, enjoying the primal fear that radiated off him in a panicked wave. “And the world will be better for it.”

“N-no, it w-won’t,” he whispered. “Worse,” he added. “M-much, m-much worse.”

With a hiss, his final breath escaped his lips.

She felt his relief like a blow to her gut. There was an instant release of pain from him that flowed through her, and then nothing.

His open eyes gaped at her, his mouth still open as if searching for one last breath or word.

Satisfied, Samantha turned from Jimmy Swift’s body and began the trek back to the subway platform, and to her people.

From deep within, she felt a dull sense of dread, but she pushed it away and fabricated a triumphant bravery, forcing it to the surface. They would be better off, she insisted. They would thrive.

They had to.

When she reached her people on the platform, she vowed—stepping over the bodies of the Infected—she would do so with a conquering smile.