was increasing. The economy was thriving. Things were good. And just when everybody was feeling all positive about the future, the Great Plague swept across the world, and in a matter of weeks, sixty percent of human life was wiped out. Dead and gone, just like that.
Those who survived continued on—I mean, what choice did they have? The world kept turning. They rebuilt, they had children, but everything was different. The city swiftly became a sad and empty shell of what it used to be as many people chose to move away from the more dangerous urban landscapes, full of gangs and scavengers and illness, in order to risk living off the land instead, as people had done hundreds of years ago. The Plague was gone, but other illnesses ran rampant and killed off tons of people every year. City or country, either way there were no guarantees that life would be easy. Living in the city was all I’d ever known—my father was a scientist who taught classes at the university, so we’d never lived anywhere else.
Still, I couldn’t imagine living here when the city was crammed with people. It was still busy over in the village, a ten square block neighborhood where almost everyone who remained had congregated in a sort of mini-city. But the rest of the streets and neighborhoods were close to deserted, like this one apparently was.
However, another city had been built—one with money, jobs, opportunities...and closed borders. It was called the Colony—a shiny, beautiful, environmentally controlled domed paradise that everyone aspired to get to.
You could live a healthy and prosperous life in the Colony. A life with a future. A life with a chance for happiness.
There’s this secret shuttle that will take you on the first leg of your journey. But to get on board, you need to know the right people, have the right kind of money, get the right entrance data, including a special scannable ID implant, and have a whole lot of luck. Even with sixty percent of the population no longer breathing, there were still at least two-and-a-half billion people looking for a ticket to a better life. That would be a pretty damn big shuttle. And a really big city.
The Colony was the only place of its kind, at least on this continent.
And it was my dream to get there. Somehow. Someday.
“Kira! Stop!” It sounded as if Rogan was catching up, but I didn’t look. I didn’t need more problems in my life, and that boy was one big problem from head to foot.
“Kira!” Rogan shouted again. I looked over my shoulder. He was running after me. Well, actually it was more like a speedy shuffle. He was injured, possibly dying, and yet he was still trying to catch up to me.
I ignored the rush of empathy that thought triggered.
Why was he chasing after me?
It was the pain that clued me in. The stabbing pain through my head that stopped me dead in my tracks. The beeping was so loud now, I couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate. I fell to my knees and pressed my hands hard against my ears to block out the deafeningly loud beeping—like an endless train roaring over the tracks—but it wasn’t going to do any good.
The noise had to be coming from inside my head. Nothing I did could block it out. And it was getting faster. And faster. I looked to my far left. Rogan had stopped running and was holding his head.
And then I remembered what the voice told us.
Your implants have been activated and tuned to each other’s frequency.
And what else? I racked my tortured brain.
To separate more than ninety feet from your partner will lead to immediate disqualification.
I crawled over the rough pavement toward Rogan. The beeping decreased the closer I got to him, as did the pain. He lay on his side, only his moving chest showing that he was still breathing.
“Rogan—” I grabbed his shoulder.
He blinked his eyes open and looked at me. “That hurt.”
“Tell me about it.”
He frowned. “You run really fast for a girl.”
“Faster than you.”
“I have an excuse. I’m mortally wounded.”
“So you keep promising.” I let out a long sigh, but it wasn’t from relief, it was from frustration. “This ‘disqualification and elimination’ that voice was talking about in there—he means death, doesn’t he?”
His throat worked as he swallowed, and he propped himself up on one elbow. “Smart girl.”
“If I was that smart I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
“True.”
I looked him over thoroughly now that we were outside. The light wasn’t all that great. The sky was overcast. It seemed to always be overcast these days. Something to do with global warming and pollution levels. I never paid much attention to the news feeds. All I knew was I hadn’t gotten a good suntan in ages.
At the moment, Rogan looked barely strong enough to hurt a fly, but there was still an undeniable aura of danger surrounding him. Something in those pretty ocean-colored eyes made me think that I shouldn’t turn my back on him if I could help it. I couldn’t trust him. Not now. Not ever.
I would never trust a murderer.
But apparently we were partners. That is, if I didn’t want my head to explode.
“I’m not going to beg,” I said softly. “But you’re going to tell me everything you know about this...this Countdown.”
He nodded and tried to get to his feet. He failed. I stood and offered him a hand. He took it, and I helped him up. He didn’t let go of me immediately. His hand was as dirty as the rest of him, but firm with long fingers that wrapped warmly around mine.
I let go first, pulling my hand back before it was too late.
Before it happened.
I’d had just about as much pain as I could deal with for one day.
It had been like this since I’d turned thirteen, this weird, freakish thing inside of me. If I touched somebody skin to skin and focused on them for too long...sometimes it hurt. My brain hurt, that is. And then I’d get these bizarre flashes zipping through my mind like electrical charges. Not flashes so much as...feelings.
Not my feelings, either. Their feelings.
I didn’t know what it meant, and I’d never told anyone about it. All I knew was that it hurt. And, call me crazy, but I liked to avoid pain whenever possible.
Whenever it happened, I got a horrible headache that lasted for hours. The scummier the person that I touched, the longer the pain lasted.
The last person I wanted to touch was somebody like Rogan.
His expression shadowed as if my actions had somehow hurt his feelings, and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his torn, dirty jeans.
“I’ll tell you everything I know,” he said. “But we need to move.”
“There are twenty minutes remaining in
