The Last Girl Read online

  There is a ticking and a quiet ping, then the doors open.

  The inside is featureless and composed of the same glinting steel as the outside. She moves forward, panning the entire interior before stepping in. As soon as she is inside, the doors begin to slide shut. She allows herself one last look at the man lying on the floor, crystallizing the image into memory.

  My fault.

  The doors close and the floor vibrates beneath her feet. Her stomach drops as the car rises. The anticipation of what will appear on the other side of the doors is almost too much for her.

  Will they be there, waiting for her? The two people she never thought she’d meet. Even as she steels herself, exhilaration surges through her. What if? What if it’s true? What if they’re on the other side of the doors? Will she know them when she sees them? Will they know her? Her thoughts race frenetically but she readjusts herself to the side of the car and draws the handgun as the force under her slows, then stops. There is another quiet ping.

  The doors slide open.

  14

  “Do you remember them at all?”

  Terra and Zoey turned their heads toward Meeka, who continued to gaze up at the sky above the wall. The day was bright, the sky blue and completely clear of clouds. They had stopped to sit on one of the benches during exercise hour, even though it was forbidden. Their Clerics were on the far side of the building, and they wouldn’t be too concerned if their group took an extra five minutes to complete the loop. Meeka had argued it was too beautiful out not to stop and enjoy it.

  Lily scratched a rock across the concrete several inches in front of where she sat, her mousy, brown hair twirling in the breeze.

  “No, not really,” Terra answered, shifting from foot to foot. Zoey could tell she wanted to move on. Breaking the rules always set the eldest woman on edge. “I remember a smell, something sweet and smoky. Definitely food. Nothing like we have here. I think maybe that was my mom or dad cooking.” She shrugged. “How about you?”

  Meeka pulled her eyes from the azure above and tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind one ear. “I remember someone lying on the ground, not sure if it was my mom or dad. I don’t know if they were hurt or playing.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “I think they were hurt. Then nothing. Well, then you freaks, I guess.”

  Lily giggled and drew a lopsided circle with the rock on the concrete. Terra shoved Meeka playfully on the shoulder.

  “How about you, Zoey?” Meeka asked.

  Zoey licked her lips, glancing back the way they’d come. She’s always told them she remembers nothing of her parents, and it’s almost true. Almost. But there is something in the recesses of her mind; a sensation so vague it is beyond any type of distinction. She isn’t sure herself if it is truly a memory or something she dreamed in the lonely hours of the night when she was younger and sometimes cried herself to sleep.

  The feeling of soft hair sliding between her fingers.

  That is all she can remember. The quality of the sensation makes her think that it is a memory and not something her young mind conjured as a coping device to deal with the inhospitable and cold reality of being alone in this place.

  She can still almost feel the silky hair gliding between her thumb and forefinger, so soft and smooth it is like water.

  “Zoey?”

  Terra’s voice brought her back and she stiffened, realizing that she had been adrift in the moment, experiencing it all over again.

  “We’d better get going,” Zoey said, setting off in the direction that would bring them around to the waiting Clerics.

  15

  The elevator sits in the junction of two hallways.

  The first stretches ahead of her while the other runs to the left and right. The floor isn’t concrete but some type of filigreed stone tile, the color she imagines moss might be in the spring. The lights here aren’t industrial but rather have a softness to them that is easy on the eyes. Zoey steps forward and peers out of the elevator, scanning every direction at once.

  She is alone.

  She moves into the hall and stops, the shuffle of the doors closing behind her giving her a jolt of pure adrenaline she doesn’t need. Again she’s faced with the choice of which direction to take. Left has the fewest number of doors and none of them have windows, which gives that direction a distinctly cavernous feel. Ahead, the doors lining the walls are wide and completely clear, made of some thick plastic, she assumes. To the right there are multiple doors set only several feet apart, and the hallway goes on the longest out of the three. Glancing up, Zoey sees there is a single camera above her in the ceiling. She nearly points the pistol at it and fires.

  Ahead, one of the transparent doors whooshes open.

  She slings herself to the nearest corner, catching only a half-glimpse of a white-smocked doctor coming toward her, eyes locked on a sheaf of papers in one hand. She waits, listening to the footsteps coming closer and closer, as she raises the prod from her side.

  The doctor steps out of the corridor and turns the corner opposite her. He is short, with graying hair at the temples, and walks with a slight limp. He doesn’t look back or slow. When he reaches the farthest end of the hall, he scans his bracelet, steps through the door, and is gone.

  Zoey detaches herself from the wall and looks toward the doors from which the doctor emerged. She flicks a glance at the camera and prays that Becker continues his incompetent behavior a few minutes longer. When she reaches the first door she stops and sidles up to its frame, risking a momentary look.

  Inside is a sprawling space of white tile and the jagged shapes of medical equipment. The machines are spaced apart equally and most circle rolling gurneys dressed with white sheets to match the floor and walls. The beds have no occupants.

  Zoey hurries past the door and makes her way to the second. She has a better view of more of the same room through the next door. The rows of beds seem endless, yet none of them appear to have had any use. Even as the other hallways call to her, she moves across the corridor to the last doorway.

  The room inside is much smaller than its counterpart across the hall. There are banks of computer consoles lining the left wall and a cylindrical tower stands in the center of the room, its surface covered in shifting lights that seem to swim over one another as she watches. There is a pattern to the movement, something almost organic about it. It grates on her nerves to look directly at it but she can’t begin to explain why. Just as she’s about to turn and hurry back the way she came, she spots something else along the farthest wall.

  There are rows of rounded, opaque tanks stacked upon one another. Their bulbous sides appear to be made out of blackened glass. Flexible tubes and bundles of wires grow from each of them and run on the floor beneath a plastic cover to the blinking cylinder.

  She studies the room, something about the layout and the shifting lights of the tower so unnerving it sends a cold tingle of fear through her. Just as she takes a step away from the door, a furtive sound meets her ears.

  The hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

  She doesn’t hesitate, only moves.

  The gun comes up in an instant as she whirls, and she points it at the person standing a dozen steps away.

  A woman.

  Her breath hooks in her lungs. The woman is dressed in brown slacks and a dark, long-sleeved shirt that hugs her slender frame. Zoey is a bad judge of age but she guesses the woman is somewhere between forty and fifty. She is slightly taller than Zoey with dark brown hair held back tightly from her brow. She has a narrow, hawkish face, a blade of a nose centered between two luminous eyes that are a color Zoey’s never encountered before. They are a mixture of green and brown but instead of looking muddy, they shine.

  They watch one another for a long moment before the woman’s mouth trembles into a cautious smile.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Don’t move.” Zoey takes a step forward, trying to keep the gun centered on the woman’s body, but her hand is shaking.

>   The woman holds up her hands. “I won’t.”

  “Who are you?”

  The woman hesitates. “My name is Vivian. I’m a doctor. What are you doing up here, dear?”

  “Be quiet,” Zoey says, closing the distance between them. “Hold up your hands.” Vivian does, showing two pale slices of palm. “Now turn around.” The doctor complies, standing stiffly. She glances back, one striking eye finding Zoey.

  “You really shouldn’t be up here, Zoey.”

  Hearing her name come from the woman is jarring. “How do you know my name?”

  “I’m good with names. I know everyone’s.”

  “I’ve never met you before.”

  “No. No you haven’t.”

  Zoey casts a glance past Vivian at the deserted T of hallway beyond. “Go forward, and if you run, I’ll shoot you.”

  “I believe you.” Vivian begins to walk, hands now at her sides. Zoey inspects the woman’s clothing but doesn’t see any telling bulges that could be a weapon. They reach the junction of the corridors and Zoey sidesteps around Vivian to make sure they’re still alone. They begin to pass the close-set doors and Zoey slows.

  “Stop.” Vivian does, but stays facing away. “What’s behind these doors?”

  “Cells.”

  “Cells for who?”

  “Whoever requires them.”

  “Open the one to your left.” Vivian turns and scans her bracelet across the door’s reader. The lock pops. “Now open it, slowly.” The woman does, pulling the door wide enough for Zoey to see inside.

  The room beyond is barely ten feet deep and slightly smaller in width. There are no windows, only a toilet set in one corner and the staring eye of a camera jutting from the ceiling.

  “Step inside,” Zoey says. For a moment it seems like Vivian isn’t going to obey, but then she moves, and even in the heightened state of stress, Zoey can’t help but admire the woman’s grace. She doesn’t walk, she floats.

  Vivian stops at the rear wall and finally turns around. Zoey moves just inside the room’s door and studies the woman for a beat. “What is this place?”

  “I told you, a cell.”

  “Not this room, this floor. What are you doing in that laboratory down the hall?”

  “We’re searching for a cure.”

  “A cure to the plague?”

  “Yes. We’re hoping to find a way to not only cure the plague, but also to end the Dearth. We’re trying to bring back the baby girls.”

  Zoey studies her slight features, watches for a flicker in her eyes, but sees none. “Where are the parents?”

  “What?”

  “The parents. The parents of all the women here. They’re supposed to be here on the fifth level, waiting for each of us to turn twenty-one. Where are they?”

  Vivian’s mouth closes, and her lips tighten into a bloodless line. She simply stares back at Zoey. There are no answers in her gaze, only a coldness that Zoey can feel across the distance that separates them.

  Zoey motions with the pistol. “Turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”

  “Do you know how to use that weapon?”

  “Would you like to find out?”

  Vivian smiles, and this time there is genuine warmth in it. “I believe you.” She pivots, facing the back wall of the cell.

  “Put your hands on your head,” Zoey says, turning the setting on the prod down to half power. Vivian does as she’s told as Zoey moves closer.

  “I’m very impressed with you, Zoey. You’re an indomitable young woman.”

  “Shut up,” Zoey says, pressing the prod into Vivian’s back.

  There is the sizzle of electricity and the older woman’s relaxed posture goes rigid. Her feet jitter across the floor for an instant, then her legs fold and she slumps to the ground, falling hard to her side. Zoey waits for a ten-count to see if the woman is faking, but when Vivian doesn’t stir, she moves forward and inspects her bracelet. She needs it to continue on, she’s sure of it. She doesn’t want to chance locking the woman in the cell, only to find that Dellert’s bracelet won’t open any of the doors on this level.

  Zoey checks the doorway before kneeling beside the woman. How to get it off without cutting the strap? She has nothing to sever the woman’s hand with like she did Dellert’s, though she’s not so sure she could do such a thing to a living person. The thought of cutting through living flesh and bone sickens her.

  She stands and hesitates between Vivian and the door. She has to think of something, and soon. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes across evidence of the path she’s taken to get here.

  Zoey turns toward the door just as something strikes her in the stomach.

  The blow catches her so completely by surprise, she doesn’t even cry out. She registers with horror the gun and prod flying from her grip as she falls to the ground, the pain in her abdomen flourishing up into her chest.

  Assistant Carter stands in the doorway, fists held at chest height, weasel face wrinkled around eyes that are aflame with rage. He wears his customary suit and long tie, which, she registers through the fog of pain, is the ugliest shade of orange she’s ever seen.

  “Zoey, Zoey, Zoey,” Carter tuts as he stalks forward. “I was almost sure you were smarter than this. We had our chat, remember?” She is finally able to draw in a breath and with it, lunges toward the fallen pistol.

  Carter is faster.

  He steps on the gun and spins it away with one foot. Then he is on top of her, his spider-like hands encircling her neck.

  The cell takes on a watery quality and she coughs, but isn’t able to draw a breath back in. Carter is above her, his weight pressing down, thumbs punching into the soft flesh of her throat. She feels her eyes bulge and she scrabbles at the ground, her fingernails shredding, trying to feel for the prod’s solid length, but it’s not there.

  “You little bitches never learn, do you?” Carter breathes into her face. His breath is hot and her stomach rolls with revulsion even as stars begin to dance in the corners of her vision. But there is something else that catches her attention. The flailing part of her brain that clamors for survival shrieks and points at Carter’s tie, which is no longer hanging down, but is over his right shoulder at an angle.

  Zoey manages to bring one of her knees up, and grinds it into Carter’s crotch. It isn’t a blow, but it’s enough to make the man’s eyes squint and his grip lessens. She draws in a quick pull of air and reaches under his left arm.

  Her fingers snag what they’re looking for, and she yanks as hard as she can.

  Carter’s long tie cuts hard into his windpipe and he gags, his eyes widening. Zoey pulls harder and the fabric tightens into the man’s skinny neck. He releases her with one hand and tries to wriggle his fingers beneath his collar, giving her enough room to bring both legs up between them.

  Zoey plants her feet on Carter’s chest and shoves, releasing the death grip she has on his tie.

  He flips off of her and lands on his hip, a wheezing honk coming from his throat. Zoey rolls as he reaches for her, her hand stretching for the pistol a few feet away. She feels his fingers entwine in her hair as she dives forward and her scalp erupts with a thousand points of pain. Carter says something in a grating choke, and a blow lands on her lower back. She whimpers but manages to kick out and catches something solid.

  Her hair separates from her skull, and she’s free.

  Zoey snags the gun and rolls onto her back as Carter launches himself at her, one hand still holding a tangle of her dark hair.

  The gunshot is so loud it forces her eyes shut. Carter’s weight falls on her, his forehead meeting her own in a painful collision. His hands claw at her neck, and she feels his fingernails scraping away skin. When she opens her eyes, his face is inches from hers, teeth bared behind bloody lips.

  “Missed me, bitch,” he grunts and tightens his grip once again around her throat. Zoey tries to bring the gun up, bu
t its barrel is snagged on something and she can’t get it free. Warmth blooms in her stomach and lower legs. So this is how it feels to die. Who would have thought it would be warm. It’s really not so bad.

  Carter struggles above her and slowly, she relaxes beneath him. Darkness grows like a mold in the edges of her vision.

  You weakling, Meeka says.

  I’m sorry. I’ll be seeing you soon.

  I won’t speak to you. I don’t talk to quitters.

  I’m sorry.

  Quit saying that and fight!

  I can’t. I’m too tired. So tired.

  The darkness is almost complete. All she can see through the tunnel is Carter’s horrid face. What a thing to die looking at. But there is something wrong. His features have slackened, the tautness of hatred no longer there. More blood seeps from between his teeth and drools down his lower lip. The pressure recedes from her throat, and the floating sensation that was enveloping her gives in to gravity.

  The darkness flies away as she breathes in.

  Carter shakes above her, his entire body convulsing as if he is hooked to an electric cable. Slowly he looks down, and Zoey follows his gaze.

  The front of his button-up shirt is muddied with dark crimson. His jacket is slick with it. He tries to stand, but more blood pours from the hole in his stomach and he tips to the side, slumping against the wall.

  Zoey manages to slide away from the dying man, the floor beneath her hands wet, and now she sees the warmth that had flowed across her lower body was Carter’s life running free of him. She gains her feet, wobbling to the right so hard she bounces off the wall before steadying herself. Carter’s eyes swim up at her. Blood coats his lower jaw like a red beard. His lips try to form words, but instead they merely create several crimson bubbles. His eyelids flutter, and his head sags forward onto his chest.