Plague

afraid.
    Lana frowned, thinking about the distinction. Anxious but not afraid. Anticipating? Waiting for something?
    She was torn between getting up and smoking a cigarette— she was hooked, she accepted that now—and lying there with her eyes closed and failing to fall asleep. Sleep, even if it came, would now be invaded by nightmares.
    So she sat up, fumbled for and found the pack of Lucky Strikes and her lighter. The lighter sparked, the cigarette glowed, and the smell of smoke filled her nostrils.
    “What are you up to?” she asked. “What do you want?”
    But of course there was no answer. And she could sense the Darkness turning its attention away.
    Lana got up and padded over to her balcony. The moon was high overhead. It was either very late or very early.
    The barrier was so close, she felt as if she could almost touch it.
    Was it true that the world was just on the other side of that barrier? Was it really so close that she’d have been able to smell the french fries at the Carl’s Jr. they built for gawkers who came to see the dome?
    Or was that just another lie in this small universe of deceptions?
    What if it came down? Right now, just pop: no more barrier? Or what if it cracked, like a gigantic egg?
    Her mom and dad . . .
    She closed her eyes and bit her lip. The pain of memory had snuck up on her, hit her when she wasn’t ready.
    Tears filled her eyes. She wiped them away impatiently.
    Suddenly, just down on the cliff above the beach, an eruption of blazing green-white light. Sam stood silhouetted by his own light show. She heard him yelling, roaring in frustration.
    He was trying to burn his way out of the FAYZ.
    It went on for a while and then stopped. Darkness returned. Sam was invisible to her now.
    Lana turned away.
    So, she was not the only one fantasizing about cracking the shell and emerging like a newborn chick.
    Strange, Lana thought as she stubbed out the end of her cigarette, I’ve never thought of it as an egg before.
    A gust of breeze blew her smoke before her.

Chapter Four
63 HOURS, 41 MINUTES

    SAM WOKE UP in the last place he’d have expected: his bedroom.
    He hadn’t been to his former house in ages.
    He’d hated it when he lived here with his mother. Connie Temple. Nurse Temple.
    He barely remembered her. She was from another world.
    He sat up on the bed and smelled the sick. He’d thrown up on the bed. “Nice,” he said with thick tongue.
    His head exploded in supernovas of pain.
    He wiped his mouth on the blanket. This was one house no one had raided or vandalized or moved into. It was still his, he supposed. There might still be drugs in the bathroom.
    He staggered there. Leaned against the sink and threw up again. Not much came up.
    In the medicine cabinet nothing but a small bottle of generic ibuprofen.
    “Oh,” Sam moaned. “Why do people drink?”
    Then he remembered. Taylor.
    “Oh, no. Oh, no.”
    No, no, he hadn’t made a grab for Taylor, had he? He hadn’t kissed her, surely? The memory was so hazy it could almost have been a dream. But pieces of it were too immediate and real. Especially the memory of her fingertips on his chest.
    “Oh, no,” he moaned.
    He swallowed two ibuprofen dry. They didn’t go down easily.
    Holding his head, he went to the kitchen. Sat down at the little table. He’d had meals here with his mom. Not a lot of days, because she’d be up at Coates, working.
    And keeping a worried eye on her other son.
    Caine.
    Caine Soren, not Temple. She had given him up for adoption. They had been born just a few minutes apart, fraternal twins, him and Caine. And their mother had given Caine away and kept Sam.
    No explanation. She’d never told either of them. That truth hadn’t come out until after the coming of the FAYZ.
    And no real explanation for what had become of their father. He was out of the picture before Sam and Caine were born.
    Had it just been too much for their mother? Had she decided she could handle one fatherless boy but not two? Eeny meeny miny moe?
    He had a new family now. Astrid and Little Pete. Only now he didn’t have them, either. And now he had to ask himself what he had done to deserve it, his father’s disappearance, his mother’s lies, Astrid’s rejection.
    “Yeah,” he muttered. “Time for self-pity. Poor me. Poor Sam.”
    He meant it to sound ironic, but it came out bitter.
    Caine probably had a pretty good case of resentment, too. He’d been rejected by both birth parents: two for two.
    And yet,