He stayed at it for hours, his eyes stinging from reading for so long. At a certain point, he started skimming, reading too fast to catch much of what the documents actually said.
Then he stopped on something interesting. A couple of acronyms he’d never seen before, along with the words TOP-SECRET in red letters. This just might be something. He scanned a memo or two, his heart rate picking up with each word he read. Things he couldn’t believe. About a virus. About it being man-made. About it being released on purpose. About a population that had gotten too big to feed.
“Oh, man,” he whispered, reading through the last one again. He could barely believe what it said.
Post-Flares Coalition Memorandum
Date 219.2.12, Time 19:32
TO: All board members
FROM: Chancellor John Michael
RE: EO Draft
Please give me your thoughts on the following draft. It goes out tomorrow.
Executive Order #13 of the Post-Flares Coalition, by recommendation of the Population Control Committee, to be considered TOP-SECRET, of the highest priority, on penalty of capital punishment.
We the Coalition hereby grant the PCC express permission to fully implement their PC Initiative #1 as presented in full and attached below. We the Coalition take full responsibility for this action and will monitor developments and offer assistance to the fullest extent of our resources. The virus will be released in the locations recommended by the PCC and agreed upon by the Coalition. Armed forces will be stationed to ensure that the process ensues in as orderly a manner as possible.
EO #13, PCI #1, is hereby ratified. Begin immediately.
Wow.
That was all he got from Teresa after spilling everything to her.
Yeah, he replied. Wow is right. They thought the virus would only kill a certain percentage of the population—make it more manageable. They had no idea it would mutate and become this monstrous thing that’s basically wiped us out. I just can’t believe all this. Can’t believe it.
Teresa was quiet. She didn’t even broadcast how these revelations made her feel.
The worst part, he continued, is that there are several direct links to WICKED. Like, remember John Michael? That guy we saw at the Crank pits? He was the one who ordered the virus released!
The past is the past, Tom.
Her words stopped him cold.
At least they’re trying to fix what they screwed up, she continued. I mean, there’s nothing we can do about that now.
Teresa…, he started to say, but then stumbled over a void. He had no idea how to respond. Did you…did you already know this stuff?
I’d heard rumors.
And you never told me? He was stunned. How could she have known this and never said anything? She was his best friend. The first person he went to with everything.
I just don’t see the point. Yes, we have reason to hate these people. But how is dwelling on the past going to help anybody? The solution is what matters.
Thomas had never been so blindsided in his life. Didn’t you learn anything from our puzzle lessons with Ms. Denton? To know a solution, you have to know the problem through and through. This is a problem.
The response he got from Teresa was emotionless.
Yeah, I guess you’re right, she answered. I’m really tired, Tom. Can we talk about it tomorrow?
She was gone from his mind before he could respond.
—
The next day, Teresa refused to talk about it, emphasizing that she’d rather focus on the future than the past. Dr. Paige also blew it off, saying that those decisions had been made well before her time. It was almost like they were both determined to forget.
Thomas wouldn’t forget.
He swore to himself that he’d always remember this.
That he’d always remember that WICKED was trying to fix a problem their predecessors had created in the first place.
231.05.04 | 10:14 p.m.
Winter came in spurts that year, like old engines being restarted after years of sitting in the maintenance heap. But it finally settled in, lasting long past what should have been the onset of spring.
Thomas didn’t venture outside very often—and then only by special permission and with at least two armed guards by his side—but he saw enough to know that ice, cold, and snow had returned to the world with a vengeance. The resident WICKED climatologist said that weather patterns were slowly resuming their cycles on earth—winter, spring, summer, and fall—but that in places farthest north and south of the equator the seasons were far more unpredictable and extreme than they’d been before the sun flares. He described the world’s climate as a pendulum that now swung faster and farther in both directions.
Thomas enjoyed it when he could, enjoyed the feel of snow on his face, the tingle of icy cold on his nose and fingertips. It felt like a way of spitting in the sun flares’ face. See? I’m cold. Now go suck it.
In early May—winter still refusing to loosen its grip—Thomas took a walk outside with Chuck and Teresa, two of the guards right behind them, weapons out. Thomas was in a sour mood.
Everything about WICKED had worn him to the bone, hardened his heart. The Psychs, the Variables, the killzone, the patterns. Everything. He’d felt that way ever since the night he’d discovered the truth about their predecessors—that they’d unleashed the very virus to which they wanted to find a cure. Going outside for a while was a tiny escape.
Teresa shivered and rubbed her arms through her coat. “Are we sure this is planet Earth? WICKED didn’t throw us through a Flat Trans, put us on an ice planet?”
“That’d be cool,” Chuck replied. “Ice aliens. I wonder if your tongue sticks to their skin when you lick them. Ya know, like a flagpole.”