Immunity Index by Sue Burke (best fiction books of all time txt) 📗

at the evening light on the lake, not knowing what to do. Shinta said she’d defend Avril, and she wanted to return the favor. And what if this wasn’t a lockdown, what if this was a quarantine?

Someone ran across the roof over the first-floor commons area, grabbed a pole at a corner, swung down to the ground, and kept running. That student had escaped—couldn’t they all escape? They could just break windows and dash out as a group and overwhelm campus security.

She could drag Shinta with her. Sure. That would work. The student suddenly fell, as if jerked sideways, and lay there, struggling alone for a while, then became still. After about ten minutes, human officers wearing elaborate equipment to protect against biological infection came and took the body away. Escape? How many bullets did centaurs have? Enough, for sure.

There had to be a plan, something. Maybe the mutiny could help. She had talk to Hetta again.

And she needed to put on a sweater and stop shivering. Chills were a symptom.

Irene came close to the fence and whispered to Nimkii. “Tomorrow.” The sun was setting. The wait wouldn’t be long. The mutiny would target political prisoners, right? Maybe she could take Nimkii to Madison, and he could crash into her mother’s prison and free her.…

No, they’d never get there in time, even if they could escape from the farm. Maybe she could hook up with the mutiny in Wausau. There had to be mutineers. That was probably the information her mother had been sending her. If she knew where her mother had gotten it from …

The forecast didn’t include rain, so she’d sleep in the open air alongside the pen again, this time beneath mosquito netting she’d found in the barn. She went back into the house to get ready.

Alan, Ruby, and Will were talking in the living room. Irene stood still and eavesdropped. It was wrong, but she didn’t care anymore.

“… still can’t find a place,” Alan said. “He doesn’t seem to want to escape, though.”

“He’s scared to go out,” Will said. “Too bad. He deserves to wander around.”

“We deserve our investment back,” Ruby snapped. “That’s not going to happen.”

“I always thought it was a mistake,” Will said.

“You never said a thing.”

A long, uncomfortable silence was broken up by Alan’s coughing.

“Anyway,” Ruby said, “I’ve got to go back tomorrow at six A.M. Everybody on deck. They must be expecting something. Transfers, I bet. All those protests today. They’ve gotta go somewhere.”

Irene held her breath. Transfers because of the protests—that had to mean transfers of prisoners.

“I’m going to get some shut-eye,” Ruby said. “It’ll be a long shift.”

I heard what I heard, right? Camps existed for the government’s prisoners. Rumors were always flying about them, everybody trying to figure out where they were. Ruby had a part-time job away from the farm. Maybe she worked at one. If so, it might not be far away, because Alan hadn’t taken long to pick her up from work. Transfers, maybe from Madison? Mamá? Not likely, but a camp might actually be nearby. And they were expecting something.

Irene turned, tiptoed to the door, opened it a bit, and then shut it with a slam: I just walked in. I didn’t hear a thing. Somehow she’d have to find out where Ruby worked. Before tomorrow.

Berenike took a bus to her father’s apartment—both her parents’ apartment until her mother had died. It was another one of those cheap apartment buildings from the twentieth century, a plain brick-faced box with small windows. The hallways smelled of mold and skunky marijuana. The carpet might not have been cleaned for a decade, and it felt thin under her feet as she climbed the stairs. She knew the door code to his unit.

It opened into a living room/kitchenette. Papa sat at the kitchen table, his head resting on his arms as if he’d fallen asleep, a cup of coffee in front of him. Then, judging by the odor, he’d lost control of his bowels. A cold? Maybe not. She needed to clean him up and get him to bed.

As she approached, she saw that his hands looked pale, grayish. He must be really sick. Should she call an ambulance?

“Papa?” She reached around and put a hand on his forehead to see if he had a fever. He felt cold, like she’d put her hand on a leather purse. That didn’t make sense. His face was pale but mottled red, like a rash.

“Papa?” Something red had pooled on the table. Thick. Blood?

“Papa!” Maybe … she leaned over and looked closer. His eyes were shut, and his mouth was slack and frothed with blood and saliva. No breathing.

“Papa!” A pulse, did he have a pulse? She picked up his arm, and his hand drooped, slack. She felt nothing in his wrist. Was there a pulse in the artery in his neck? Nothing there, nothing, just cold flesh. Nothing.

“Papa.” She dropped into a chair. He’d had a cold! Just a cold! But he had a rash and bleeding—that wasn’t right for a cold. He’d sent a message only an hour ago.

She tried to breathe the way the AI counselor had taught. Her chest spasmed. Was she sick, too? She had to call for … what, for help? He was dead. Nothing could be done. She tried to breathe again. Yes, breathe. In. Out.

She raised her phone. Her wrist shook. Stay calm. Breathe. Be responsible. Call 911. An operator answered. “I’m calling because I came to visit my father and he’s dead.… Yes, I’m sure.… He said he was sick, he had the cold.… Yes, there’s blood from his mouth.… Yes, a rash. I talked to him just an hour ago.… Oh. That fast?… Yes, I’ll wait.… I can do that. Not Sino cold?… Okay.”

Something was killing people just that fast, but it wasn’t Sino—the delta cold. The delta cold hadn’t yet reached the United States. Don’t move him. Wash your hands. Touch nothing. Don’t touch your face. And wait, because other people have