April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

On our way out, I spot a pay phone. I tell the girl who answers the phone at Fast Fitness that the car that was stolen from their lot earlier in the day is now in the parking garage of the Winchester Hotel in Portland. I hang up when she starts asking questions.

I hurry back to where Ty is unloading the cart. What we really need is a van, but what we’ve got is Elizabeth’s Avalon. We barely manage to squeeze everything in the trunk, and that’s only by folding down the back seat. It takes two tries to get the lid closed. Then, still standing in the parking lot, we pull the coveralls on over our clothes.

Ty and I are going to be the new cleaning service for Z-Biotech. We’re hoping that Kirk Nowell is more worried about taking care of loose ends than he is about protecting his home base. According to Mom, Elizabeth’s employee ID badge should get us in the front door as well as into any of the locked rooms we need to visit. Everyone at Z-Biotech has a certain level of security, but Elizabeth’s clearance is the highest level. Her ID badge will let us into everything, from the gate around the parking lot to the front door to all the laboratory spaces. Once we’re in the building, there’s just one security guard at night, and Mom’s pretty sure he spends most of his time sitting at the front desk doing Sudoku.

“Do you know any Spanish?” I ask Ty as I take the on-ramp for the freeway.

“Si. Un poco.”

I think that means, “Yes, a little.” And with his dark hair and eyes, Ty could be Hispanic.

“Then you should be the one to talk to the security guy. But mostly in Spanish.” I remember the cleaners I’ve seen in various public bathrooms. All of them seem to have come from other, poorer countries. “My French won’t sound right.”

I grip the steering wheel harder and straighten up. It’s hard to believe that it’s been less than two days since I returned home for my phone and walked into a nightmare. Hard to believe that I’ve known Ty for only about a day. I’m wired and tired, so tired I probably shouldn’t be driving. I take another slug of the four-shot Venti-size mocha I got from the Starbucks next to the Home Depot. We used the last of the money to buy coffees and muffins. The muffins were gone before we got back to the car.

The industrial area where Z-Biotech is located is deserted at night. The building sits in the middle of a parking lot, which is surrounded by a tall, metal fence topped with razor wire. I hold my breath when I put Elizabeth’s ID card up to the reader in front of an automatic rolling gate, but after a second or two, it rattles open and then closes behind us. The parking lot is empty, except for a small orange pickup with silver duct tape holding up one side of the bumper. Ty nudges me and points at the white letters on the tailgate that spell out D-A-T-S-U-N. It seems like a sign. I hope it’s a good one.

We park at the far edge of the lot, out of sight of the glass front door. I pull my cap low, and we get out of the car. After we load up the janitor’s cart, Ty begins to push it toward the door. At every step, the gun digs into my belly. Ty also has a gun tucked into his waistband.

The brown plastic box of a second card reader is mounted to the left of the glass door. In the lobby, a short, round man with a bald head and a close-cropped black beard sits at a desk. He is staring down at a thin paperback, his pen poised. He hasn’t seen us yet.

I’m the cleaner, I tell myself. My name is Ilsa. We’re here because we underbid Z-Biotech’s last janitorial service. The only way we’ll make a living is to work thirteen hours straight, seven days a week. America is not like I thought. My hands are red and rough, even though I wear the yellow rubber gloves.

The guard doesn’t even look up until the door clicks as Ty waves Elizabeth’s ID card over the reader.

“Hey,” he says as Ty walks in and I follow, bumping the cart over the threshold. “What are you guys doing here?” He pushes back from the desk and stands up. He’s got a belt that holds a half dozen black holsters and cases, but not, as far as I can see, one for a gun.

“ Nuevo cleaning service,” Ty says, with a sort-of Spanish accent. He hefts the broom to underline what he’s saying. I stare at the carpet, think about my cracked hands, about how I’m looking forward to going home and putting my feet up.

The security guard still looks uncertain, but Ty is already heading back toward the hall. We’re almost all the way there when I see the man pick up the phone. And suddenly I’m no longer Ilsa. I’m Cady, and I’ve got a gun in my hand, and I’m barking, “Put down the phone!”

The guard is as slow to react to my command as he was to decide there was something wrong with us. For a long moment I wonder what I’ll do if he actually starts punching numbers.

But the phone finally clunks back into its cradle. The guard raises his hands. “Please don’t hurt me,” he says, his voice shaking.

“Just do what we say, and everything will be all right.” Through an open door behind him, I see what looks like a small conference room, with a half dozen chairs around an empty table. “Get in there,” I say, gesturing with the gun. Ty pushes the cart with one hand while he grabs the twist of thin yellow nylon rope we bought at Home Depot with the other.

The guard walks ahead of us. There are already half moons of sweat under the arms of his light blue uniform shirt. I wonder how much he knows about what really goes on here, or if he knows anything.

While I hold the gun, Ty quickly searches the guard. He tosses the equipment belt and the contents of his pockets onto the cart, and then ties him up. The final step is to wrench the phone from the wall, the way we did at my house. We’re getting to be old hands at this, so it doesn’t even take that long.

We push the cart down the long hall, past the large room that holds the primary-colored toys and plastic furniture of the day care, then past a small cafeteria and a few offices. When we reach the elevator, I press the button for the third floor. Where my mom said the vaccine is, the vaccine Max needs to live.

The first time I was in a lab was when I was twelve and came here for Take Your Daughter to Work day. Now that I’ve had high school chemistry, I know how impressive Z-Biotech’s lab area is. Computers, gleaming microscopes, glass barriers with glove inserts, rows of glassware from tiny bottles to big beakers, stainless steel sinks operated by foot pedals, and hoods to keep any airborne contaminants from leaking into the room.

Tyler takes an audible breath. “The air seems weird in here.”

I wonder if he’s thinking of the masks and gloves we chose not to put on. My mom said we didn’t need them, and I want to be in and out of here as fast as possible.

“There’s negative airflow. It keeps the air coming inside the room instead of going out.” If there was any kind of spill in here, it wouldn’t spread through the vents to the rest of the building.

Rows of stainless steel doors line two of the walls. But not all of them belong to coolers I realize as I pull open the third one over and warm, moist air rolls out. Inside are racks and racks of white eggs.

Ty whistles. “So each one of those eggs has been injected with hantavirus?”

“I guess so.” Despite the warm air, I shiver. “How long did Elizabeth say it takes to grow the vaccine?”

“Months, wasn’t it?”

Ty’s eyes meet mine. It’s like we’re sharing the same thought. We’re here to get the finished vaccine for Max, but if Z-Biotech can’t offer this vaccine after it’s finished growing, then it can’t put its plan into place.