Em Garner - Contaminated

“How bad?” I force my voice to not be a whisper.

“There aren’t as many all at once, but they’re more violent when they do fall. They’re not as impaired, either. Not as clumsy.” Dillon, watching the light turn green, puts his foot on the accelerator. “They’re talking about mandatory testing for everyone, not just voluntary for people who used ThinPro.”

“And… then what?”

Dillon bites his lip for a second before answering. “Neutralization.”

“Even if you’re not sick?” I cry, stunned and disgusted.

“Yeah. They’re calling it voluntary preventative measures, but… who’d go in to volunteer to be tested, knowing you’ll end up in a collar? Or worse?”

I look out the window at my town. I’ve lived here my entire life, never known any other place, but it seems like a foreign country to me now. “What do you mean, worse?”

“They’re recalling collars.” Dillon says this in a flat, quiet voice. “There’ve been some reports that they don’t work. That the Connies who wear them are even worse than the ResCons.”

I think of my mom. “That’s ridiculous. Besides, there’s Mercy Mode. How much worse can they be if they’re shocked to death?”

Dillon turns down a side street by Lebanon High School, then another. He stops in front of a yellow house and turns off the ignition, then turns in his seat to face me. “They’re not saying. The news has been strange lately, like they’re keeping a lid on a lot of stuff. And the Net’s been down. Really down.”

I frown. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.” Dillon sighs and scrubs at his face. For the first time, I notice how tired he looks. “They’re coming into the kennel and taking away the unclaimed, Velvet. My mom’s worried.”

“What are they doing with them?”

His shrug says it all. “Probably what they did with them before the special interest groups lobbied for the Connies’ release. When they thought the Contamination was over.”

I shudder. “Tests. And experiments.”

“Yes. They say it’s to figure out a vaccine or a cure. But Mom’s convinced they’re just…”

He won’t say it, but I think I know what Jean thinks. “Disposing of them, right? Putting them down?”

He nods again, then reaches out one arm along the back of the seat to pull me toward him. It’s nice, the way Dillon holds me. Still and silent, not needing to say anything to comfort me. His breath ruffles my hair, and I can feel his heartbeat on my cheek when I press against his chest.

We sit that way for a few minutes until he pushes me gently away. “Hey. Listen, don’t worry about that now. I brought you on a date, remember?”

I look around. “I see that. But to where?”

“C’mon, I’ll show you.” Grinning, he kisses me quickly and gets out of the truck to go around and open my door for me. So romantic.

He takes me to the yellow house and opens the door. “Dad! I’m here! And I brought someone, okay? Her name’s Velvet. Remember I told you about Velvet?”

I have only a half minute to wonder why he’s speaking so loud and so slow, with such precision. Then his dad comes around the corner from the hall into the living room, and I understand right away. Dillon’s dad is like my mom. Worse than my mom—he’s not wearing a collar, but he has the shambling step and slack face of someone who’s been neutralized.

“Where’s Mom? Work?”

Dillon’s dad doesn’t respond at first. He’s staring at me. Despite myself, I get a little shiver. He’s not collared but clearly something’s been done to him, and though I know he can’t possibly be dangerous, a flashback of Craig slamming into the glass door streaks through my brain.

“He can’t talk. Just like your mom.”

“Hi, Mr. Miller,” I say. “I’m Velvet. How are you?”

Dillon’s dad shuffles back down the hall and disappears through a doorway. I hear the sound of a TV.

“It’s all he does all day,” Dillon says. “Even though there’s really nothing on.”

He looks cautious and a little scared. He was nervous about having me meet his dad, I see that. I’m touched. Now I know why Jean was so adamant about encouraging me to call her son, why she thought we’d be a good fit. She was right, even though her reasons really had nothing to do with why I like Dillon.

“You could’ve told me before, you know.” I reach for his hand. “Did you think I’d mind?”

Dillon’s fingers tighten in mine. “I didn’t know, at first. I mean, yeah, your mom and everything, but my dad’s worse off.”

“He didn’t look so bad.”

Dillon shakes his head. “He hasn’t recovered half as much as your mom has. He can’t talk, has trouble eating. He has to wear a diaper. We don’t think he’ll ever get better.”

“But… he’s not getting worse, is he?”

From the back room, a laugh track makes me wish any of this were funny. Dillon scrubs at his hair again, rumpling it. I reach to smooth it and he captures my hand to kiss it before squeezing my fingers in his.

“No. Not worse.”

“What did they do to him?”

Something painful flits across his face. “He was the second wave. Mom and I didn’t even know he’d ever used ThinPro—he didn’t need to lose weight. We found out later the break room at his job stocked them in the soda machine. We think he just liked the taste. When he didn’t come from work, Mom called the cops. They were on the lookout for him. Found him in someone’s garden, tearing up the rosebushes. They… they staked him.”

Dillon touches the inner corners of his eyes. “Ice-pick lobotomy. That’s what they were doing to everyone.”

“I remember.” I shudder. “I’m so sorry.”

“They were honest in the report. Said he hadn’t done any harm they could tell, hadn’t seemed aggressive, made no moves toward the arresting officers. He was just tearing up the flowers. He had his wallet still with him, so they could get his ID. And they just… did him, and not gently.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s an honest but not helpful thing to say again.

Dillon shakes like he’s throwing off bad memories. “Anyway, they were just following orders. Who knew, right? There were a lot of people just going nuts. They didn’t know my dad. And who knows… he might’ve done something… eventually.”

I know there’s a good chance my mom committed crimes. Destruction of property. Maybe attacked someone. There’s no record of it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

“Some date, huh?” Dillon says. “Sorry.”

“No. Don’t. I’m glad you brought me to meet your dad.”

“Oh, that’s not the date.” Dillon brightens, takes me by the hand. He leads me into the dining room, where the table’s been set with good china and glasses. “This is the date.”

“You made me dinner?”

“Well…” He looks sheepish for a second. “Mom made the dinner. But it was my idea. It’s sort of… to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” My mouth’s already watering at the good smells coming from the kitchen, and my stomach rumbles. We aren’t lacking for meals, Opal and me, but they’re usually simple and cheap and, because I try to be responsible, healthy.

“We’ve never had a date,” Dillon says.

I stop cold in the doorway to look at him. It’s the sweetest, most romantic thing any boy’s ever done for me. Not that a lot of boys have ever done anything for me. It’s all the more special because of that.

Dillon—or Jean, really, but it doesn’t matter—has made roast chicken. Baked potatoes. Dinner rolls with real butter, corn, and Brussels sprouts. Baby carrots so tender, I want to cry when I bite into them. And soda! I haven’t had cola in so long, the bubbles make me cough.