Resistant: A World Divided, page 32
And Wren?
There’s no telling. She’s the only one of her kind—the only one given the miraculous cure that might just have the power to halt not just the Virus but death itself. But at what cost? Claire doesn’t say.
Ryder, no surprise, isn’t handling the news of the baby well. At first, he glares at me in a way that makes me think he’ll kill me in my sleep. If I were to ever actually sleep. After some thoughtful deliberation, I decide it’s best not to tell him or the others about the raider. I put myself in Ryder’s shoes. In Claire’s. And while I’m not entirely sure what would be worse...assuming the baby is mine or knowing how it really happened...I opt for the road of uncertainty.
Sometime in the early afternoon of the second day back in camp, Cat opens her eyes. Ryder is “on a walk” and Claire has gone to get some much-needed sleep, so for the time being, we are alone. I don’t notice at first that she’s awake, and when she reaches for my hand, I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Cat!” I cry. “You’re awake!”
Her smile nearly turns me into a pile of sap. “Yeah, I guess I am,” she says, gently analyzing the gauze that covers her shoulder. “Ryder shot me,” she continues, but there is no trace of anger or resentment in her tone. If anything, she sounds like she’s messing with me.
“How do you feel?” I ask, squeezing her hand gently.
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Like I’ve been shot,” she says, but then her face grows serious. “Where are we? How’s Wren? Is my father...is he dead?”
Only one of her questions is easy to answer. “We’re in Claire’s camp. We’re safe. For now.”
“And Wren?”
I nod in her sister’s direction. With effort, Cat turns her head. She drops my hand to reach for her sister’s.
“Do we know what’s wrong with her?”
I shake my head, but Cat doesn’t see me. My silence is her answer.
“And the baby?”
“We won’t know anything until it’s born.” I give Cat a moment to process it all before I continue. “Your mother seems to think that Wren’s in a stress-induced coma...that the...that everything...every trauma that she’s recently been through finally caught up with her, and she simply couldn’t cope any longer.”
Cat uses her other hand to wipe away her tears. “Well, we have time now, right? We’re in good hands with Claire. We’re safe. Right?” Cat turns to look at me, her eyes pleading. And I can’t help it. I can’t lie to her. I never could.
“Cat,” I say gently. “Dr. Grayson’s alive. The weapon you fired was filled with tranquilizers. Not bullets.” Again, I let this information settle before I continue. I’m not entirely sure how fragile Cat is right now. “We can only stay here as long as he’s willing to let us.”
If Cat’s shocked by this revelation, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she sits up in her bed, grimacing from the pain. “Well, that’s not going to work,” she tells me resolutely.
“It’s the only thing for us to do.”
“What? Run?” Cat looks again to her sister. “That didn’t work so well the last time, did it, though?”
Her comment stings. “What do you suggest we do then?” I ask her, masking the hurt in my voice.
“We fight,” she says matter-of-factly, still looking at her sister who, despite everything she’s been through, looks to be at peace. “We keep fighting. For Wren,” she whispers, “and for us.” When she turns back to face me, her deep blue eyes shining with tears, something inside me ignites a warmth beginning in my stomach and weaving its way straight to my heart.
Hope.
“We keep fighting,” I repeat because I cannot bear to break her heart. And because if Cat believes we can defeat Dr. Grayson—her father—in battle, then who am I to convince her otherwise?
29: Wren
I hear everything they say. Claire, Ryder, Abel, and Bill. My sister, Cat. Every word. Every sigh. Every intake of breath. I feel every gentle kiss from Ryder, every squeeze of the hand. I know what’s happening to my body. I know that for reasons the universe can’t possibly explain to me, I am carrying another life inside of me, a life that might prove vital to the rest of our existence.
Still, I say nothing in response. I can’t seem to will my body to move, trapped by some invisible force that seems to know me better than I know myself. Fear keeps me a willing prisoner. In my current state, I am not in pain. I am not suffering. Once fully awake, however, I know I will be forced to confront my reality. And, simply put, I’m not sure I would survive it.
So I remain numb to it all, content with my decision to lie dormant.
But when Cat and I are finally alone, the others presumably having gone to sleep, and she speaks to me, a piece of my resolve shatters.
She tells me about her childhood. About Sienne. How she wishes I could have been a part of it all. How I should have been a part of it all. She tells me about her first kiss with Abel, how she knew she loved him from the time they were children. It makes me think of Ryder. And I want to ask her how she finds it possible to feel anything even resembling love in a world so jaded. I want to ask her how she finds herself capable of believing there is still good in people when I’ve seen so much bad. But I don’t. Because when she speaks, her voice is light and happy. Hopeful even. And who am I to take that from her?
“Can you hear me, Wren?” my sister asks me after a while, laying her head softly on my chest. “Can you hear anything I’m saying? Anything at all?”
The longing—the hope in her voice—makes my heart ache. I want to tell her that I can. I want to shout, “I can hear you, Cat! I can!” I want to tell her that if anyone has the power to set me free, it’s her. That she should never, ever give up. Not on me, not on our families, not on our world. That it might be worth the fight after all.
But I can’t. Not yet. Because I’m not ready.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.
But I can hope.
I can hope.
Epilogue
No one suspected what I was up to. No one believed that sweet, forgiving Sienne could even be capable of such mass destruction.
But I knew what Claire was going to do even before she did. And I wasn’t going to stand back and allow it. Of course, I let her believe I had forgiven her. “It was a one-night stand,” she told me through her tears. “It was a mistake. It didn’t mean anything.”
But it meant something to me and my barren and imperfect womb.
With my husband, she had conceived not one but two children. Two perfectly healthy and beautiful girls. Anyone who met them couldn’t help but love them. I loved them. Even though every day they served as living, breathing reminders of the ultimate betrayal.
When Corrine got sick, a small, dark, shallow corner of my heart was happy. Finally, I thought, Claire would suffer as I had suffered. But the larger part of my heart hurt. Deeply. It wasn’t Corrine’s fault her father was unfaithful. It wasn’t the little girl’s fault her mother couldn’t resist the charms of Dr. Scott Grayson.
So together, Claire and I fought to find a cure that would save Corrine. Neither of us slept. Neither of us gave up until the early morning hours when the impossible became possible. The idea came to me in a dream after I had unwillingly drifted off to sleep atop a pile of paperwork, a photograph of the twins in my hand. But upon waking the idea stayed with me, a persistent, beguiling voice daring me, tempting me. What if? What if?
Claire’s two little girls, Catherine and Corrine, were my inspiration. The very existence of identical twins was a miracle of nature. A tiny little embryo with the power to divide in half to create two of the same.
The idea made me giddy with excitement. With hope. And because my desire to save Corrine—not to mention a rapidly dying world—was so immense, and because I am a scientist searching always for undiscovered possibilities, I didn’t think about the potential moral and ethical dilemmas I would dredge up if my idea worked.
And it did work.
But at what cost?
Killing two to save one.
Because in order to cure three-year-old Corrine, a doctor would first need two embryos. But not just any two embryos. Two embryos having just gone through the miraculous divide into twins. At the precise moment, a doctor would then need to extract the stem cells of these embryos to create the serum that could finally be injected into the dying patient where the drug would then attack and replace her cells with newer healthier ones. Over and over and over again.
Which, if my theory was correct, would mean that not only would little Corrine survive the Virus. She would also survive death.
Of course, I shared my discovery with Claire. And of course, she demanded we take the information and the serum straight to Scott. But I couldn’t ignore the feeling of guilt that began tugging and gnawing at my heart the moment I destroyed the perfectly healthy set of embryos required to make this miracle drug possible.
Mice are one thing, but human life? Who are we to play God? I asked Claire.
But she wouldn’t listen to me. Corrine was dying, she screamed. What was the issue?
Murder? I suggested.
When Claire ran from the room sobbing and unwilling to hear me out, I went to the one person I knew would listen. The one person in the remaining world who would do anything I asked of him. The one person who, through it all, had remained loyal. I went to Don and asked him to destroy the lab, the last place all of us, Claire, Scott, the girls, me, called home.
Then I took young Catherine’s hand in mine, and we went to the amusement park for the afternoon where we smiled and enjoyed the day despite the threat of the Virus. Despite the fact that Corrine would die.
I didn’t know Claire would run. I didn’t know she would take a vial of the serum with her when she did. I didn’t know she would take a gamble with her daughter’s life. I didn’t know that I would never forgive myself for believing I had destroyed the one hope our society had left, for thinking I had wasted the lives of two perfectly healthy embryos.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
Acknowledgements
This book was a journey that initially began as a novel-length horror story drafted during the summer I turned fourteen. Since then, it has been many things: a handwritten sketch in a classroom journal, a short story about a miraculous anti-aging drug gone wrong, a few wispy chapters spit out during my first shared venture through Nanowrimo. Add six years, one very frightening Time Magazine news article about antibiotic resistance, countless revisions, and one summer where I all but neglected my children, and the dream of finishing my first novel Resistant was finally realized.
A special and heartfelt thank you to Alice Warnick whose comments, questions, insights, and falling-out-of-the-desk stories while reading the initial manuscript kept me on my toes and eager to keep the story alive. Thirsty young readers are the reason I write, and you, Alice, are at the front of the pack.
Thank you to my wonderful students who never stopped encouraging me to finish the story I am so passionate about, especially those in my creative writing club who read and “reviewed” the earlier chapters. I hope I have been as much of an inspiration to you all as you all have been to me.
Thank you to my English teachers who instilled in me a love of literature and writing. I am especially grateful to Donna Butler, my eighth-grade teacher. You lit the match that ignited the writing fire within me with your novelette assignment, which, by the way, I still have tucked away in my bedroom closet. I am also indebted to my fabulous twelfth-grade creative writing teacher Julie Givler who continued to stoke the fire with inspiring prompts, music, and magical trips to places like Hollywood Cemetery where our one task as students was simply to write.
Thank you to my family. To my literature-hungry daughter, I can’t express through words how much I relished your breath on my cheek as you read over my shoulder while I wrote. To Holden and Rylan, my energetic boys, thank you for not destroying the house or each other while I “worked from home.” And to my husband who gave me the support and time I needed, thank you, thank you, thank you.
And to Judy Poore—this book is because you believed. You were the first to read the initial chapters, and it was your enthusiasm for Cat, Wren and their story that encouraged me to keep writing. Without your continued guidance and support throughout the process, Resistant would still be just a few unfinished pages, a story left untold. Simply put, you were a light when the struggle of writing often became dark. The phrase ‘thank you’ is nowhere near adequate.
Finally, to Erin, my other half: You and I both know there’s a unique bond shared between identical twins that only identical twins can understand. We finish each other’s thoughts. We know each other’s deepest, darkest, truest feelings and secrets. We celebrate each other’s successes. We suffer through each other’s heartbreaks. Without you, I would be lost. Truly. This book is for you and all the ways we complete each other—even from across the miles.
Note from the Author
Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed the book, please leave a review online—anywhere you are able. Even if it’s just a sentence or two. It would make all the difference and would be very much appreciated.
Thanks!
Erika
About the Author
Erika Modrak graduated from the University of Virginia with a degree in English literature. Her debut novel, Resistant, was written while teaching English and creative writing to middle-school teens, many of whom she credits for the novel’s completion. She lives with her husband and three children in Virginia.
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Erika Modrak, Resistant: A World Divided
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There’s no telling. She’s the only one of her kind—the only one given the miraculous cure that might just have the power to halt not just the Virus but death itself. But at what cost? Claire doesn’t say.
Ryder, no surprise, isn’t handling the news of the baby well. At first, he glares at me in a way that makes me think he’ll kill me in my sleep. If I were to ever actually sleep. After some thoughtful deliberation, I decide it’s best not to tell him or the others about the raider. I put myself in Ryder’s shoes. In Claire’s. And while I’m not entirely sure what would be worse...assuming the baby is mine or knowing how it really happened...I opt for the road of uncertainty.
Sometime in the early afternoon of the second day back in camp, Cat opens her eyes. Ryder is “on a walk” and Claire has gone to get some much-needed sleep, so for the time being, we are alone. I don’t notice at first that she’s awake, and when she reaches for my hand, I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Cat!” I cry. “You’re awake!”
Her smile nearly turns me into a pile of sap. “Yeah, I guess I am,” she says, gently analyzing the gauze that covers her shoulder. “Ryder shot me,” she continues, but there is no trace of anger or resentment in her tone. If anything, she sounds like she’s messing with me.
“How do you feel?” I ask, squeezing her hand gently.
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Like I’ve been shot,” she says, but then her face grows serious. “Where are we? How’s Wren? Is my father...is he dead?”
Only one of her questions is easy to answer. “We’re in Claire’s camp. We’re safe. For now.”
“And Wren?”
I nod in her sister’s direction. With effort, Cat turns her head. She drops my hand to reach for her sister’s.
“Do we know what’s wrong with her?”
I shake my head, but Cat doesn’t see me. My silence is her answer.
“And the baby?”
“We won’t know anything until it’s born.” I give Cat a moment to process it all before I continue. “Your mother seems to think that Wren’s in a stress-induced coma...that the...that everything...every trauma that she’s recently been through finally caught up with her, and she simply couldn’t cope any longer.”
Cat uses her other hand to wipe away her tears. “Well, we have time now, right? We’re in good hands with Claire. We’re safe. Right?” Cat turns to look at me, her eyes pleading. And I can’t help it. I can’t lie to her. I never could.
“Cat,” I say gently. “Dr. Grayson’s alive. The weapon you fired was filled with tranquilizers. Not bullets.” Again, I let this information settle before I continue. I’m not entirely sure how fragile Cat is right now. “We can only stay here as long as he’s willing to let us.”
If Cat’s shocked by this revelation, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she sits up in her bed, grimacing from the pain. “Well, that’s not going to work,” she tells me resolutely.
“It’s the only thing for us to do.”
“What? Run?” Cat looks again to her sister. “That didn’t work so well the last time, did it, though?”
Her comment stings. “What do you suggest we do then?” I ask her, masking the hurt in my voice.
“We fight,” she says matter-of-factly, still looking at her sister who, despite everything she’s been through, looks to be at peace. “We keep fighting. For Wren,” she whispers, “and for us.” When she turns back to face me, her deep blue eyes shining with tears, something inside me ignites a warmth beginning in my stomach and weaving its way straight to my heart.
Hope.
“We keep fighting,” I repeat because I cannot bear to break her heart. And because if Cat believes we can defeat Dr. Grayson—her father—in battle, then who am I to convince her otherwise?
29: Wren
I hear everything they say. Claire, Ryder, Abel, and Bill. My sister, Cat. Every word. Every sigh. Every intake of breath. I feel every gentle kiss from Ryder, every squeeze of the hand. I know what’s happening to my body. I know that for reasons the universe can’t possibly explain to me, I am carrying another life inside of me, a life that might prove vital to the rest of our existence.
Still, I say nothing in response. I can’t seem to will my body to move, trapped by some invisible force that seems to know me better than I know myself. Fear keeps me a willing prisoner. In my current state, I am not in pain. I am not suffering. Once fully awake, however, I know I will be forced to confront my reality. And, simply put, I’m not sure I would survive it.
So I remain numb to it all, content with my decision to lie dormant.
But when Cat and I are finally alone, the others presumably having gone to sleep, and she speaks to me, a piece of my resolve shatters.
She tells me about her childhood. About Sienne. How she wishes I could have been a part of it all. How I should have been a part of it all. She tells me about her first kiss with Abel, how she knew she loved him from the time they were children. It makes me think of Ryder. And I want to ask her how she finds it possible to feel anything even resembling love in a world so jaded. I want to ask her how she finds herself capable of believing there is still good in people when I’ve seen so much bad. But I don’t. Because when she speaks, her voice is light and happy. Hopeful even. And who am I to take that from her?
“Can you hear me, Wren?” my sister asks me after a while, laying her head softly on my chest. “Can you hear anything I’m saying? Anything at all?”
The longing—the hope in her voice—makes my heart ache. I want to tell her that I can. I want to shout, “I can hear you, Cat! I can!” I want to tell her that if anyone has the power to set me free, it’s her. That she should never, ever give up. Not on me, not on our families, not on our world. That it might be worth the fight after all.
But I can’t. Not yet. Because I’m not ready.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.
But I can hope.
I can hope.
Epilogue
No one suspected what I was up to. No one believed that sweet, forgiving Sienne could even be capable of such mass destruction.
But I knew what Claire was going to do even before she did. And I wasn’t going to stand back and allow it. Of course, I let her believe I had forgiven her. “It was a one-night stand,” she told me through her tears. “It was a mistake. It didn’t mean anything.”
But it meant something to me and my barren and imperfect womb.
With my husband, she had conceived not one but two children. Two perfectly healthy and beautiful girls. Anyone who met them couldn’t help but love them. I loved them. Even though every day they served as living, breathing reminders of the ultimate betrayal.
When Corrine got sick, a small, dark, shallow corner of my heart was happy. Finally, I thought, Claire would suffer as I had suffered. But the larger part of my heart hurt. Deeply. It wasn’t Corrine’s fault her father was unfaithful. It wasn’t the little girl’s fault her mother couldn’t resist the charms of Dr. Scott Grayson.
So together, Claire and I fought to find a cure that would save Corrine. Neither of us slept. Neither of us gave up until the early morning hours when the impossible became possible. The idea came to me in a dream after I had unwillingly drifted off to sleep atop a pile of paperwork, a photograph of the twins in my hand. But upon waking the idea stayed with me, a persistent, beguiling voice daring me, tempting me. What if? What if?
Claire’s two little girls, Catherine and Corrine, were my inspiration. The very existence of identical twins was a miracle of nature. A tiny little embryo with the power to divide in half to create two of the same.
The idea made me giddy with excitement. With hope. And because my desire to save Corrine—not to mention a rapidly dying world—was so immense, and because I am a scientist searching always for undiscovered possibilities, I didn’t think about the potential moral and ethical dilemmas I would dredge up if my idea worked.
And it did work.
But at what cost?
Killing two to save one.
Because in order to cure three-year-old Corrine, a doctor would first need two embryos. But not just any two embryos. Two embryos having just gone through the miraculous divide into twins. At the precise moment, a doctor would then need to extract the stem cells of these embryos to create the serum that could finally be injected into the dying patient where the drug would then attack and replace her cells with newer healthier ones. Over and over and over again.
Which, if my theory was correct, would mean that not only would little Corrine survive the Virus. She would also survive death.
Of course, I shared my discovery with Claire. And of course, she demanded we take the information and the serum straight to Scott. But I couldn’t ignore the feeling of guilt that began tugging and gnawing at my heart the moment I destroyed the perfectly healthy set of embryos required to make this miracle drug possible.
Mice are one thing, but human life? Who are we to play God? I asked Claire.
But she wouldn’t listen to me. Corrine was dying, she screamed. What was the issue?
Murder? I suggested.
When Claire ran from the room sobbing and unwilling to hear me out, I went to the one person I knew would listen. The one person in the remaining world who would do anything I asked of him. The one person who, through it all, had remained loyal. I went to Don and asked him to destroy the lab, the last place all of us, Claire, Scott, the girls, me, called home.
Then I took young Catherine’s hand in mine, and we went to the amusement park for the afternoon where we smiled and enjoyed the day despite the threat of the Virus. Despite the fact that Corrine would die.
I didn’t know Claire would run. I didn’t know she would take a vial of the serum with her when she did. I didn’t know she would take a gamble with her daughter’s life. I didn’t know that I would never forgive myself for believing I had destroyed the one hope our society had left, for thinking I had wasted the lives of two perfectly healthy embryos.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know.
Acknowledgements
This book was a journey that initially began as a novel-length horror story drafted during the summer I turned fourteen. Since then, it has been many things: a handwritten sketch in a classroom journal, a short story about a miraculous anti-aging drug gone wrong, a few wispy chapters spit out during my first shared venture through Nanowrimo. Add six years, one very frightening Time Magazine news article about antibiotic resistance, countless revisions, and one summer where I all but neglected my children, and the dream of finishing my first novel Resistant was finally realized.
A special and heartfelt thank you to Alice Warnick whose comments, questions, insights, and falling-out-of-the-desk stories while reading the initial manuscript kept me on my toes and eager to keep the story alive. Thirsty young readers are the reason I write, and you, Alice, are at the front of the pack.
Thank you to my wonderful students who never stopped encouraging me to finish the story I am so passionate about, especially those in my creative writing club who read and “reviewed” the earlier chapters. I hope I have been as much of an inspiration to you all as you all have been to me.
Thank you to my English teachers who instilled in me a love of literature and writing. I am especially grateful to Donna Butler, my eighth-grade teacher. You lit the match that ignited the writing fire within me with your novelette assignment, which, by the way, I still have tucked away in my bedroom closet. I am also indebted to my fabulous twelfth-grade creative writing teacher Julie Givler who continued to stoke the fire with inspiring prompts, music, and magical trips to places like Hollywood Cemetery where our one task as students was simply to write.
Thank you to my family. To my literature-hungry daughter, I can’t express through words how much I relished your breath on my cheek as you read over my shoulder while I wrote. To Holden and Rylan, my energetic boys, thank you for not destroying the house or each other while I “worked from home.” And to my husband who gave me the support and time I needed, thank you, thank you, thank you.
And to Judy Poore—this book is because you believed. You were the first to read the initial chapters, and it was your enthusiasm for Cat, Wren and their story that encouraged me to keep writing. Without your continued guidance and support throughout the process, Resistant would still be just a few unfinished pages, a story left untold. Simply put, you were a light when the struggle of writing often became dark. The phrase ‘thank you’ is nowhere near adequate.
Finally, to Erin, my other half: You and I both know there’s a unique bond shared between identical twins that only identical twins can understand. We finish each other’s thoughts. We know each other’s deepest, darkest, truest feelings and secrets. We celebrate each other’s successes. We suffer through each other’s heartbreaks. Without you, I would be lost. Truly. This book is for you and all the ways we complete each other—even from across the miles.
Note from the Author
Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed the book, please leave a review online—anywhere you are able. Even if it’s just a sentence or two. It would make all the difference and would be very much appreciated.
Thanks!
Erika
About the Author
Erika Modrak graduated from the University of Virginia with a degree in English literature. Her debut novel, Resistant, was written while teaching English and creative writing to middle-school teens, many of whom she credits for the novel’s completion. She lives with her husband and three children in Virginia.
We hope you enjoyed reading this title from:
www.blackrosewriting.com
Subscribe to our mailing list – The Rosevine – and receive FREE eBooks, special deals, and stay current with news about upcoming releases and our hottest authors. Click below to sign up.
SUBSCRIBE HERE
Already a subscriber? Please accept a sincere thank you for being a fan of Black Rose Writing authors.
Erika Modrak, Resistant: A World Divided
