Deviations

By Crystal C. Johnson

“People don’t just create diseases to wipe out nations,” I argue.

“The bubonic plague, typhoid fever, smallpox, the bird flu—would you like me to continue?” His voice rises as if he’s determined to make me understand, “They’re created in labs, then given to people to see who is strong enough to survive them. They’re trying to limit the amount of people in the world.” I watch him stand and turn for the door. “There’s a lot about your parents that you don’t know and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can start doing something about it.”

About Deviations
From the day we’re born, we’re introduced to the marvels of modern medicine. It is amazing how a simple vaccine can prevent polio, hepatitis B, rotavirus—the list is almost endless. But, what if that were no longer the case? What if the government unleashed each virus for the sole purpose of controlling the population? Henly Sawyer finds herself discovering this truth for the first time, and as she does, the world that she thought she knew shatters. She wakes in Aurora, a quarantine miles from home, and is forced into a grueling reality. Henly strives to piece together the truth about her parents and their involvement in the unfolding chaos. With the help of her new friends, Renner and Dex, Henly sets out to understand a world that is now filled with Deviations—an infected group of violent, murderous humans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crystal C. Johnson
• Release date: Feb 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310677519

Crystal C. Johnson

So a little bit about me...I'm an avid pinner, addicted to reading and writing, and currently trying to survive motherhood. Let's face it I have a strange addiction to Root Beer, and girl scout thin mints. If I could I would spend my entire day locked in a closet with a flashlight if that meant I could read a book from start to finish. But lets get serious...I graduated from BYU-I with a BA Degree in Political Science and a minor in English. Along the way I acquired a pretty amazing husband who has helped me create and realize so many dreams. Who knows how many times he's reminded me that I need to sleep to continue living. I also have a baby boy who fits perfectly with his name Cash. Right now I reside in Canada and besides the rainy month (June) I love it.I've learned that every single experience that I've had has helped me create and develop my writing. Every single one of my choices has lead me to this. I would like to believe that I was 'destined' to be a writer because ever since I can remember I've loved it, but in reality it's something that I have worked really hard for.

Book preview

Deviations

By Crystal C. Johnson

Copyright 2014 Crystal C. Johnson

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Dedication

To those who believed in me, and never stopped encouraging me.

It ended, not with a bang, but a whisper.

It became our Deviation.

CHAPTER 1

I crunch my way to the road. The false hope of heat extinguishes as brisk air forms icicles in my lungs with each breath. The leaves slowly fall to my feet in hues of orange and yellow. Looking around, I take in my surroundings. The houses in the suburbs look identical to mine. Except they’re painted different colors in hopes to keep the community united but unique. Each neighbor’s house is allotted one tree—a small Elm. The idea that placing a tree that is exactly the same on each lawn avoids contention makes me laugh. If only the world saw this as a solution to its problems: "Let’s give each of you the same tree, and bam world peace." I doubt that would work. Pushing the idea from my mind, I feel the rhythm of the music and let it set my pace.

Near the edge of town I run past buildings that used to mean something, but have failed to stand against time. I stop to take a break and wonder if I will be remembered. When my younger sister, Davis, was born, I was nervous I’d be forgotten. She was cute, small, and new, and I wasn’t. My parents spent most of their spare time with this precious version of themselves. I began to think, if I’m to be remembered I must too become new. Every day I tried to become something new, someone they had never met before, but it never worked. My desire to stay present in my parents’ minds had nothing to do with being jealous or with not loving my sister; I did and do. I just didn’t want to be forgotten like the buildings had. Soon, I let that idea go and started settling into the important role my mom pressed upon me—becoming the older sister, the example, the role model.

I turn onto my street and see my dad idly waiting by the mailbox. We look nothing alike except for our green eyes, but I find most of my strength in him.

Hey, kiddo. How was the run?

Liberating. I pause to catch my breath. Going somewhere? My eyes drop to the bag next to him.

He smiles.

Yes, your mom and I have an emergency at work.

Being surgeons with two daughters wasn’t something my parents had planned. After I was born, my mom was supposed to take time off, but couldn’t tear herself away from her work. She felt without a career she would be just a mundane mom, and she couldn’t bear the idea of that. I’m not sure I can blame her, but a part of me does. My dad, on the other hand, would have loved to stay home and be a parent, but duty called.

We’ll be gone for a few days, he answers.

I fake a smile and turn away from him. Okay is all I say before I head to the house.

He calls after me, Henly!

I turn to face him and see his usually tall, confident demeanor is slouched and troubled.

I love you, kiddo. You know that, right?

Yeah, I know. I pause before entering and then ask, Is everything okay?

Yes, just something bizarre happened at the hospital in the city and they want me and your mom to figure out what’s going on. Don’t worry.

I can see the doubt in his eyes, but instead of badgering the truth out of him, I smile and walk inside. I’m sure he’ll fill me in on everything when he gets back.

I take extra caution to be quiet, even though most days I could yell her name across a quiet room and she wouldn’t even bat an eye. I walk into my house to find my mother frantically opening drawer after drawer. I try to avoid her, but it’s useless.

Henly! I hear her yell from behind me as I race up the stairs.

Ana is yelling for you, Davis whispers as I push the door to her room open.

We used to call her Mom, but she never responded to the title. One day when we were on vacation, we tried to get her attention, but nothing worked so we yelled out Ana, and she immediately turned. It has stuck ever since.

Shh, I say flashing her a grin. So, I guess it’s me and you for a couple of days.

I sit on her bed and look at all the typical things she has in her room: ballet shoes, pictures of her and her friends at camp, and giant posters of her favorite bands. She’s a normal fifteen-year-old girl.

Yeah, that’s what Dad told me. Where do you think they’re off to this time? she asks, looking out the window.

I glance to see what she’s staring at—a man that mirrors her dirty blond hair and porcelain skin. They’re both tall and most would say their kindness is boundless. Her blue eyes are one of the only qualities she gained from Ana. Unlike me, who has inherited the majority of Ana’s looks. Our tanned skin, high cheekbones, and round eyes match. However, where her hair is short, mine is long, but it still produces the same brown wave as hers. Running, thankfully, was one of the few things I was lucky to inherit from my dad.

I have no idea, I say, pausing to realize we never really know where our parents are off to. Dad said they're going to the city.

I take off my sweater and lay it on the chair behind me, feeling the cold enter my body.

Do you ever wonder—

Henly, I need your help please. Now! my mom interrupts Davis.

I feel the tension in her voice rise as her Spanish accent etches its way into her yell. Luckily, that didn't pass on to me.

Davis and I turn to each other and mimic her bossiness in unison, Please! Now! We both laugh.

My mom has a way of trying to be polite, but for some reason, a lot of what she has to say are only nicely phrased insults—something I hope to never inherit.

I run downstairs, meeting her at the edge of the banister.

What’s up?

Have you seen the passports? We need them ASAP, she says, acknowledging me only as much as she would a scrub nurse.

I smile and head toward the office. Sometimes biting my tongue can be more painful than the repercussions of actually telling her how I feel. I walk into the office and survey the layers and stacks of books everywhere. The smell from the mahogany shelves rushes to me as I pass the chairs littered with paperwork. The walls are filled with achievement awards and diplomas that belong to both of my parents. Every book or paper left unturned is either written on or spread open to a page only he understands. My dad has a way of making any mess look classy. I head for the large desk in the center of the room.

Opening his drawer, I find the passports and then shuffle some papers around to waste time before having to face my mom again. She hasn’t outgrown her old-fashioned Spanish heritage, which in her mind automatically decrees we owe her our respect. I glance down into the drawer and see a manila folder. Grabbing the corner of it, I read in bold letters, Solution. That’s strange. Dad never brings his work home. Before I have time to open it, I hear my dad coming down the hallway. He enters the office as I drop the envelope back into the drawer. I make a mental note to remember to sneak a peek after they’ve gone.

Here are the passports Ana wanted.

"You mean Mom, he says, searching through one of the open books on a chair. You and Davis have to start calling her mom again, or I’ll never hear the end of it."

I laugh, feeling for him.

"Well, when she starts acting like one, I’d be more than happy to call her that. Until then, I think Ana works just fine," I say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

Hey, now you know she loves you—

Why do you guys need your passports? I thought you were just going to the city? I cut him off.

The last thing I want to hear is the same old excuse, she loves you, but she loves work too. And since you’re seventeen now, she’s just trying to prepare you for the rest of your life of independence. I have heard this same speech for as long as I can remember. He sighs with defeat and answers, We are, but they might fly us out to LA for a day or two.

Last time I checked, a flight from Denver to Los Angeles doesn’t veer out of the United States.

Your point? he asks.

You don’t need a passport unless you’re traveling outside the country.

I rock back in his chair. He shakes his head and smiles as he pulls his nose out of the book he’s reading.

It’s just easier this way, he answers.

So you’ll be gone longer than a few days?

No, Hen.

I hate when he calls me that. The last thing I want to be referred to as is a chicken. We’ll be back in a few days. I promise.

Forcing a smile, I grab one of the bags sitting at his feet and walk him out to the car. I’ve gotten used to being the daughter of two surgeons. They’re always on call or on the go. Sometimes I feel selfish for wanting to keep them around so much. I know they’re someone else’s miracle, but it doesn’t stop how much I miss my dad when he’s gone.

He gives Davis and me a hug and smiles.

Take care of your sister while we’re gone. I’ll call you when we land.

Ha! No, I think I’ll let her starve, I say jokingly and poke Davis in the ribs.

We both smile and wave at our mom as she loads herself into the car. I turn away before she remembers to wave back. I couldn’t care less.

***

It’s early when the power goes out, and suddenly I’m aware of the eerie darkness. I grab my phone and use the light to guide my path down the stairs. In the kitchen there’s a lamp hidden in the back cupboard. It’s been years since we’ve had a blackout. I turn it on and think about checking on Davis, but realize she probably didn’t wake up when the lights when off; she could sleep through an earthquake. I look at my phone and see it’s four in the morning. The last couple of days have flown by, and my parents come home today—that is, if they haven’t decided to extend their trip, which wouldn’t surprise me if they did. I sit at the table trying to decide whether or not to go back to bed when the humming of electricity spreads relief throughout my body. I walk into the living room and turn on the TV to lull me back to sleep.

I hear the warnings on TV about a storm coming through the outskirts of Denver, which isn’t unusual for this time of the year. However, I still can’t shake the sense of eeriness. Being home alone gets old, especially in the middle of a storm, and even with Davis here. I sit up when I hear her in the kitchen. Right as I am about to turn off the TV, I hear a blurb about an outbreak of the flu with a reminder to viewers to get their flu shots early. This happens every year. I throw the remote on the couch and make a note to get one when my dad gets back.

Hey, there’s a storm tonight so make sure to be home early, I say, hoping she will keep me company in case our parents don’t make it back before the storm.

Okay. She smiles and then teases, Still afraid of storms, are we?

I mock her and walk out of the kitchen. What seventeen-year-old is afraid of a simple storm, one might ask? This girl, right here. With every storm that hits Denver I am reminded of the noises my house makes. They encourage a horrible fear that my house is a place for paranormal activity.

I’m relieved when I hear her change the topic.

By the way, I’m catching a ride home with Andy, so don’t worry about it, okay? she says as she grabs her bag and heads for the door.

I hear a honk in the distance.

Who is Andy? Weren’t you just dating Stephen?

She blushes. It’s hard to explain, but no, not anymore.

My sister, the heartbreaker, is the complete opposite of me. Where her blond hair lies pin straight down her back, mine lies on my shoulders in a wavy brown mess. She finds escape on a stage, and I find freedom on a clear path. Where she gives her heart freely, I guard mine. Sometimes I wonder if we really are related.

Okay, I say smiling.

I leave my house and drive to school. As I pull into the school parking lot, I overhear the radio explaining what do to if you’re near someone with a cold. I guess there’s been a large amount of people going to the doctor, but I guess that’s typical for this time of year.

Getting out of my car I can see my friends in the distance and as I get closer I can hear the usual chatter of the daily gossip abounds our table. I make an excuse to leave and head to my first period class. Walking in early, I discover the power is out again. The dimly lit classroom is silent, and as class begins, it stays remotely empty. On the other side of the window, white flakes fall, transforming autumn into winter. I start to think about my dad.

When he left, he wasn’t his usual self, which reminds me of the manila folder in the drawer I'd completely forgotten about. He hasn’t called as much as he usually does while he has been gone either. The bell interrupts my thoughts, though, and I disregard the abnormality. Looking around the room, I see classmates have filled in various seats, but for the most part, the class is still noticeably empty.

The rest of the day isn’t much different. The lunchroom is close to empty and last period isn’t any better. Everyone must be home sick. In my last class, I sit around and daydream about this weekend’s plans. As I’m lost in thought, I hear my teacher announce that, due to a scheduling conflict, school will be canceled until Monday for a teachers’ workday. I smile at the notion I’ll get a four-day weekend.

After class, I meet up with my friends and make plans for the break. I then text Davis to let her know I’m headed home.

The drive home is strange. It’s the first snowfall, but no one is outside. Most kids usually cannot wait to dive into the glistening powder in their front yard.

That’s weird, I say to myself.

I pull into my driveway at the end of the cul-de-sac and see it is empty. My parents haven’t made it back yet. The snow probably held them up. I walk into my quiet house and head upstairs. I decide I may as well get a quick run in before my parents get home. Heading downstairs, I put in one of my headphones and pass my dad’s office. Suddenly, I remember the envelope again. Pausing for a moment, I pull the headphones out of my ears, and against my better judgment, I walk down the hallway. Pushing the door open, I head for his desk and pull at the drawer, but it won’t open. I peek down to see if something has it jammed, but to my astonishment, it’s locked. My dad never locks anything. He has a nothing-locked, open-door policy. I think it’s his way of securing our virtue. I look around for the key, but it’s gone. I try one last time to wiggle it open, but it’s no use. Leaning back in his chair, my eyes scan the room for any sign of where my dad could have hidden the key. The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli, his favorite book, juts out of the bookcase across from me. Standing, I make my way to it, but hear the door to my house creak open. Quickly, I rush out of his office in time to find Davis, back against the door, smiling.

Hey, I say leaning against the banister rail.

Hey, she says awakening from her dreamy state. Going running?

Sneaking to the window, I take a closer look at this boy who has my sister grinning from ear to ear. He’s definitely nice on the eyes. His short, blond, messy hair is pushed to the side. I turn to her and smile.

Does he know about your snoring problem or about your bedwetting situation? I’m sure Dad would love to bring out the naked pictures of you as a baby. I tease, laughing so loud the grin she’s wearing soon turns serious, and she pushes me out the door.

Rude! I was five when that one incident happened! she yells through the door, clearly annoyed.

I head down the driveway smiling. I probably should have let her enjoy her moment, seeing as how she didn’t tease me about my irrational fear of storms. I’ll have to apologize when I get back. My breath creates small clouds against the snow as it falls in clumps at my feet. While running my usual path, I notice the bareness of the yards—no dogs barking or kids playing, just awkward silence. Deciding to cut my run short, I veer off into a back alley behind one of my neighbors’ houses, a few yards down from where I live. I put my hands above my head as I slow down to catch my breath. I close my eyes as the cold air burns into my lungs, throwing me into a coughing fit.

My eyes fly open when I hear a loud pop that sounds a lot like a gun going off. Through gasps of air, I force my eyes to focus and see a black van pulling into a driveway—my driveway. Looking for the sound, I walk toward my house, feeling wary of the unfound noise. I keep my eyes on the van, but soon feel the blood drain from my face as I watch strangers carry out a small, body-like figure and toss it into the back of the black van. Suddenly there’s another van that has pulled onto my street. I search the neighborhood for answers, but no one is outside. Frantically, I pick up the pace and start in a dead sprint for my house.

Run! I hear him yell.

My dad’s voice cuts through the thick snow. I look around the block and see more black vans flooding into my neighbors’ homes. Chaos has erupted. Kids are screaming for their parents as they are being ripped apart and thrown like rag dolls into the back of the vans. I try to yell as they pull a child from his mother’s lifeless arms, but nothing comes out.

Water fills my eyes when I finally see my dad. He is thrashing against a man who has him pinned to the ground. My dad’s face turns different shades of purple as the man tries to keep him from yelling. Horror consumes me as I see a man in black draw his gun and fire at a mom who is trying to escape with her child.

Run, Henly! Go! my dad commands through gargled screams.

I back up, but trip over my feet. My muscles feel hollow as I try to force myself up. The man is coming for me. Nothing makes sense. He is carrying a gun and it’s aimed directly at my head. My dad’s yelling something, but I can’t hear him over the pounding of my heart. This can’t be happening. He’s getting closer. Come on! Get up! Move, now! I turn to run, but the man with the gun yells. I stop, my back toward him, my hands and legs shaking. My eyes squeeze shut—I’m going to die. The smell of burning wood and blood overwhelms me, and I feel the metal touch the back of my head. My mind is going a million miles a minute when I hear the shot. They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die, but the only thing I can think of is the fact I haven’t really lived yet.

CHAPTER 2

Falling to the ground, I wait for the pain, but nothing comes. My eyes open and the man holding the gun is lying a few inches from me—dead on the pavement. Rolling onto my stomach, I freeze when I see my dad lying on the ground with a gun in his hand. The next shot rings through the air, my dad’s body becomes deathly still, his blood tainting the snow red. He looks at me and mouths, Run.

I stand quickly and run as fast as my legs will take me. There’s a sharp pain in my calf. It’s cramping, but I can’t stop. It’s as if my body sets into race mode, I’m no longer worried about dying, I just need to run. If I can get to the old abandoned buildings I used to play in when I was a kid, the same ones I run past every day, I know I’ll be okay. It doesn’t make sense when I glance down at my leg and see red sweat dripping onto my shoe.

When I finally reach the buildings on the edge of town, my lungs burn. Thrusting the side panel open, I run down the flight of stairs, searching the walls for the small hole I used to fit into when I was kid. My hands find it, and without thinking, I slide into the hole and wait. Soon after, I hear feet shuffling into the warehouse. They’re breaking down doors and shooting at the windows. The scuffs of their boots echo against the thin walls. Through a crack in the wall, I am able to see a man at the base of the stairs. His blond hair is short and smoothed into place. He seems to be the one in charge, which is strange; he doesn’t look much older than me. His eyes stare at the wall, and for a moment, I fear he has found me.

Check every room. We have to contain the situation and tie up loose ends, the man commands.

They’re coming for me. I’m the loose end.

Where did she go? I shot the little brat in the leg.

There’s a small puddle growing around my leg. That’s when I realize my leg wasn’t cramping and it sure wasn’t sweat dripping down my calf. The air becomes scarce when I try to pull up my leg to see how bad the damage is.

She couldn’t have gone far, a feminine voice says with humor. Did you kill the doc? Boss isn’t going to be happy.

I hold my breath. Could he still be alive? The burly man looks at the woman.

Probably. I have a feeling it isn’t going to be a good night for me or her.

He stands, gun in hand, and looks through the room. His shadows follow him as he opens a door in the basement searching for me. When he suddenly stiffens and shoots, my heart drops to the floor. He found me and here come the bullets.

Hey! the woman screams, rubbing her ears. Are you serious? She points to the dead door. You’re scared of a rat?

It surprised me, all right?

He steps closer to her, getting in her face. His voice is deep and husky. The tall woman pushes him away and laughs.

Sure. You have precise aim for the rat, but not the girl?

Shut it! he yells.

The man who seems to be in charge walks in and demands, Find her?

No, sir, says the woman, changing her tone and standing taller. But she couldn’t have gone far. All we have to do is track the blood. We’ll keep searching the surrounding perimeter.

As they’re about to leave, the man afraid of the rat abruptly turns and begins to unload his gun into the room. Afraid to move, I clasp my hand over my mouth and stifle a scream. The bullet shells fall to the ground like rain, and I forget to breathe. Before I know it, I see nothing.

I jerk awake and force my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the small space. Trying to make sense of where I am, I lean the back of my head against the wall and wait for my sleepy state to pass. It’s night in the warehouse and everything is quiet, except for the creaks keeping me alert. For a moment, I’d forgotten about today, but the jarring pain in my lower left calf reminds me something has gone terribly wrong. Every time I move, it’s like being shot all over again. The pain makes me want to retch. Stretching my leg out in the small space, I try to see how badly I’m hurt, but I have no idea what I am looking for. I guess I’m not my parents’ prodigy after all. My mother’s face would be one of disgust. The daughter she sacrificed her body for becoming anything other than a surgeon would be a disgrace. My dad, on the other hand—my dad! He was shot. The reality hits me like a million bricks falling on top of me. What about