Page 3 of Unnatural (Men and Monsters #2)

The small form was dwarfed by the large hospital bed, machines blinking and beeping softly from behind her. So much equipment for one tiny girl.

Autumn dropped her school bag from the class she’d attended in the south wing and sat down at Mara’s bedside, taking her friend’s skeletal hand in hers. Mara’s eyes blinked open, and she gave Autumn the slip of a smile. “How are you feeling?” Autumn asked.

“About as good as I look.”

Autumn squeezed one eye shut, wrinkling her nose. “That bad, huh?”

Mara laughed, though it was shallow. “Worse.” She adjusted her body, wincing. “There’s not much more they can cut out before I’m all out of the necessary organs,” she said, and though her tone was matter-of-fact, her bottom lip quivered slightly.

Autumn gave her hand a squeeze even as she felt tears burn the backs of her eyes. “If the surgeon removed enough, the Mesmivir will take care of the rest.”

But Mara shook her head. “You’re always optimistic, Autumn. But…it hasn’t so far. And…I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.”

A slice of fear cut through Autumn. “Do what?”

“Live like this. What kind of life is it? Constant suffering? Unending surgeries.” Mara gestured to her body, the wound from her most recent operation covered in gauze.

Autumn knew that beneath Mara’s white nightgown, there were numerous scars from previous surgeries, the ones that had attempted to remove tumors so her body could overcome the cancer.

“What’s the alternative, Mara? We have to fight. If we don’t, what is there?”

“Peace.”

Peace.

The yearning that one-syllable word brought produced a physical pang that rose above her myriad other aches.

Peace. Others felt that. Others woke in the morning and sprang out of bed with healthy bodies, their minds focused on classes, meetings, or maybe the date they had planned that weekend.

Did they stop to consider the peace they possessed?

The peace that enabled them to hum distractedly as they listened to music or scrolled through social media? Autumn could only wonder.

What she was certain of was that she’d give anything not to wonder but to know.

“That’s what we fight for,” she told Mara.

“No matter the improbability.” And they had to address the improbability that Mara would heal, didn’t they?

Because truth mattered too, and if Mara couldn’t count on it from her other sick friends who carried the same burden as she did, regardless of scale, then who could she trust to provide honesty?

Fight, but not blindly.

Yet Autumn didn’t tell her about Zoey. Not today. Not when Mara was still so fragile. She hadn’t been able to attend breakfast in the cafeteria, so she wouldn’t have heard the announcement.

Autumn squeezed Mara’s hand. “You just had surgery, and you’re feeling especially ill. But you’ll be up walking the halls soon, and you’ll get that fighting spirit back.”

“Walking the halls.” Mara sighed. “Great. Really something to look forward to.” But she gave Autumn a faint smile and squeezed her hand back, even if weakly. There it is. That glimmer. That fight. Autumn would be there to help her friend lace up her armor when she was ready.

For a flash, Autumn thought about her dream, and something strange blossomed in her chest. She’d almost call it excitement, but that seemed too strong a word for something only in her imagination.

“You must look at me and worry,” Mara said, taking Autumn’s momentary silence for concern.

“Of course I worry—”

“No, I mean, you must worry that you’ll be me in a few years.”

The door opened, Mara’s nurse bustling in and chirping an overly cheery good morning. Autumn let go of Mara’s hand as the nurse she believed was named Cheryl took Mara’s vitals and asked her questions about how she felt.

You must worry that you’ll be me in a few years.

Autumn turned her head, staring unseeing out the window to the wide stretch of emerald-green lawn and paths where a few early morning walkers strolled, arms linked with nurses, children and teens who moved slowly and hunched over as though they were ninety.

A wheelchair went by, the occupant’s head hung low, lank flaxen hair covering her face.

You must worry that you’ll be me in a few years.

A buzz of guilt vibrated through her. Of course she did. And perhaps more than others because she was one of the ones who hadn’t yet developed any tumors. That yet loomed large, and rarely did a day go by when she didn’t fear that the next scan would show what was practically inevitable.

Her fate.

She was an ADHM baby, the chemical name a long chain of consonants she’d known once and would recognize on paper but couldn’t spell unless she thought long and hard about it.

And she had no interest in doing that. The acronym told the tale, and there wasn’t anyone in the Northern Hemisphere who hadn’t heard of it at this point.

ADHM, a street drug that had hit the market sixteen years before and addicted hundreds of thousands of people, was known by other names too: satellite, blue lightning, blind man’s vision, Lucy in the Sky (and the simpler offshoot, Lucy), among the more popular and well-known.

The users of ADHM who had gotten pregnant while taking it had had babies riddled with cancerous tumors, and if they weren’t born with tumors, they developed them soon after.

There were a rare few, like her, who remained tumor-free longer, thanks to the medication all ADHM babies were put on at birth.

But they were the exceptions. Her body had responded amazingly well, but like all of them, she was a ticking time bomb.

Her clock simply held a few more digits.

The oldest ADHM baby had lived until sixteen.

His name had been Logan, and he’d lived in the room down the hall.

He’d loved classical music and read philosophy books.

The nurses had called him an old soul, and Autumn had hoped that was true and he’d lived a hundred lifetimes, because this one had been far too short.

Logan had died five days after his sixteenth birthday.

Autumn was fourteen and three months.

And her last scan, while tumor-free, had shown a concerning thickening of her stomach walls and swelling of her uterus.

She was scheduled for a full hysterectomy in three months.

Most female ADHM babies had them earlier to avoid the tumors that would inevitably grow there, but Autumn had been a late bloomer, her periods had been light and absent of the severe pain often associated with their disease, so the surgeon had put it off, opting to keep a close eye on any changes.

Because many if not most of those who had given birth to ADHM babies were chronic addicts, often living on the street, and diagnosed with one or several mental illnesses, a large swath of the kids were wards of the state and lived in government-run facilities like Mercy Hospital for Children.

It served as a home, a hospital, and a school.

Most had never met or known their birth mothers.

Autumn stretched her back as the nurse took Mara’s temperature.

She felt especially sore this morning. The Mesmivir was their only hope of keeping the tumors under control or, in her lucky case, away entirely for as long as possible, but it also came with a long list of side effects ranging from unpleasant to horrible.

It made them sick and achy. It gave them severe rashes and stomach issues, which often necessitated feeding tubes.

It brought on migraines and cognitive disorders.

But it was the sleep medication, designed and manufactured specifically for their bodies, that gave them vivid dreams so realistic they engaged all their senses.

Autumn had hated those dreams. Until last night. Before, she’d dreaded them because she’d woken disoriented and afraid. But this time, she’d opened her eyes with this sense of wonder and a feeling that the dreams were not at all what they seemed.

Cheryl patted Mara’s hand. “The pain meds should kick in shortly.” She shot Autumn a look. “You have ten minutes, and then this young lady needs to rest.” Then the nurse bustled out of the room, the soft-close door shutting silently behind her.

Mara adjusted herself again, wincing. “You’ll feel better in a few minutes,” Autumn told her.

Mara nodded, but her expression remained pained.

“I had one of the running dreams last night,” Autumn said, the words spilling out quickly, attempting to distract Mara from her obvious discomfort until the medication started working.

If it started working. Because they’d been on every drug imaginable since birth, their tolerance was sky-high.

Finding the right dose that would ease their pain without putting them in a coma was a challenge the doctors sometimes failed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mara said.

Mara knew the dream too. They’d all had a version of it.

Likely because they were all highly suggestible and had no personal knowledge of regular life.

The only things they knew intimately were each other, the hospital and its grounds, and the woods beyond.

They seized on the experiences spoken of by others, even dreaming similar dreams. Certain materials were banned at Mercy because they brought on terrible nightmares that felt far too real to ADHM kids—horror movies, ghost stories, even tearjerkers.

Once, a girl named Gracie, who was new at Mercy, had told them how she’d found her mother dead in the bathtub, and that night, they’d all dreamed about it in some form.

Autumn’s dream had featured a creature with hanging skin emerging from a murky lake.

“No. That’s the thing. It was the same dream, only…different. Better. ”

“Better?” Mara’s eyes lit with a small spark of interest. “What do you mean?”

“I got caught. ”

Mara blinked, her mouth forming a small O. “And that was…better?”

“Yes. Because of who caught me.”

Mara pulled herself up on her pillow, and though she flinched, the expression was slight, and it smoothed out as she lay back down. “Tell me.”

Autumn described the incredible way he looked.

“He sounds like a monster!”

Autumn laughed, but it faded quickly, her brow wrinkling. “Yes…but no.”

“What did he do?”

“He just stared at me like he didn’t know what to do.”

Mara’s eyes began to droop, her shoulders lowering as her body relaxed into the mattress.

Autumn exhaled a sigh of relief. Sleep, Mara. Heal.

“If that’s all that happens, then we should all stop running in our sleep.” Mara’s eyes fluttered once and then fell shut. “Maybe I’ll dream of the monster too. And if I do, I’ll take your lead,” she murmured, the words floating away as her hand went limp.

Autumn moved a piece of hair off Mara’s cheek.

The blanket had slipped aside, and she saw the heavy surgical bandages.

She also saw the lumps beneath her gown she knew were tumors.

Hopelessness descended. Mara would need a miracle to survive.

So it was with less hope that Autumn took her next breath, knowing that it was only a matter of time before she’d have to say goodbye to another friend.

Autumn stood slowly, allowing her body to adjust to the change in position, and then made her way to the door.

A nurse guided an old woman toward the elevator.

Someone’s grandmother—a few of those visited occasionally.

She was weeping. She’d just received bad news. There was no lack of that at Mercy.

Autumn grasped her hands together, her head tilting as she caught sight of something on the side of her thumbnail.

She brought it closer, frowning, using the nail of her index finger to remove the dark substance embedded.

She stared at it, then rubbed it between her fingers, feeling its gritty texture.

Dirt. She’d had dirt under her thumbnail.

Dirt that had been deep enough under her nail that she’d missed it when she washed up that morning.

How was that possible when she lived in what could only be described as one of the most sanitized “homes” there was? She lived in a hospital where not even a speck of dirt existed.