Chapter 9
JILLIAN
The news hits like a slap.
“Carson is dead,” Grady says, voice flat, jaw squared like he’s clenching back rage or maybe just protocol. “Killed by the Odex.”
The words hang in the air like smoke. Thick. Heavy. Wrong.
My knees nearly give out, but I don’t fall. I can’t. I’ve fallen before, in training, in simulations, but not here. Not now. Not when everything’s spinning and shrinking and burning inside me all at once.
I hear a whimper from one of the girls behind me—Myra, maybe. Someone sobs. Someone else throws up. The camp’s silence fractures into broken noise—sharp and uneven. Darwin stumbles back, hand over his mouth, eyes glassy. Grady doesn’t flinch. He stands like a stone. Cold. Unmoving.
I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into my ribs, but not for comfort. To ground myself. Because if I don't, I’ll scream. And not for Carson.
For the lie.
It’s not the grief that turns my stomach—it’s the disbelief. The hollow ring of the accusation. “The Odex.” As if that explains everything. As if Carson hadn’t been afraid. Hadn’t come to me shaking. Hadn’t whispered that something was wrong.
The compad. I feel it even now in my satchel. Heavy. Burning. Like a secret that knows it's time is almost up.
I don’t say anything.
Not yet.
Darwin inches toward me, still wringing his hands. He always does that—like he’s trying to squeeze out guilt through his skin.
“Jillian,” he says, voice small. “I’m… I’m so sorry. He was your friend.”
I nod. Just once. Let my eyes go glassy. Let my breath hitch. It’s not a lie, not really—I am sorry. Just not for the reason he thinks.
Darwin’s gaze flicks sideways, toward Ciampa’s office. The professor hasn’t emerged yet. That’s odd. He’s usually first on the scene when there’s attention to grab or a camera to preen for. But now?
Now he’s quiet.
And when he does come out, his eyes are too dry.
“Such a tragedy,” he says, smooth and calm. “We must stay strong. Carson would have wanted us to persevere.”
I want to scream. Don’t you dare tell me what Carson wanted.
I force my mouth into a trembling line. Let one tear fall. Just one. It’s enough. Enough to satisfy the narrative.
Ciampa walks among the group like a pastor at a funeral, offering platitudes with gentle pats and falsely weighted words.
No one notices how little he’s affected.
Or maybe they do, and they just don’t want to see it.
He looks relieved. Like a variable has resolved itself. Like this is all… manageable.
And Darwin, gods bless him, still follows in his wake like a loyal shadow.
I turn away.
Behind my eyes, I see Carson. Not the mangled body. The boy. Nervous and overeager, always asking questions with one hand half-raised even when nobody was calling on him. He made terrible coffee. Always tripped over his own feet. And he believed me. Believed in me.
He warned me. “If something happens to me…”
It did.
And now it’s my turn.
But not yet.
I bite my cheek until I taste blood, and let the pain steady me.
I have to be smart. Carson’s compad is still hidden. I haven’t opened it yet. Don’t even know what it holds. But I will. Tonight. When everyone’s asleep or sedated by grief or rage or whatever twisted comfort Ciampa pumps into them next.
For now, I cry when they cry.
I kneel with the others when they form the vigil ring near the burned-out comms pole.
I listen as Grady paces and plans and tells us all the Odex will be hunted, that the perimeters will be double-guarded, that we are not safe until that “beast” is put down.
I nod when I’m supposed to.
I say nothing.
But my mind is already moving in a different direction.
And gods help them all if they’re wrong about the monster.
Because they’re hunting the wrong one.
Tonight, I don’t leave a cookie.
I don’t whisper half-hopeful nothings into the dark like a fool trying to summon kindness from a nightmare. I just stand there, just beyond the camp’s outermost beacon, where the ground turns jagged and wrong, and I let the silence swallow me.
One word slips from my mouth.
“Why?”
The wind doesn’t answer.
Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.
But I ask anyway. Because Carson’s gone, and everyone’s pretending that his death makes sense, that it was simple. Monster attacks boy. Monster flees. Marines rally. The end. Easy, tidy, tragic.
Bullshit.
I lean into the wind until it stings my cheeks. I want it to burn. I want something real, something sharp. Grief is too soft. Too slow. Anger’s better.
No one sees me when I return to my bunk. They’re all curled into grief rituals or revenge fantasies. I slide the compad from beneath my mattress like I’m peeling back a scab.
It boots up fast—Carson’s encryption is clean. Nervous kid, but brilliant. The files are messy, tucked into hidden folders layered under innocent ones—notes on mineral composition, survey logs, academic bullshit. But I dig deeper. Crack past the surface.
Then I find them.
First: A spreadsheet.
Lines and lines of lab data. At first glance it looks legit, but then I see it—time stamps don't line up. Some logs are duplicated. Others overwritten. Calibration numbers that don’t match the input samples. It's forged. All of it. Designed to mimic legit research but built on sand.
Second: Sensor logs.
Water sensors rerouted. Why? That doesn’t even make sense until I follow the trail—our real water sources never get pinged. They’re reporting to a dead feed. Which means something else is being used. Something not listed in any official manifest. Maybe Carson was close to figuring out what.
Third: Safety alerts.
Or rather—the lack of them.
Carson found evidence that the perimeter sensors had been tampered with. One string of code runs like an automated flush every twelve hours, wiping out any movement logs from the last cycle. No alerts. No flags. No record of the stingtail migrations. No record of anything... including an Odex.
And then I find it.
An audio file.
Buried under two dummy backups. I almost miss it. It’s unlabeled. Just static at first. Then...
Ciampa’s voice.
“As long as no one else dies,” he says, slow and deliberate, “they’ll keep sending funds.”
That’s it.
That’s it.
My throat goes dry. My hand clamps over my mouth. It’s like being punched in the ribs while underwater—shock without breath. I replay it three times. The inflection never changes. No remorse. Just calculus.
Ciampa knew.
Not suspected. Knew. And still he let us come. Still he sent us into the field. Still he smiled and raised a toast at orientation like we were some fresh crop of saplings ready for harvest.
My stomach churns.
And suddenly I can’t sit anymore. I bolt outside again, this time barefoot and shaking. The gravel tears at my feet, but I don’t care. The chill bites through my shirt, but I welcome it.
The beacon lights buzz and flicker behind me. The perimeter is quiet. For now.
I glance to the cliffs.
I don't say anything out loud.
But if he’s listening—if he’s still listening—I hope he knows.
I believe him now.
And he’s the only one I trust.