20. Taryn
CHAPTER TWENTY
TARYN
Islowed as the veterinary clinic came into view.
It wasn’t much to look at. A squat brick building sat behind a chain-link fence that leaned in places, the faded sign out front barely hanging on.
LINKIRK ANIMAL CLINIC
Only half the letters still clung to the weathered board.
Weeds had swallowed the parking lot, forcing their way through cracks in the asphalt until they reached my knees. Rusted shopping carts, probably stolen from the grocery store, lay on their sides beside a pickup truck with all four tires missing.
The front doors stood partially open.
A chill crept beneath my skin.
After all this time, something about abandoned buildings always felt wrong. As if they remembered the people who’d once filled them.
Beck squeezed my hand. “You good?”
I nodded, though the lie tasted bitter.
Were any of us good anymore? Harper was on the verge of becoming an infected, and one of us would have to put her down. Lila had been traded for fuel, fucking fuel, and who knew what was happening to her right now. Lane, Ethan, and the girls may have starved to death at this point.
No, I was far from good, but I was as good as I was going to get until we figured our shit out.
As soon as we stepped inside, the smell hit me.
Bleach.
Wet dog.
Dust.
Months later, the scents had faded into one another, but my enhanced senses still peeled them apart until I could almost picture each one lingering in the air.
The waiting room looked frozen in time.
A faded mural of golden retrievers chasing tennis balls stretched across one wall. Children’s coloring pages still hung beside the reception window, their corners curling with age. A fish tank sat against the far wall, the water long evaporated, leaving only a crusty white ring around the glass.
Leashes.
Chew toys.
A display rack of collars.
I paused. “Max, do you want a new collar?”
He moved closer when I called his name and sniffed around the reception desk.
“Leave the pretty red one for Mojo. That’s his favorite color.” Wren ambled closer and pulled it from the rack.
“Maybe you could pick out a matching leash and lead him around instead of carrying him in your pack,” Lucas smirked.
“You can’t put a chicken on a leash.” Wren shook her head in exasperation. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah, Teach,” Beck laughed. “Everyone knows that.”
Someone had knocked over a stand of dog food, and Max had wandered over, sniffing the pile. Torn bags spilled across the tile, and dried kernels crunched beneath our boots.
“I don’t think he should eat that.” I bent to pull my dog away, but Beck stopped me.
“He’ll only eat what's good. Let him feast.” He kissed the top of my head.
Wren had put the red collar on her one-eyed chicken, and I had to admit it complemented Mojo’s coloring.
“I’ve seen dogs lick a shitty diaper clean. A little moldy dog food won’t hurt him.” She pulled a mini Baby Ruth from her pack and stuffed it into her mouth.
I gagged at the thought, but before I could comment, Adrian yelled. “Taryn, get in here.”
When I walked into the room, Finley stood over Harper, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Blood collection tubes, syringes, microscope slides, and notebooks covered the stainless-steel table beside him.
He didn’t even look up when we entered. “I need everyone quiet.”
The room fell silent.
Adrian pulled me into his arms and whispered in my ear. “Don’t wander off without telling me.”
“Good luck with that,” Beck murmured as he grabbed my hand and interlaced our fingers.
Seeing Harper hooked up to a heart monitor surprised me. “How is that working without electricity?”
“It’s an old battery-powered unit.” Adrian kept his voice low. “We hit the jackpot with this place.”
“You hit the jackpot when you became my brother-in-law,” Wren whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
Adrian didn’t even bother to argue. “Yes, I did.”
Finley cleared his throat. He made eye contact with Wren, then nodded toward Rory. The little girl had attached herself to Max the minute he came into the room.
“Come on, little lady.” Wren grabbed Rory’s hand. “Let’s see if we can find some toys for Max.”
The dog in question trotted behind them, not wanting to let the little girl out of his sight.
Max had been a blessing from the moment we found each other, and I loved the old, scarred dog with my whole heart.
Harper looked as if she had fallen into a restless sleep.
“This probably won’t work.” Finley looked up at us.
The words settled over the room like a funeral shroud.
“But…” he exhaled. “It’s the first theory I’ve had that hasn’t fallen apart.”
Adrian dropped his arms from around me and stepped closer. “You’ve figured something out?”
“I think so.” Finley adjusted the microscope, then turned to face us. “Do you remember Dr. Mason?”
Adrian frowned before nodding. “The CDC researcher.”
“The one with the blood theory,” Finley said.
I looked between them. “I’ve heard you mention him before.”
Adrian nodded. “Before the CDC disbanded, Dr. Mason put out a memo explaining how he believed that blood type influenced how the pathogen behaved.”
Finley gave a tired smile. “He wasn’t wrong.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “The data he had was insufficient to find a solution.” His hand rested on the notebook stacked beside the microscope. “Mine isn’t.”
We stood there for a few moments in silence, soaking in his words.
Wren appeared in the doorway without Rory. “Rory is in the room next door. She fell asleep curled up next to Max.”
Finley nodded, then ran a hand down his face. “I started collecting blood samples from every enhanced survivor who was willing.”
Wren raised her hand. “I got a sticker.”
Despite everything he was going through, the corner of Finley’s mouth twitched. “You did.”
Even Lucas smiled.
Then Finley’s expression hardened again. “I’ve studied over sixty enhanced samples.”
My stomach tightened.
“Every single one showed the same thing.” Finley slid a microscope slide under the lens. “The pathogen doesn’t replace your blood.” He looked at each of us. “It changes it.”
Silence.
“The CDC believed blood type was one of the key factors influencing how the pathogen behaved in different people.” He shook his head.
“I think blood type only determines compatibility.” He picked up another slide.
“The meteor exposure created something… different.” He searched for the right word.
“A balance. The pathogen isn’t winning. But your bodies aren’t winning either. ” He met my eyes. “They’re coexisting.”
Adrian folded his arms. “A symbiotic relationship.”
Finley nodded once. “Exactly.” He pointed to each of us. “Our immune systems aren’t destroying the pathogen. They’ve adapted to it.” He swallowed. “Harper never had that chance.”
My gaze drifted to her pale face.
“The bite introduced the pathogen all at once,” Adrian surmised. “Her body is losing the fight.”
Finley inhaled slowly. “I’m going to give Harper what her body never had.” He paused so long that we thought he had finished speaking. “Time,” he said it so quietly we almost missed it.
Confusion crossed Beck’s face. “How?”
Finley continued. “I’m going to transfuse enhanced blood into her.”
Lucas frowned. “You think our blood will fight it?”
“No,” Finley shook his head. “I don’t think fighting it is the answer.”
He looked toward Harper. Her skin had taken on a grayish cast beneath the fever, and the lines spreading from the bite had already crept beyond the mark he’d drawn on her arm.
When he looked at us this time, there were tears in his eyes. “Our bodies learned to live with it,” he continued. “Harper’s is trying to destroy something it can’t beat. Every defense she has is turning against her while the pathogen spreads.”
Lucas glanced at the equipment covering the stainless-steel table. “So, what exactly are you doing?”
“I’m going to remove a portion of Harper’s blood and replace it with compatible enhanced blood.”
I swallowed. “What’s the catch?”
“Blood types. Enhanced blood still follows every normal transfusion rule. If I give Harper incompatible blood…” His jaw tightened. “I’ll kill her before the infection does.”
“Whose blood?” Beck asked, rolling up his sleeves.
Finley turned to grab his backpack. He unzipped the largest pocket and carefully pulled out a thick black binder.
The edges were worn soft, several tabs were bent, and dried blood stained one corner.
He set it on the stainless-steel table as if it were fragile.
“I have it all here.” Finley opened the binder, flipping through pages of cramped handwriting until he reached a section marked with colored tabs.
“When new survivors arrived at the settlement, I ran basic blood work on everyone and more extensive testing on every enhanced person willing to let me.” His fingers paused on a page.
“Blood type. Healing response. Cell counts. Anything I could measure.” He glanced up.
“I wasn’t about to leave months of research behind. ”
I looked down as he turned another page.
Names filled the binder. Some I recognized, others I’d never met during our short time in town.
Too many had a single word scrawled across the top in red ink.
Deceased.
My chest tightened.
Finley closed the binder and rested both hands on the stainless-steel table.
“After months of studying enhanced survivors, I don’t think blood type causes enhancement.
I think certain blood types make a person more compatible with whatever came down in those meteors.
But blood type isn’t the only factor. Something deeper in the body still determines the organism's acceptance—or whether it takes control.”
“Whose blood?” Lucas repeated Beck’s question.
Finley’s gaze found mine. “Taryn’s.”
Beck’s body went rigid beside me. “Why hers?”
“They’re compatible. Harper is AB negative.” Finley turned to Beck. “So is Taryn.”
Of course, we shared one of the rarest blood types in existence.
I could hear my father’s voice in my head. “Don’t do it, Taryn. Your survival comes first.”