Systematic (The System Series Book 2) Read online

  Systematic

  Book 2 in The System Series

  Andrea Ring

  “I’m trusting you,” I say softly. “I am trusting you with knowledge that people would chain me in a lab for. My girlfriend said I should try to meet you on neutral ground, get to know you, feel out what kind of people you and your husband are before I reveal myself. But honestly, that’s not me. Would you feel better if I’d stalked you and struck up a conversation at the coffee house? I don’t have time for that. I need help and I need it now.”

  “What exactly do you need help with?” she asks.

  “I’m a freak, Dr. Mullen,” I say. “I can produce that protein in my brain. I can regenerate any part of my body.”

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  FAQs

  Book Excerpt

  Under Water

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  I hang up the phone and replace Dad’s pillows. I leave his room and enter Vivian’s.

  Vivian breathes softly. Her heart monitor beeps quietly with every heartbeat. My own heartbeat pounds like a war drum in my ears.

  I sit in the chair next to her bed and look at her. Vivian is the reason I am here, in this room and on this earth. If things had been different for Vivian, I wouldn’t even exist.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for what you went through.”

  Vivian doesn’t respond.

  “I’m Michael’s son. Mikey. You knew him a long time ago. He says you loved him. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. It sucks.”

  I laugh at my own words.

  “I think I can help you.”

  I stand up next to the bed and fumble with the side rail. I finally get it lowered. I drag the chair closer to the bed and kneel on it. Leaning over, I take Vivian’s hand in mine. Her hand is warm.

  I take a deep breath.

  I lay her hand flat on the bed and place my palm over hers. It is not a perfect fit; my hand fits inside hers but doesn’t match up. I place my hand so that the tops of our palms line up, and each of my fingers is placed perfectly on top of hers. I press down.

  I will my skin to fuse to hers. My hand feels like it’s been dipped in fire, but I don’t dare mess with my nerves. I ride the pain and force myself to go on.

  Finally our skin is perfectly fused. I try lifting my hand, and Vivian’s is stuck to it. Her hand lifts enough with mine to bend at the wrist.

  I press our hands back down on the bed. Now comes the hard part.

  There is a skin barrier between us, and I have to pierce it. Maybe I should have cut both of us before I started this, but it’s too late. I’d have to cut us apart and start over. Too messy.

  Bone is the only way to go. I force my finger bone to grow out and down. It’s painful. I feel the bone tearing through muscle, tearing through skin, until it penetrates Vivian’s hand. The heart monitor beeps loudly, continuously. I pause to catch my breath, and the nurse rushes in.

  “Thomas, is everything alright?”

  I nod, placing my other hand over the one holding Vivian’s. There’s some blood, not a lot, but enough. I don’t want the nurse to see it.

  “We’re fine,” I say. “I’m just talking to her.”

  The nurse checks the heart monitor and smooths a hand over Vivian’s hair. “It’s good that you’re talking to her. She obviously likes it.”

  I want the nurse to leave.

  “I’ll let you know if anything happens other than her heart rate,” I say.

  The nurse nods. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone, then.”

  She does.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow with my free hand. The pain is difficult to think through.

  I have the opening to Vivian now, through our ring fingers. I switch from bone to nerves. I extend my nerves along the bone until they are deep in Vivian’s hand. I plant the nerve in the palm of her hand and fight the pain to sense what I can of Vivian.

  She is in pain, too. Her hand is crying out, ordering her to move away from the source of the pain. But her body is not responding. I connect my nerve to a couple of Vivian’s, then I trace those nerves up to her brain. I get as far as the top of her spinal cord. The nerve signal won’t go any farther. Vivian’s body is lacking the proteins necessary to carry the message on.

  I have the right protein. I picture it in my head as I flex my fingers, the protein that allows all the nerves to join up and the signals to travel. I have to get that protein inside Vivian.

  I force my body to produce that protein. It floods my brain, and I gasp out loud. All the signals my body is sending out are traveling at super speed, and I’m on sensory overload.

  I shake my head to clear it, but I can’t get rid of the proteins yet. I have to…do something. I have to send them into Vivian.

  It takes me a few minutes to get used to the onslaught of signals. And it leaves me light-headed. Feeling faint but purposeful, I gather all those proteins in my brain and send them on their way along my nerves. Down my neck to my spine. From the spine to my arm. Down my arm to my hand. Down my hand to my finger. Down my finger to Vivian.

  The next part is the trickiest. I can sense the nerves I’ve connected to, but the rest of Vivian’s body is a mystery to me. I do not have a direct connection to her brain. So I simply follow the network of nerves. It’s like following a rope in the dark. Hand over hand, you let the rope guide you, but you have little idea of where you are unless you reach a hand out to feel. So that’s what I do. I follow the nerve in her hand until I come to another one. I sense it. I’m in the meaty part of her palm. I follow that nerve down until I come to another at the top of her wrist. I continue on, following and sensing.

  When I hit a nerve connected to the muscle in her forearm, the monitor beeps loudly. I ignore it. I find that outside stimuli are becoming easy to ignore. I process them so fast that they are barely a blip on my radar.

  I notice that my breathing has become shallow and labored by the time I reach Vivian’s brain. I’m sensing a good portion of her body, the left side, at le
ast, and besides the pain I have caused and the lack of proteins, her body is healthy. As I penetrate the brain, I begin to sense her mood. It is curious. She knows something is happening, but she can’t yet feel what that is. I probe deeper into the frontal lobe, and Vivian and I both gasp aloud.

  The pain overwhelms her. I had a build up of it, and I knew what was happening and what to expect. Vivian did not. But she’s a seasoned Dweller. Before I can say a word, Vivian shuts down the nerves in her hand and arm.

  She opens her eyes and slowly rolls them in my direction. “Who?” she says.

  I’m in her brain. I know what she wants to say.

  “I’m Thomas Van Zandt, Michael’s son.”

  She tries to speak again, but her tongue is too dry.

  “I’m not…” I start to say, and then I realize that Vivian doesn’t know anything about what she’s been through. Her memory stops back at the Attic when Dad was still with her. I can’t explain everything to her now, and she shouldn’t hear it from me even if I could.

  “I’m your son,” I say, confirming her belief. “I’m trying to help you. You were lacking the protein necessary to come out of a coma. I’m giving you the protein.”

  Vivian nods in her head. You’re adorable, she thinks. Perfect. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you.

  Tears fill my eyes. I cannot believe that her first thoughts would be for me. Or her child.

  You look like Mikey, she thinks.

  “People tell me that,” I say, and my vision blurs.

  Vivian must be able to sense me, as well. She is suddenly alarmed. You’re sick, she says. Where is Michael?

  “Around,” I say, trying hard to remember where Dad is.

  You need to eat, she thinks. You need to eat now. Please. Call someone. Where is Dr. Sykes?

  “I don’t know,” I say, my words slurring at the end.

  Cut the connection, she screams in my head. Cut it now!

  I fight to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. “I’m not there yet,” I say. “Almost there. Need to get to the cerbllm.”

  My mouth isn’t working right.

  Vivian shuts down more of her nerves, but the process is slow. Her brain is not responding as quickly as she wants it to. But she’s making it difficult for me to work. I’m like a salmon fighting to swim upstream.

  I can no longer speak. So I think to her.

  Let me help you.

  No! she thinks. Not for me. Please! Not for me. She is sobbing in her head.

  I finally reach her cerebellum and repair the deadened parts of her brain. Some kind of chemical had saturated her brain cells and essentially numbed them. I regrow them. I restore them. I give her the power to create the protein on her own.

  I bring Vivian back to life.

  “No!” she screams out loud.

  And my heart sto….

  Chapter One

  I have perfect awareness, even if I am unconscious.

  Vivian is screaming, pleading with someone. “Save him! Save him, please!”

  The plea is heartfelt, so I won’t dismiss it, but sheesh. There’s no need to shout. I mean, I’m right here.

  I do a quick internal scan. Whoa—my body’s not in great shape. I’m low on, well, everything. Dehydration seems to be the culprit behind my heart stoppage, and the amount of calories I burned in the last fifteen minutes could keep a small army marching for days. And why the hell am I worried about any of that when I’m not getting oxygen to my brain?

  A funny “Pfffffftttt” comes out of my mouth as someone pushes on my chest. I giggle in my head. It’s like I just farted with my mouth.

  I try to draw in a breath, but my muscles don’t respond. At least my brain is getting oxygen now as the blood circulates, but if I don’t take a breath soon, that oxygen will run out.

  Someone puts a damp hand on my forehead and tilts my head back. Dry lips glue to my lips, and someone blows a deep breath into my mouth. Kind of gross if I think too hard about it, but I mentally heave a sigh. I’m getting oxygen.

  Lips are replaced with something rubber. I get breaths every few seconds in a pulsing rhythm.

  Guys, I appreciate the effort, really I do, but this is not a solution. Where’s an IV when you need one? I need electrolytes, a shot of Gatorade. Ice water would be good—my tongue feels like a piece of fruit leather from all these breaths. And YOW!

  I curse in my head as some idiot tries to stick the back of my hand with a needle. The needle slips and they miss the vein, I guess because my veins are partially collapsed from the lack of water in my system. I mentally grit my teeth as they try again.

  And suddenly I’m intubated and feel like I’m choking. This is supposed to help me breathe? Dear God, I can’t even swallow.

  I feel it when the magic electrolytes hit my bloodstream and start to circulate. Every cell in my body relaxes in relief. I ride the feeling. And THUMP!

  My heart beats.

  I still can’t open my eyes. I try to speak, but I can’t even grunt with the tube in my throat and my facial muscles are frozen in repose. I try to wave, anything to get someone’s attention, but my body’s having none of it.

  So I go to my brain and try to figure out where the disconnect is. There is none. My body is just moving and responding at a snail’s pace. It’s concentrating on feeding cells and distributing oxygen, and anything else I want it to do just has to wait.

  Did I tell you that patience doesn’t come naturally for me?

  ***

  A week later, without any will or warning, my eyes pop open.

  Chapter Two

  Ten years later…

  “Stop squirming,” I say, holding firmly to her finger. “You have to hold still.”

  “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” Tessa whispers, her eyes scrunched shut.

  I almost laugh. Honestly, it’s little more than a paper cut. Tessa’s acting like she cut off her finger.

  “You need something to bite down on?” I joke.

  Tessa frowns, her eyes still closed. Then she gropes for my free hand and sticks my finger in her mouth. She bites down lightly and growls.

  Wuh. Every thought in my head flies right out. All I can feel is her mouth, and then her tongue as it grazes the tip of my finger.

  “Are you done yet?” she asks around my finger.

  Oh. Right.

  “Uh, no. Hold on. I’m doing it now. It’ll sting a bit.” Tessa’s teeth clamp down, and I tell myself to be gentle and quick or I’ll be healing my finger instead of hers.

  I lay Tessa’s hand down on the kitchen table on a paper towel. I fish the Swiss Army knife I always carry out of my pocket and flick it open. Because I only have one free hand, I put the knife on the table and slide the pad of my index finger along the edge of the blade. I quickly press my wound to Tessa’s cut.

  I fuse my skin to hers, make a few quick nerve connections. Tessa gasps and her jaw clenches, but she’s careful not to bite too hard. Tessa’s platelets have already begun to clump together to help the blood clot, but I speed the process along, adding my own clumped platelets and triggering fibroblasts (basically, connective tissue cells) to transform into epithelia, or skin cells. I carefully disconnect my nerves as the skin cells grow and pull the nerves back into my own finger. I unknit our skin, repairing it as I disengage. Ten seconds later, we’re both healed.

  I grab the paper towel and wipe the blood off our fingers. “Can I have my finger back now?” I ask her.

  Tessa slits one eye open and spits my finger out. Darn. “Is it done?”

  “Good as new.”

  She brings her finger up to her face and examines it. “Amazing.”

  I grin at her. “Been practicing.”

  “I’ll say.” She leans in and gives me a lingering kiss. “Thank you.”

  I pull her against me and sigh into her hair. “You know, I think a proper thank you is in order.”

  Tessa laughs and bats at my wandering hands. She walks over to the pantry, opens the doors, an
d pulls out an energy bar. She tosses it to me. “Eat, and maybe I can thank you properly later.”

  I scowl, rip open the wrapper, and take a bite. “How’s it feel?”

  She rubs her thumb on her newly healed index finger a few times. “A little numb, but it doesn’t hurt.”

  “Nerve damage,” I say, mouth full. I swallow. “It’ll be fine in a couple of weeks.”

  “Wow. I mean, I’ve seen you do this so many times to yourself, but having it done to me? It’s unreal.”

  I shove the last bit of cardboard bar in my mouth and toss the wrapper in the trash.

  “So you have a lot of homework?” I ask her.

  “Pre-calculus and Spanish,” she says, nodding. “You?”

  “Just some reading,” I say, “but I can do it before bed. “

  “I wish I could do pre-cal in bed, but I need my brain to actually function.”

  “I’ll do your homework, and then we can catch a movie,” I say.

  Tessa laughs. “One time. I let you do my homework one time three years ago in a crisis, and now you think you can do it all the time.”

  “I can do it all the time.”

  “But you can’t take my tests for me. I have to be able to do them myself.”

  “Fine,” I say with a mock pout. “We’ll do homework.”

  Tessa smiles. “Thank you again.”

  ***

  Tessa goes home for dinner, and Dad comes home not long after that.

  “Good day?” he asks, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

  “Excellent,” I say, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I healed Tessa’s finger.”

  Dad freezes, his beer can resting against his lips. “You what?”

  “She cut her finger slicing an apple and I healed it.”

  Dad sets the can down on the counter and looks at me. “You weren’t supposed to do that.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I shrug. “I’ve been doing it on you almost every night.”

  “But I can heal myself,” he says. “If you screw something up, I can fix it. I can’t fix Tessa.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

  Time for the showdown.

  I grab a beer of my own out of the fridge and pop the top. Before I can take a sip, Dad swipes it from my hand.