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Then the silence broke once more. “You don’t want to know why you keep getting sick.”
I narrowed my eyes at the back of Antonio’s head. “I think I do.” The acid started pooling in my stomach. He had already told me I wasn’t being poisoned by that damned Isolda.
“Fine. You used to take pills, no? Every day?” he said at last.
My brows furrowed. “¿Las pastillas negras?”
He grunted.
I quickened my pace so that I was no longer staring at the back of his head. His face was severe, clearly painted with regret. Why?
He met my eye when he said, “Those are a kind of suppressant.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
He shook his head. “There is nothing that can prevent the Withering. It’s too complex, too pervasive.”
I listened intently. What he said made sense; they were too small for a sickness so all-encompassing.
“Since there is no cure, no real preventative measure, that left the Canciller and other officials in a bad spot. So they created something that would suppress a person’s immune system, slowing the effects of the Withering and not preventing it. Rashes appear more slowly, and they spread at a more controlled rate.”
I kept staring at Antonio’s face, but my eyes unfocused. “Perdón. ¿Qué?”
All the things about incubation periods, about symptoms, checks, health advisories, about taking our pills daily. That was all a lie?
His expression was carefully blank. “You are having withdrawals. The pills you take every day slow your body’s reaction to where you don’t know when you are sick or not. They deteriorate your body, and can make other sickness worse. It’s not lethal to everyone, but…” he trailed off.
It was lethal to some people.
My brain refused to wrap my head around it, that we were being numbed and killed off quietly. It didn’t take long before I was thinking of every person I knew. The endless measures, the endless visits with the Médicos, all for nothing.
It sounded a little like population control.
Magda was taking poison while we spoke.
My breathing changed. If I was having problems now, did that mean I had the Withering?
I had no rashes. No fever.
I stopped walking.
Did Magda have the Withering?
The world started spinning out of control.
“Carmen,” Antonio said as he approached. He moved toward me like a wounded animal that might lash out. But, to be fair, I probably was acting like that.
Anger was building up inside of me, crawling up my throat and emitting waves in the surrounding air. These people were monsters.
All of them.
Antonio came near, and I snapped. My gloved hands turned into claws and I went for his face.
“Shit,” he cursed and backed up.
“You are evil!” I screeched, lunging towards him again.
He grabbed my forearm and squeezed as I fought against him. I was strong, but he was stronger. My breathing turned ragged, but I started kicking. When I hit him in the kneecap, he buckled. The roar that came out of him was ugly.
