The Fearless

by Emma Pass

Genres: YA Fantasy; YA Romance

Synopsis

For fans of The Hunger Games, Matched, Divergent, and The Fifth Wave, this fast-paced futuristic thriller tells the story of seventeen-year-old Cass and her fight to protect her younger brother from an unimaginably terrifying enemy.

The Deadliest Enemy feels no fear.

Cass has the invasion seared in her memory—the night the Fearless injected everyone in their path with the same serum that stripped them of their humanity. Seven years later, she is living on Hope Island in a community of survivors. But when the island’s security is breeched and her brother, Jori, is taken by the Fearless, Cass will risk everything to get him back.
 
“A super super creepy, action-packed adventure that’ll have you hooked from page one.”—Kate Ormand, author of Dark Days
 
“I could read it over and over and over again.”—TheGuardian.com
 
“A fun and fast read that will appeal to lovers of zombie invasions as well as books that feature strong females in a dystopian setting.”—SLJ
 
“Enjoyable shocks and thrills, and the characters are excellent . . . a masterful piece of writing.”—hierath.wordpress.com
 
“Awesome from start to finish. . . . Exhilarating, terrifying and nail-biting.”—adreamofbooks.blogspot.com
 
“A magnificent YA apocalypse.”—betterbooksandthings.tumblr.com

Release date: April 14, 2015

Publisher: Delacorte Press

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter 1
When I was ten, the world ended.
It was the summer holidays. Dad, who worked as a surgeon at a hospital in the next town, had a few days off, so after tea, we went out for a walk. “Dad, wait!” I called as he strode up the hill. He stopped, and I hurried to catch up.
“Sorry, Cassie-boo,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t call me that. I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“As if I could forget,” he said, smiling slightly as he added, “Cass.”
We climbed to the top together and stood looking at the view while we caught our breath, our shadows stretching across the dry, silvery grass. Blythefield Hill was the highest point in the landscape for miles around, and below us, I could see our village and the beautiful Hampshire countryside that surrounded it, bathed in August evening sunshine.
Usually, I loved going for walks with Dad. He knew the names of all the plants and animals, and where to pick blackberries in autumn where no one else went. He knew where badgers built their setts in the woods at the top of our lane, and the best time of night to sit quietly and wait for them to come out. Mum normally came with us, but now she was eight months pregnant, her feet were swollen all the time, she still felt sick most days, and the doctors said she had to stay at home and rest.
But that evening, it wasn’t wildlife or my baby brother I was thinking about while Dad and I stood on top of the hill. Instead, my thoughts kept returning to the newspaper I’d found last night while I was sorting the recycling.
Mum and Dad had been in the front room, Mum watching TV and Dad checking emails. We kept the recycling box in a kitchen cupboard to stop our cat, Kali, from getting into it, and when I pulled it out I saw the newspaper wedged behind it. Assuming it had fallen out of the box, I picked it up. Dad used to buy a paper every day on his way back from work, but lately, he’d stopped--or so I’d thought. This one was dated from a week ago. THOUSANDS OF CITIZENS FORCED TO FLEE AS FEARLESS INVADE FRANCE, the headline shouted.
I sat down and began to read, my gaze skimming over words like carnage and rising death toll and unstoppable and pain. A sick, cold feeling started in the pit of my stomach and coiled up into my chest. As I turned the page and saw the pictures--piles of bodies, ruined buildings--my hands were trembling. The worst was one of a skinny, ragged-looking man in an army uniform with horrible wounds on his face and head, his clothes soaked in blood. He was grinning at the camera, his expression crazed and twisted, his eyes a weird silvery color, and even though it was only a photo, you could see they were filled with hate and madness. Underneath was a stark caption: The face of the Fearless.
I heard footsteps coming towards the kitchen. Leaping up, I shoved the paper into the recycling box and turned to face the door, my heart hammering. “Are you all right?” Mum said as she came in to get a glass of water. “You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. I knew that whoever had stuffed that paper behind the box--Dad, I reckoned--hadn’t wanted me to see it. I tried to smile at Mum, although it was the last thing in the world I felt like doing, and took the recycling outside.
That night, I had a terrible dream about a man with silver eyes. I shouted myself awake, bringing Dad running into my room. But when he asked me what was wrong I said I’d had a nightmare about a monster. I was scared that if he knew I’d read the newspaper, he’d be angry.
Now, though, standing on the top of the hill with Dad, I couldn’t keep my worries to myself any longer. I’d carried them around inside me all day, and they were getting bigger and bigger.
“Ready to head back?” Dad asked.
“Dad,” I said. “What’s happening in France?”
His face immediately grew serious. “Where did you find out about that?”
I told him about the newspaper.
He sat down on the soft, springy grass, and patted the ground beside him. “There have been wars going on in the Middle East for a long time,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “Our army has been fighting over there, and when our soldiers come home, a lot of them suffer terrible problems because of all the horrible things they’ve seen there. It’s known as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder--PTSD. Our government paid for some scientists to invent a drug that would stop this from happening. At first, the drug was very successful. Not only did it dramatically reduce the number of soldiers suffering from PTSD, but it meant they could fight better while they were out there.”
He hesitated for a moment, then went on. “But then it was discovered that the drug had a devastating side effect. The soldiers who’d taken it--and by now, there were thousands of them--stopped feeling fear altogether. They started doing terrible things. At the same time --no one’s sure how--the enemy got hold of the formula for the drug and made an even more concentrated version of it, so the side effects kicked in immediately. And then . . .” He swallowed, shifting position slightly and plucking at the dried grass, tearing a clump up and twisting it between his fingers. “And then they started forcing it on anybody and everybody. Even . . . even people who aren’t soldiers.”
My stomach lurched. “Are those . . . the Fearless?” I said, remembering again the man with the silver eyes who’d stalked me in my dreams.
Dad nodded.
“But why couldn’t our army stop them?” My heart was beating faster and faster.
“They’re trying,” Dad said. I noticed he wouldn’t quite meet my gaze.
“So how come the Fearless are in France?” France was close --we’d been to the Dordogne on holiday last year. “Will they come here?”
“No,” Dad said firmly. “We’ll be all right. There aren’t going to be any Fearless here. The government and the army are making sure of that.” He gave me a quick hug. “Please don’t worry about it, sweetheart, OK?”
By now, the sun was dipping towards the horizon, streaking the sky with gold and pink. “Dad,” I said as we stood up.
“Yes?”
“Can Sol come over after my riding lesson tomorrow?”
“I don’t see why not. Come on. We should head back. Mum’ll be wondering where we are.”
“Race you down the hill,” I said. The path we’d just climbed was wide and flat, perfect for sprinting.
“OK,” Dad dropped into an exaggerated crouch, like an athlete about to run a race. I assumed the same position, giggling.
Then, behind us, I heard a blasting roar, so sudden and deafening that Dad and I both jumped and ducked. As the sound streaked overhead I saw, already way off in the distance in front of us, the black arrowhead silhouette of a fighter jet flying south. Another went over, then another, and another. Then a dull, low thudding filled the air. Following the jets was a line of huge helicopters with two rotors; I counted five, seven, ten. The sound made the air vibrate around us.
Dad’s mobile rang. He put it to his ear. “Clare, are you OK?” he said. He listened for a moment, and all the color drained out of his face. He ended the call. “We need to get home, now,” he said.
“Dad, what’s--” I started to say. He grabbed my hand. We pelted down the hill, going so fast that my feet tangled and I almost fell over. By the time we got to the road and the Welcome to Blythefield sign, my chest was burning, but another formation of fighter jets streaking overhead kept me moving. The streets were empty, and eerily quiet.
When we reached our house, which was tucked away up the lane at the edge of the village, Mum was waiting for us at the front door. She was clutching her bump, her hair standing out around her head in a tangle of flame-colored curls, and for one horrible moment, seeing her pale face and tear-filled eyes, I thought the baby was coming early.
“What’s happened?” Dad asked frantically. “I couldn’t hear you properly over the helicopters.”
Mum hustled us inside, locking the door behind us. All the curtains were drawn and the blinds were down, even though it was still quite light outside. Kali appeared from the kitchen and began winding around my ankles, meowing; I picked her up, burying my face in her sleek, coal-colored fur.
“I’d turned it on to watch the news,” Mum explained, pointing at the TV, “and the screen went blank. Then that came on.”
Dad and I both looked at the same time. On the screen, there was a message, white writing on a black background.
“Oh, God,” Dad said.

Chapter 2
I stared at it. I understood what it was saying, yet I couldn’t make sense of it. I kept thinking about what Dad had told me up on the hill: There aren’t going to be any Fearless here. The government and the army are making sure of that. “What’s happening?” I asked, my voice thin and high with fright.
“I don’t know.” Dad grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels. They were all showing the same message. He turned the TV off and grabbed the laptop off the coffee table. I watched him try to connect to the Internet. The same message flashed up on the screen.
“What the hell?” he murmured.
“What about the radio?” Mum said.
Dad fetched them. We had two--a brand-new digital one and an ordinary one. When he turned the digital one on, there was nothing but a low hum. The ordinary one crackled and hissed; he switched it from FM to AM, twisting the dial. I heard a burst of sound--a voice. It startled Kali, who wriggled out of my arms and darted out of the room.
“What was that?” Mum said.
Dad turned the dial again, more slowly this time. Out of the hiss of the static, the voice emerged. It was a man, talking very fast, his voice high and panicked. “. . . here,” he was saying. “They reached the coast an hour ago and it’s carnage. I don’t know if anyone can hear me, but I’m in Dover, at . . .” Another burst of static obscured his words. “. . . and I’m using this . . .” More static.
“How’s he doing that if the radio stations have stopped broadcasting?” Mum said.
Dad shook his head. “Maybe he’s got some sort of police radio.”
The man’s voice rose out of the static one last time. “. . . to send this message to warn you. The Fearless are here! There are thousands of them! And they . . .” Then the static grew to a buzz, and no matter which way Dad turned the dial, he couldn’t find the man again. He switched the radio off.
I didn’t cry easily, but I felt a tear leak from the corner of my eye and trickle down my cheek. “What’s happening?” I said.
“Sweetheart, I don’t know.” Dad’s face was grim. He took his mobile out of his pocket and dialed someone’s number, then cut the call. “That’s gone now too.”
“What about the landline?” Mum went into the kitchen, and came back a few moments later holding the handset. She shook her head. She was breathing fast, her hand on her stomach.
The doorbell went.
“Wait here,” Dad said. He went into the hall. I heard the chain on the front door rattle, then voices--familiar voices.
“Sol!” I cried, running into the hall as Dad let Sol and his parents into the house.
Dad showed them to the living room. Mr. Brightman limped across to one of the armchairs and sat down with a grunt, sticking his left leg out. Two years ago, he’d been in a terrible car accident. He was rushed to Dad’s hospital, and it was Dad who’d operated on him and saved his life.
Mrs. Brightman perched in the other chair, her mouth pinched into a thin line. As always, her blond hair was sleek and gleaming, her clothes, a cream blouse and white trousers, immaculate.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Mum asked Mr. Brightman.
Mr. and Mrs. Brightman exchanged glances. “Perhaps we should send the kids upstairs for a bit,” Mr. Brightman said. “There’s something we need to talk to you and Pete about, Clare.”
Mum turned to us. “Why don’t you and Sol go up to your room, Cass?” she said in a too-bright voice. “I’ll bring you up some biscuits and juice as soon as we’ve finished.”
I glanced at Sol. I felt as if I was on the verge of tears again. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fighter jets and the helicopters. I knew that they were connected to that message on the TV, and the man on the radio. The Fearless are here!
“Kids, upstairs, please,” Dad said, going over to the door and opening it for us.
“But, Dad--” I wanted to know what was going on. I needed to know.
“No arguing, Cassandra,” Dad said in his best I-mean-it voice. He watched us go up the stairs. As we reached my bedroom, I heard him go back in the living room and close the door.
“Did you see those planes and helicopters go over earlier?” I asked Sol as he sat down on my bed. Kali padded in and jumped up beside him, but he ignored her and nodded solemnly.
It was getting dark now. I switched on the light and went to the window, where I stood for a moment, looking out at the shadowy garden before whisking the curtains closed. The room looked exactly the same as it had when I woke up this morning: the walls the same shade of pale duck-egg blue, the desk in the corner comfortably cluttered with books and pens and the beginnings of a patchwork cushion me and Mum were making. Hound, the worn brown-and-white toy dog I’d had since I was a baby, was still sitting on the end of my bed, one ear sticking up and one flopping down as always. But nothing looked familiar. I didn’t feel as if I belonged anymore.
“We should go down and listen,” Sol said.
“What?”
He wrinkled up his nose, like he always did when he was worried, his freckles disappearing into the creases. “I heard Mum and Dad say something last night about moving away.”