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  ADVANCE PRAISE FOR ANOMALY

  “Anomaly grabs the reader and refuses to let go. From the introduction to misunderstood anomaly, Thalli, to the boy she loves, one is never completely sure what is fact and what is a horrifying virtual reality. This is sure to be a favorite of teens everywhere.”

  —Heather Burch, author of the critically acclaimed Halflings Series

  “A razor-edged look at the resilience of Christian faith, Anomaly is taut, high-stakes dystopia that grips on the first page and twists all the way through.”

  —Evan Angler, author of the Swipe series

  “Anomaly is a fabulous read! Krista McGee is a fresh and gifted voice in YA apocalyptic fiction. Excellent characters and an intriguing plot provide readers with great entertainment—as well as a call to go ‘outside’ themselves. I can’t wait for book two!”

  —Kathryn Mackel, author of Boost

  “A beautiful story that has me wondering if I would have the strength to be an Anomaly. Fans of James Dashner’s Maze Runner will love Krista McGee’s Anomaly.”

  —Jon Lewis, author of the C.H.A.O.S. trilogy

  ACCLAIM FOR KRISTA MCGEE

  “McGee’s debut novel is an absolute gem. Anyone who enjoys reality television and a well-told story shouldn’t hesitate to read this great book.”

  —Romantic Times TOP PICK! Review of First Date

  “[A] touching, fun, edifying, campy, quick and downright delicious teen read.”

  —USAToday.com regarding First Date

  “Good things come to those who wait—and pray.”

  —Kirkus Reviews regarding Starring Me

  “. . . an abundance of real-life problems . . . should keep this story relevant for many teens . . .”

  —Publisher’s Weekly review for Right Where I Belong

  ANOMALY

  OTHER NOVELS BY KRISTA MCGEE

  First Date

  Starring Me

  Right Where I Belong

  © 2013 by Krista McGee

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Published in association with literary agent Jenni Burke of D.C. Jacobson & Associates, an Author Management Company, www.DCJacobson.com.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McGee, Krista, 1975–

  Anomaly / Krista McGee.

  pages cm

  Summary: Living in a post-apocalyptic State that has supposedly eliminated emotions, Thalli is slated for annihilation by the Scientists when her carefully-kept secret that she is an anomaly becomes known, but when she becomes their test subject, instead, she learns that she may actually be part of a Creator’s greater design.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8872-1 (pbk.)

  [1. Emotions—Fiction. 2. Curiosity—Fiction. 3. Science fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M4784628Ano 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013002060

  Printed in the United States of America

  13 14 15 16 17 18 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my son, Thomas

  “I thank my God every time I remember you.”

  Philippians 1:3

  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

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds.

  That’s how long I have to live.

  The wall screen that displayed the numbers in blood-red letters now projects the image of a garden. The trees are full of pink and white blossoms, the green grass swaying a little in the wind. I hear the birds as they call to each other. I smell the moist soil.

  But the countdown still plays in my mind.

  Fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds.

  It isn’t really soil I smell. It isn’t really the garden breeze I feel on my face. That is simply the Scientists’ “humane” means of filling my bloodstream with poison, of annihilating a member of the State who has proven to be “detrimental to harmonious living.”

  The wall screen is beginning to fade. The colors aren’t as bright. The blossoms are beginning to merge together. They look more like clouds now. I don’t know if the image is changing or if it is the effect of the poison. I could try to hold my breath, to deny the entrance of this toxic gas into my body. But I would only pass out, and my lungs would suck in the poison-laced oxygen as I lie here unconscious.

  No. I will die the way I finally learned to live. Fully aware. At peace. With a heart so full of love that even as it slows, it is still full.

  Because I know something the Scientists refuse to acknowledge.

  Death is only the beginning.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I suppose I’ve always known something was wrong with me. I’ve never quite been normal. Never really felt like I fit. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried. In fact, I spent most of my life trying.

  Like everyone in Pod C, I was given a particular set of skills, a job I would eventually take over from the gene
ration before us.

  I am the Musician of Pod C.

  My purpose is to stimulate my pod mates’ minds through the instruments I play. I enable the others to do their jobs even better.

  And that is important because being productive is important. Working hard is important. I have always been able to do that. But being the same is also important.

  This is where I have failed.

  I started realizing this in my ninth year, the year my pod mate Asta was taken away. We were outside in the recreation field and our Monitor had us running the oval track. We ran nine times—one time for each year of life. This was part of our daily routine.

  Sometimes, I would like to say no. To just sit down, not to run. Sometimes I want to ask why we have to do this. And why we always do everything in the same order, day after day. Why couldn’t we run ten laps? Or eight? Or skip laps altogether and do something else? But I knew better than to ask those questions, to ask any questions. We are only allowed to ask for clarification. Asking why is something only I would consider.

  I am an anomaly.

  So was Asta. But I didn’t know it until that day. She always did what she was told, and nothing in her big black eyes made her appear to be having thoughts to the contrary. She was training to be our pod Historian, so she was always documenting what we were doing and what we were discovering. Her fingers could fly over her learning pad faster than any I’d ever seen. But that day, when we were running, she stopped. Right in the center of the track. I was so shocked that I ran right into her back, knocking her to the ground.

  “I apologize.” I reached for her hand, but when she looked up at me, I saw a yellowish substance coming from her nose. I had never seen anything like it. Her eyes were red and she was laboring to breathe—all of this was quite unusual. I pulled my hand back and called for the Monitor to come over and help Asta.

  But the Monitor didn’t help her. She looked down into Asta’s face and her eyes grew large. She pressed the panel on her wrist pad. “Please send a team to Pod C. We need a removal.”

  The Monitor motioned for me to finish my laps. No one else had stopped to see what happened. The rest of my pod mates simply ran closer to the edge of the track, eyes forward, completing the circuit.

  I stood and tried to run, but I did not want to run. I wanted to stay here, to help Asta. She looked . . . I do not know how to describe it. But whatever it was made my heart feel heavy.

  Berk ran up beside me. “You will never beat me.” His grin shook me from my thoughts. I was determined to beat Berk. He always thought he was faster, but I knew I could outrun him. So I picked up my pace. Berk did the same.

  We were on our fifth lap when I saw a floating white platform with four Medical Specialists land beside Asta on the grass inside the track. “Where will they take her?”

  “I don’t know.” Berk slowed a little. He was watching the medics lift Asta onto the platform, then wrap her in some sort of covering. “Maybe take her to the Scientists. They will help her.”

  Berk was going to be a Scientist. One of the Scientists who govern the State. That made him different—but in a good way. The Monitors never corrected him, and he was allowed to study any subject that interested him during the time the rest of us worked on improving knowledge in our specialty areas.

  I didn’t say anything else, but the image of Asta being taken away—removed—stayed with me. And somehow I didn’t think she was going to be helped. The look on the Monitor’s face was not the look she gets when one of us falls and scrapes a knee on the track. It was the look she gets when we do something we shouldn’t. But Asta hadn’t done anything wrong. She just had something wrong inside her.

  Like me.

  A few days later I asked the Monitor if Asta would be coming back. I had worked on how I would phrase that question for days. It could not sound like a “why.” It had to sound like I simply wanted information, clarification. I had to sound like my pod mate Rhen. Logical. Not emotional.

  “Excuse me.” I tried to ask with an air of indifference. “Will Asta be returning to Pod C?”

  The Monitor did not even look up from her communications pad. “No.”

  And that was all. I had to bite my lip to keep from asking why. I imagined all kinds of reasons. None of them made sense, and none of them, I knew, could ever be voiced.

  In the quiet of our cube, I asked Rhen, “What do you think happened to Asta?”

  But Rhen just looked at me like she did not understand the question. “She was removed.”

  And that’s all she needed to know.

  When I still couldn’t stop thinking about it, I asked Berk. We were back on the track several days after Asta’s removal. “If she went to the Scientists, why don’t they fix her and send her back?”

  Berk slowed his pace a little before answering. “Maybe they will keep her with them.”

  “But she’s our Historian.” I could argue with Berk. He actually enjoyed it, liked questions. “They already have one of their own.”

  “Whatever they are doing, it is right.” This is what we have always been taught. And, of course, it is correct.

  “But I want to see her.”

  “When I leave to live in the Scientists’ compound, I will tell her that.”

  That made me feel better. And worse. Better because I knew Berk would do what he said. Worse because I knew that when he did, I would lose another pod mate. I would lose Berk.

  I did not want to think about that.

  “I will win this time.” I pushed all thoughts of Asta from my mind and ran as hard as I could to the line marking the end of our circuit.

  I won.

  Berk left when we were twelve. It was very different from when Asta left. Lute, our Culinary Specialist, created a pastry that was huge and delicious. We are rarely given pastries—the Scientists say that we function best with vegetables and proteins. We are allowed fruit once a day, but pastries are only for special events: like Berk leaving us to begin his training with The Ten. One day he would be one of the leaders of our State, with a variety of specialties and more knowledge than any of us could imagine.

  I always knew he would have to go. But I did not want him to. Berk was the only one who understood me. He was the only one who would argue with me. He let me ask questions and did not think I was peculiar for having them.

  “Will you ever come back to visit?” Berk and I sat in the gathering chamber. Everyone else had returned to their cubes. But the Monitors allowed Berk to stay. And because they allowed Berk to do anything he wanted, they allowed me to remain behind as well.

  Berk shrugged. “If I can.”

  I knew then he would be just like Asta—gone forever. Suddenly, my throat felt tight.

  The lights flickered off.

  Berk groaned. “Power outage.”

  It happened often. Berk was sure he could help solve that problem. The solar panels, he said, were overtaxed. They needed to either add more panels or find a way to use less energy. When he got to the Scientists’ compound, he would make solving that problem his priority.

  Berk tapped his communications pad and the small square made enough light for me to see his face. He leaned close to me. “I have an idea.”

  I could smell the soap on his skin. His teeth glowed blue from the light his pad cast on his face. Berk took an eating utensil from his pocket, scooted off the sofa, and pulled me down with him. “No cameras.” He reached under the sofa, utensil in hand, and started scratching on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” I looked toward the door, making sure no Monitors were here to see this.

  “You will see.” His head was on the ground, his arm as far under the sofa as it could go. His other hand held his communications pad. I leaned down too, but his head was in my way and I couldn’t see what he was doing.

  Finally, he pulled his hand out and smiled a big grin. I would miss that grin. “Look.”

  I bent down and, in the blue glow of the communications pad, saw that he had s
cratched our names into the chamber’s hard floor.

  My eyes burned. I didn’t know what was happening, but it felt awful. Like my heart would explode and leak out, one drop at a time.

  “Is it that bad?” Berk’s face was in the shadows.

  A tear slid down my face and Berk wiped it away with his thumb. “I will always be here.” He pointed to our names, a secret testimony to our secret bond. Me, an abnormality, and he, a leader.

  The lights were back on—which meant the cameras were too. I stood and turned my back to the wall where the cameras were hidden. “Good-bye, Berk.”

  I went back to my cube and buried my head under my covers, trying to push down the emotions threatening to spill out, like the tears that dampened my pillow and the substance, so like Asta’s, that dripped from my nose. My heart felt like it was being ripped out. Berk was my best friend in the whole State. And he was gone. Forever.

  In the years since, I learned that when I am missing Berk or Asta, I can play my tears through my instruments. And the Monitors think I am just improving. They don’t know the truth. I play laughter and frustration. I play feelings I cannot define. But the music defines them for me. I don’t feel out of place when I am playing. I feel just right. I wish I could play all the time.

  But we have other responsibilities. Like right now. I am supposed to be in my cube, reading my lesson on the learning pad. I am in my cube. And I have my learning pad. But I am using it to write music instead. Sometimes notes come into my mind and I need to get them out, on the screen, so I can play them later. The Monitors see me doing this. I know they will come in and tell me to stop, to complete my lesson. I know this and yet here I am, fingers flying over my pad, getting as many notes on my program as I can before—

  “Thalli.” The Monitor arrives. She is the sixth Monitor we have had this year, although I know she has been here before. More than once. But the Monitors rotate every two months. The Scientists don’t want us becoming dependent on them. The Monitors are older than we are, from the generation before us, Pod B, and their lives will end before ours.

  Productivity is key, as is peace.

  The Scientists determined long ago that generations who live and die together will be more productive and more peaceful than those who live integrated with other generations. So we live only with our generation, seeing other generations only occasionally and only for short periods of time.