The XY

ALSO BY VIRGINIA BERGIN

The H2O Series

H2O

The Storm

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Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 2017, 2018 by Virginia Bergin

Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by D. Elle

Cover images © laflor/Getty Images; Zdanka Darula/Shutterstock

Internal design by Travis Hasenour/Sourcebooks, Inc.

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

sourcebooks.com

Originally published as Who Runs the World? in 2017 in the United Kingdom by Macmillan Children’s Books, an imprint of Pan Macmillan.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Bergin, Virginia, author.

Title: XY / Virginia Bergin.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2018] | Summary: Sixty years after a virus wiped out nearly all men on earth, fourteen-year-old River finds a sick boy, Mason, and helps restore his health while learning dark truths behind the lies she has been told.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017020844 | (hardcover : alk. paper)

Subjects: | CYAC: Science fiction. | Virus diseases--Fiction. | Sex role--Fiction.

Classification: LCC PZ7.B452214 Who 2018 | DDC [Fic]--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017020844

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

The Global Agreements

A Beginning

Chapter 1: Consciousness

Chapter 2: Man

Chapter 3: Boy

Chapter 4: Protocol

Chapter 5: Unicorn

Chapter 6: Alarm

Chapter 7: XY

Chapter 8: Geography

Chapter 9: Poo

Chapter 10: Code of Honor

A Boy On Planet Girl

Chapter 11: Not Normal

Chapter 12: Boys Don’t Cry

Chapter 13: She-Wolf

Chapter 14: A Chat

Chapter 15: Sanitary

Chapter 16: Thump, Thump, Thump

Chapter 17: Stew

Chapter 18: Games

Chapter 19: Swamp

Chapter 20: Dreambird

Chapter 21: Harvest

A Decision

Chapter 22: Trade

Chapter 23: It Is Agreed

Chapter 24: Right and Wrong

Chapter 25: The Chill

Chapter 26: British Rail

Chapter 27: Pink and Blue

Chapter 28: Ascent

Chapter 29: Descent

Chapter 30: Words

A Note From the Author

A Conversation with the Author

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

Have you ever had a book dedicated to you?

No? Neither have I.

Let’s fix that.

This book is dedicated to:

_________________________________________

THE GLOBAL AGREEMENTS

1. The Earth comes first.

2. Every child is our child.

3. We reject all forms of violence.

4. We will all help one another.

5. Knowledge must be shared.

6. We Agree that we need to Agree.

7. Everyone has the right to be listened to.

To these Agreements, we are committed.

Signed on behalf of the people of the former nations of:

Afghanistan

Albania

Algeria

Andorra

Angola

Antigua and Barbuda

Argentina

Armenia

Australia

Austria

Azerbaijan

Bahamas

Bahrain

Bangladesh

Barbados

Belarus

Belgium

Belize

Benin

Bhutan

Bolivia

Bosnia and Herzegovina

Botswana

Brazil

Brunei

Bulgaria

Burkina Faso

Burundi

Cabo Verde

Cambodia

Cameroon

Canada

Central African Republic

Chad

Chile

China

Colombia

Comoros

Congo

Costa Rica

Côte d’Ivoire

Croatia

Cuba

Cyprus

Czech Republic

Denmark

Djibouti

Dominica

Dominican Republic

Ecuador

Egypt

El Salvador

Equatorial Guinea

Eritrea

Estonia

Ethiopia

Fiji

Finland

France

Gabon

Gambia

Georgia

Germany

Ghana

Greece

Grenada

Guatemala

Guinea

Guinea-Bissau

Guyana

Haiti

Honduras

Hungary

Iceland

India

Indonesia

Iran

Iraq

Ireland

Israel

Italy

Jamaica

Japan

Jerusalem

Jordan

Kazakhstan

Kenya

Kiribati

Korea

Kosovo

Kuwait

Kyrgyzstan

Laos

Latvia

Lebanon

Lesotho

Liberia

Libya

Liechtenstein

Lithuania

Luxembourg

Macedonia

Madagascar

Malawi

Malaysia

Maldives

Mali

Malta

Marshall Islands

Mauritania

Mauritius

Mexico

Micronesia

Moldova

Monaco

Mongolia

Montenegro

Morocco

Mozambique

Myanmar

Namibia

Nauru

Nepal

Netherlands

New Zealand

Nicaragua

Niger

Nigeria

Norway

Oman

Pakistan

Palau

Palestine

Panama

Papua New Guinea

Paraguay

Peru

Philippines

Poland

Portugal

Qatar

Romania

Russia

Rwanda

Saint Kitts and Nevis

Saint Lucia

Saint Vincent and the Grenadines

Samoa

San Marino

São Tomé and Príncipe

Saudi Arabia

Senegal

Serbia

Seychelles

Scotland

Sierra Leone

Singapore

Slovakia

Slovenia

Solomon Islands

Somalia

South Africa

South Sudan

Spain

Sri Lanka

Sudan

Suriname

Swaziland

Sweden

Switzerland

Syria

Taiwan

Tajikistan

Tanzania

Thailand

Tibet

Timor-Leste

Togo

Tonga

Trinidad and Tobago

Tunisia

Turkey

Turkmenistan

Tuvalu

Uganda

Ukraine

United Arab Emirates

United Kingdom

United States of America

Uruguay

Uzbekistan

Vanuatu

Venezuela

Vietnam

Yemen

Zambia

Zimbabwe

She is riding through the woods on what was once a road. The dotted white line that used to separate the comings from the goings is crumbling. The asphalt is slowly being destroyed by tree roots, and small plants—so strong—sprout up all over, wherever they can. In another few years, there won’t be any road left at all.

Too bad, so sad, bye-bye—that’s what her granmumma Kate (who refuses to be called Granmumma) says about all the things that once were and are no more. Too bad, so sad, bye-bye.

The horse, a gentle giant of a Shire horse the granmummas call My Little Pony (Milpy, for short), pulls a cartload of cider apples: small, hard, bitter things that will be fermented into some fun. The girl has a backpack stuffed with harvest produce on her back; it is easier to carry it than to have to clamber off and then back on the huge horse just for a drink of water.

Her name is River, and she is daydreaming about the exploration of outer space.

It is an autumn evening.

Dark is coming soon.

She is miles from home.

She feels no fear.

Why would she? There are no predators. No such thing as ghosts.

Fear belongs to another time. It lives on only in the memories of others.

She feels no fear at all.

Not even when she sees it: the body lying in the middle of the road.

• • •

She feels surprised. The surprise finds its way into her hands, and she pulls back on the reins the second she spots it, the body in the road. Then there’s alarm. A jolt of it. She knows right away it isn’t anyone from the village. She’s known them, all of them, her whole life, and this person is not one of them. But the jolt of alarm isn’t about that instant of seeing; it’s about whether the person is hurt.

She slips off the horse and runs to the body.

And stops.

It is breathing, this body. A stranger in strange clothes. Under a filthy white T-shirt, an enormous, black tick shape on it, a flat chest without even the tiniest of breasts rises and falls. One arm has a horrible gash on it, an open, oozing wound on which flies are feasting. Long, skinny-but-muscley legs in skintight, shiny, red leggings end in cloven hooves: weird, rubbery, black shoes with pockets for big toes. She looks back up to the place her gaze skimmed. There is lumpiness in the crotch. And she looks at the face of the stranger: smudged with dirt, beaded with sweat, and hairy—a substantial crop of wispy facial hair, more than any person she has ever seen. And she looks at the throat…where there is also lumpiness.

It snaps into her head: Adam’s apple. That’s what Kate calls that lump in your throat. Because… The why of it she can’t exactly remember. Too bad, so sad, bye-bye.

In the few astonished seconds she spends staring at that body, River imagines the most extraordinary thing: that this is an XY, a person born genetically male.

But that cannot be. It simply cannot be.

Seconds of astonishment. Seconds of extraordinary. Then River, who nearly always tries to do the right thing, and not just because that’s what her mumma would expect, does the right thing: FIRST AID.

#1: She checks for hazards. Nothing dangerous lying about—not even a sun-basking adder—and the power lines that followed this road hang broken and long dead, so no threat of electrocution. There is only a bad stink in the air—from diarrhea and vomit spattered nearby.

#2: She checks for consciousness.

WAKE UP! she yells, clapping her hands. WAKE UP!

A single puffy eyelid rises. A bloodshot eyeball rolls. A pupil pinpricks against the pretty red and gold of dappled autumn light, focuses and—

A BEGINNING

Chapter 1

Consciousness

The person leaps up, there’s a hand across my mouth before I can even scream, the other arm wrapped tight around me, and my brain is exploding—instantly—with shock and horror and fear and anger and confusion CONFUSION CONFUSION because who would just ATTACK another person and—

"Who’s with you? Huh?!"

The voice! Growling and sick and deep and broken and stinking.

MAN

MEN

MURDER

GUNS

WAR

KILL

Every strange and scary thing I’ve ever half heard said about XYs comes bursting into my head, but it cannot be. It cannot be.

"Don’t make me hurt you, junior!" vile breath threatens.

The grip tightens. The grip HURTS.

WHY would this person be doing this?!

WHY WOULD ANY PERSON DO THIS?!

So maybe this person is crazy, so maybe this person has taken drugs, so maybe whatever sickness this person has got is causing this madness—

"STOP IT!" My cry muffled wordless by a stinking, sweaty palm.

"Shuddup!"

I get shaken. I get squeezed. It HURTS. So who cares who this is and why? So NO WAY. So I kick. Kick, kick, kick. Boot against shin. Boot against shin. I get another shake and squeeze, then dragged back so fast my boots can’t get to shins, but I stamp down hard on a cloven hoof, and the stinking breath lets out a growl that ends in a moan of pain.

"DON’T MAKE ME HURT YOU."

Who would say a thing like that?!

I plant another kick back hard. SHIN!

There is a roar of pain. And words that roar louder:

"Stop-or-I-swear-to-God-I’ll-kill-you."

I go limp. It’s not that no one swears to God—some of the granmummas still do. It’s that no one, no one… Who would threaten to KILL a person?

You on your own?

The grip releases just a little—and I feel it: I feel how weak this person really is. One glance down at the bicep on the arm of the hand that’s pinned across my face tells me this body is used to hard work—but sickness trembles in those gripping arms.

Are ya? Well, are ya?!

I nod my head. My ribs hurt. My face hurts. My mouth is dry with fear and shock—but my eyes and nose? They’re running. With anger. I feel angry.

The strange, sick, nasty, wild person hesitates…then releases me.

I wipe the trail of tears and snot from my face.

I do a mile in six point eight. I press sixty.

I have no idea what this means. I have no idea how to respond.

"So don’t you bother trying to run, and you should definitely not bother trying to fight me. You will lose."

The creature wipes my snot off the back of its hand, looking up and down the forest road. Then it looks at me. Wait a second—have you got a transmitter in?! Your tag—

It lurches forward, grabbing my upper arms and squeezing them.

What, did they stick it in your leg? They did that to me once—

"Get off me!" I pull away as it grabs at my thighs.

Shut up! God, you little screecher! No wonder you’re not tagged. You ain’t even on T-jabs, are you? How old are you, kid? Hey! You’re okay now! Okay?

The insane question settles it. This person is an unknown kind of person. A person who hurts and scares and then asks how you are. A person I must get away from. I nod at it, sniffing hard.

Then quit with the blubbering, kid.

No one, not even Granmumma Kate, would tell another person to stop crying. Anyone who doesn’t know that is definitely an unknown kind of person. Maybe not even a person at all.

Name’s Mason, the creature says, holding out a hand.

Courtesy dictates a hand held out is a hand to be shaken, that the cheek of the person holding out that hand is to be kissed. I take the hand and, swallowing revulsion with my own snot, lean in to kiss.

"What the hell are you doing?!" it says, shoving me away.

It. That’s what this is. No human being I have ever met would behave like this.

"Where did you ’scape from anyway? You weren’t hell bound, was you? Come on! What unit you from? What d’you call yourself? I’m not gonna tell anyone, am I? Who’d I tell?! Why’d I tell?! How long you been out for? You don’t look that sick. Did you get proper sick yet? Where’d you get that horse from? I mean, that is an actual horse, right?"

I nod. I have to get away from it. I have to think. I have to stay calm—and keep it calm, that’s what I decide—because something in its ranting, in its questions asked with no wait for an answer, reminds me of my own granmumma, whose temper can feed like a fire on any sort of disagreement.

An actual horse… I thought they’d be smaller… it says, almost to itself, contemplating in amazement. How’d you even steal that?!

I just smile politely. The smile feels wonky on my face.

God’s sake… It grins at me. How are you alive, li’l thief? Hah. How’d you manage it? You’re a walkin’ freakin’ miracle, ain’t you? You got anything to eat and drink in that bag, have you? You got water? It holds out its filthy paw, its hand making gimme! baby grabs in the air. Come on now, little brother. Don’t hold out on me.

Little brother. Brother… I slide the backpack from my shoulders and it snatches it.

Siddown, bro, it tells me.

Bro? I crumple to the ground where I stand. It plonks itself down too—close. Grabbing-distance close.

See now, we gotta share and share alike, ain’t we? it says, ripping open the backpack. Us ’scaped ones, that’s what we gotta do. We’re brothers in the face of death now, brothers in the face of death… Oh, do NOT tell me you’ve been eating this stuff, it says, holding up a bunch of freshly dug carrots. KID! This is goddamn filthy jungle poison, that’s what. You eat this stuff, you’re dead in two seconds, not ten. Get me?!

It shakes the carrots in my face, then flings them aside. Soil still on them, but Milpy doesn’t care, comes plodding up to munch, cart trundling behind, and the creature jumps back to its hoof feet. It looks around, then staggers to grab a branch—a poor choice, so rotten looking it’ll probably crumble immediately, but still…Milpy, munching. No one hits her, not even Lenny. She just gets shouted at. She doesn’t often listen. I have no idea what Milpy would do if someone struck her—only that she would NOT like it.

No! I can’t help myself. She won’t hurt you!

The creature eyes the huge power of Milpy, chomping.

She’s just hungry!

That so? it says, watching Milpy crunch.

Painful seconds tick.

"That’s a she horse?" it asks.

I nod and watch the creature watch Milpy—Milpy watching it right back, her nostrils flared, scenting, her ears unable to decide between laying back in irritation (because—really!—what is this nonsense on the way home?!) and pricked, twitching, listening (strange it, strange smell, general strangeness). Still: fresh carrots?! Too good!

What’s that you got in that wagon anyway? it asks, pointing at the cart.

Apples?

It picks up an apple. It examines the apple. It bites it. It spits it out.

Brother, these ain’t apples! it says, shaking its head at me, wiping its mouth. A convincingly human look of disgust and pity on its face.

With watchful eyes on Milpy, it sits back down. Places that branch down on the road, and I can see, for sure, that it is rotten—orange-and-white fungus all over it, wood lice tumbling out, escaping from its broken ends. I’ve been hit by kisses harder than that.

It rummages again, trying the next compartment in the backpack. Pulls out a cloth-wrapped package, unwraps it.

And what is this? it asks.

How could anyone not know these things?! It’s sniffing the loaf of bread. My cousins’ gorgeous sourdough. Fresh baked.

Bread.

Don’t look like bread.

It sniffs some more, bites down slowly, tears away a mouthful. It chews, eyes on me.

’S disgustin’, it mumbles, but it keeps on chewing, biting off more, like it’s ravenous, while the other greedy hand searches, finds my water bottle, and…suddenly it tosses the loaf at me, and I catch it.

Regret that immediately: shows so clearly I am watching, alert.

It eyes me.

Why doncha take a little bite of that yourself?

Terror alone would stop me. I have also been stuffed full of cake at my cousins’ house, but I have got to get out of here, so I pull a chunk of bread off—away from the creature’s bread-mauling area—and take a bite.

It, Milpy, and I chew.

Me and Milpy are watching it.

It is watching us.

It unscrews my water bottle, sniffs…

Water, I whisper.

It glugs—and glugs.

Don’t taste right neither, it mutters—and my heart skips a beat as it pulls my knife out of the backpack. My good knife, my favorite supersharp blade that was given to me by Kate. Belonged to my great granpappa.

It releases the blade—seems to know just how—and holds it up. The blade of the knife shines true in the late, dying sun.

I feel my whole body tense up so hard any fearful shaking stops.

Was you thinking to stab someone, little brother? That what you was thinkin’ of?

That’s a thing men did, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve heard. Kate says women did too, but Mumma says there are statistics. Men stabbed people, shot people, killed anyone. Prisons rammed full of them and still they did not stop.

’Spect you’d like to stab me right now, eh?

It makes a tutting sound and waggles the knife at me.

It ain’t the way, li’l brother. It ain’t the way. I mean…I guess sometimes it maybe has to be the way, right? We’ve all seen that. But—

Something in the backpack catches its eye. It pulls it out, the jar of honey, holds it up with a puzzled look.

Honey.

Think so?! I’ve heard of that!

It drops the knife—blade open—on the other side of its body and manages to get the jar open. Scoops out a fingerful and sniffs it. Looks suspiciously at me.

You first, it says, offering the fingerful.

Its hands… They are so filthy.

It grunts. Brother, we are both gonna die anyways, it says, honey running down its finger. Welcome to the jungle.

With my mouth, I take the honey from its finger.

The touching of it, the creature, makes me shudder.

That good, huh? it says and delves another filthy finger into the jar, shoves it into its mouth, and sucks it.

Its eyeballs roll back. Sweet! it says. "That is good, ain’t it? So, kid, you gonna talk to me?"

I can see huge beads of sweat popping out on its forehead. I am sweating too. My sweat is fear; its sweat is sickness—pouring out of it. It keeps eating though, grabbing the bread back, dipping chunks into the honey jar, swigging at the water—and all the while mumbling talk and questions at me. I don’t answer. I see streaks of blood in the bready mix of chewed-up food in its mouth, and it winces when it swallows, rubbing at its throat. And its stomach? I hear loud gurgling and churning, smell the stink of vile farts.

"So how come you ain’t sick? I been loose FIVE WHOLE DAYS—got sick DAY ONE. Had to drink goddamn filthy water got green stuff growing in it. Green stuff! Veg-et-able material growing in the freaking water! Brother, come on, might as well name your unit—and don’t go telling me you’re Alpha material, because I know a Beta boy when I see one…but how come you ain’t on the T-jabs? You oughtta be by now! Kid, you got X-S body fat. X-S! Round the ass—and your pecs! Serious!" it says, jabbing my left breast.

I flinch and shrink and twitch to run.

Whoa! Don’t get all like that! Them flabby pecs is probably what’s keepin’ you alive! You’re probably digestin’ yourself! it laughs, ripping off bread and dunking it into the honey.

It raises its eyes from the jar, studying me as it chews.

Hey, it doesn’t matter at all now, does it?

I study it right back. I…say nothing. My mind has landed in a bad place. My mind has landed in a place where the thought that cannot be is.

D’you even know where you are, Beta boy? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t! Hellhole, brother! In-fin-it-y of it! Know what that means? Endless, my brother. This goddamn jungle goes on forever.

It doesn’t. It goes to the village. I’m no great runner, but I think, if I can remain calm, I can outrun this sick thing.

"Yup, we is lost…lost and damned and done for. So this is just great, ain’t it? This is juuuuuuuust ber-illiant. Two runnin’ dead men sharing a last supper and only one of us