by B D Grant
“Heads down!” the same voice from earlier snaps from behind me. Everyone lowers his or her head, including me.
After a few moments, the sounds of grunting and bodies rustling ends. The man with the megaphone pushes one of the others off the bus. I can’t be sure, but I think that it’s the Dyna that Vernon had gotten onto as I hear Vernon say, “good riddance,” from inside the bus.
A couple minutes later, a second man steps off of the bus, leaving just the driver inside. The ignition starts, and a second later the bus drivers steps off of the bus still wearing the mask as if we hadn’t all already seen his face.
The bus driver says something to the man with the megaphone, who then steps onto the first step. He calls Katie over without his megaphone. “Once we’re gone,” he tells her, “you’re going to continue on this road. It’ll bring you to the next town. I assume you know better than to follow us.”
“You can’t expect me to drive this monster,” she says. “We’ll wreck before we get a mile down the road.”
“Not my problem.” He starts to step down.
“There’s a boy,” Katie says quickly, pointing at a group near the back of the bus. I look over and can just make out the top of Boston’s head now that he has it raised in her direction. “He’d be able to get us there. Let him drive us and we’ll get there safely.”
She’s trying to save one more life. As far as I know, Boston’s never driven a bus in his life. Her choosing Boston is a salute to his kindness if I ever saw one. He visited with Willa regularly, giving the child his contagious smile to look forward to day after day. Katie is returning the favor.
A masked man grabs Boston’s shoulder as he moves to get up.
“He stays with us,” the man with the megaphone tells Katie from outside the open bus door.
“You don’t have to drive it,” the bus driver tells her, sounding amused under his mask. “But it’ll take much longer for your wards to receive medical care if you sit here. Unless you want to go where we’re going.”
Willa’s little head pops up through one of the windows at the front of the bus, her hands pressed against the glass as she stares outward. Katie catches sight of her and turns around, presumably telling her to take her seat. Katie closes the bus door, Willa’s fierce gaze still visible through the window. It could be the outside lights reflecting perfectly that gives her eyes an almost unnatural glow.
“Move out!” the man with the megaphone calls once the bus doors are closed. Willa might just be a Dynamar, I think to myself. She sure had that fire in her eyes, and from the sound of it, she’s going to have to be a fighter.
As the Rogues around us start barking orders again, I slide my arms up to rest under my forehead. I glance up to the bus one more time.
The other Seraphim are loaded into various vehicles parked in the fake traffic stop. Now that they’re done dealing with the patients, the masked people guarding us are careful to ensure that our heads stay down. I know Boston must have been in one of the last cars because I heard him asking for a window seat when the last of the Veritatis were rounded up.
The Dynamar are the last group remaining. After what feels like ages, five masked men surround our group shouting for us get off the pavement. I don’t have time to wipe the gravel off my chest before I’m shoved into the back of a van.
Masked Tempero are waiting in the driver and passenger seats. I know they’re Temps from the peak in my passivity. It doesn’t waver as the other masked Seraphim come and go. More Dyna are packed in after me. Finally, Tia is the last making it a total of seven Dynamar shoved inside the back of a van that can only hold five of us comfortably before the door is slammed shut.
“You couldn’t have gotten a van with seats in the back?” Tia complains.
“No talking!” the Tempero in the passenger seat snaps.
They haven’t restrained any of us, but there’s a cage keeping all of us in the back from getting to the Tempero in the front. Glensy must be in a different van, which kills any ideas for taking out the Tempero. Glensy is the only one who I know for sure has the constitution necessary to take out our captors.
After everyone’s packed in, they turn the lights off, and we drive off. The Tempero are steadily using their ability on us as we go. Neither of them say a word nor glance back at us. Tia, the last one loaded and closest to the side door on the van, slowly reaches up to the handle. When her hand makes it to the door handle she rests it there a second, and I watch the Tempero in the front. Neither of them notices. Tia gently presses the handle. When it doesn’t budge the muscles in her forearm flex as she applies more strength. It’s locked. All of us slouch a little bit more when she finally releases it. The girl next to her, the one she had been amping up with on the bus, pats Tia’s knee for the attempt, contorting her arm awkwardly.
We’re on the road maybe twenty minutes when we come up to an all-metal building and slow down. I feel myself go into high alert, and the others straighten up as well.
A Pitkin Volunteer Fire Department sign hands on the building, and there are a few cars are parked in back. For a brief, ridiculous moment, I imagine the civilians inside being our ticket out of this mess, but a short, stout man wearing the same mask as all the others steps out of the firehouse’s rear exit.
The two Tempero who drove us here shepherd all seven of us out. Again, I notice the heavy, forced passiveness cloud my mind, but that doesn’t keep us from exchanging quick, worried glances as they line everyone up, execution-style, along the side of the van.
I carefully watch the masked Seraphim, preparing for the worst. If any of them start shooting, I need a game plan. I can dive under the van four feet behind me, run for the trees on the other side of the firehouse, or—
Mid-thought, the short, stout man steps directly in front of me. “Name,” he barks.
Even with the Tempero around, I want to hit the guy. I blink, refocusing on his cold, hazel stare. “Kelly Edwards,” I say through clenched teeth.
He doesn’t write my name down. Instead, he slides a finger slowly down a clipboard he’s holding, his masked face lowered so that all I can see is the top of his head. He finally raises his head to look past me. With the shake of his head I hear someone step up behind me.
Something hard slams into my right temple. I let out a gruff “Ow!”
“We aren’t playing,” a rough, low voice says in my ear. “Give him your name.”
My heart beats faster. “That is my name.” The Tempero a few feet past the man standing in front of me turn their attention my way. Tia is standing next to me. She pinches her eyes shut nervously. Before I’m hit in the head again, or worse, I give the guy my full name. “Micheal Kelly Edwards.”
“Micheal Edwards,” he repeats, and this time his finger stops close to the top of the page. He gives a thumbs-up to the person behind me, which strikes me as rather absurd. He moves to my right, standing in front of Tia. Her response is quick.
The next Dyna in line spits his name out before the man with the page has even had time to step in front of him.
Something lightweight is flung over my head, and instinctively I jerk away. A wide hand cinches itself around the back of my neck, making it more difficult for me to jerk again, and a cloth bag is fitted snugly over my head. I can breathe fine, but I can’t see a thing. “Hey, I tell the person tying my hands behind my back. “This mask is faulty.” I give whoever it is credit for being careful not to touch the bandaged areas on my arms. “It’s missing the cutouts for my eyes,” I tell him.
“Mine too,” one of my fellow Dyna captives says down the line.
A snort is all we get in reply.
Once the bag is over my head, I start to appreciate how nice they had been to us up until this point. My hands are tied behind my back, and I am pushed back in the van.
I listen, and again six more people are loaded in after me. I hear grunts and groans, but no voices. I can only assume the other Dyna from my van are being transported again as well.
<
br /> A rough male voice, a new one, from up front croaks, “We will shoot anyone who speaks.” No one makes much noise after that.
It feels like about an hour before we stop again, but I’ve no idea whether I’m counting the seconds as minutes. Our masks stay on as the back door on the right side opens, and again we’re yanked out.
No one warns me about the curb, and for a terrifying second, I’m in freefall. Luckily, the hands holding both of my arms kept me upright.
I can hear a door close behind me, an echo resounding through the bag on my head as we walk a few yards. Finally a set of hands jerks me back mid-step, and I stop. When the floor moves below me, I realize that they’ve brought me into an elevator.
Once we reach the next floor and walk a bit further, the bag on my head comes off. My heart races as I look around for the others. Besides the two masked Tempero and four, big Dyna also wearing masks, it’s just Tia and the others from the back of the van standing around me, but slowly more Seraphim with bags over their heads are brought down the hall. None of the doors lining the hallway are open. We are lined up carefully, single-file against each wall.
I hear Boston before I see him. He’s complaining in the joking manner that only Boston can pull off without getting punched. “Do you guys have to be this rough?” he asks. The way he tilts his head up as if he could see through his bag to the brute walking beside him is amusing. When his bag comes off, we lock eyes and share a faint smile.
A man wearing khaki slacks and a crisp, dark blue button down shirt enters the hall with a shorter woman wearing a pencil skirt, blouse, and flats once they have all of us lined up. Neither of them are wearing masks. I recognize Mr. Devin immediately. He had been one of the teachers who supervised ability advancement courses at my old school. I stare at him coldly, but his gaze never even flickers towards me.
The stout man from the fire department hands his clipboard over to the woman. Devin takes a cardkey out and swipes it in the card receiver of the door to his left. Once he opens the door, the woman with him calls Tia’s name. She’s directed into the room and both Devin and the woman follow her inside. One of the taller masked females walks over to stand against the wall adjacent to the door. The rest of us are left standing there, silent and concerned. I haven’t known Tia long, but I hope she’s okay.
Whatever takes place inside of the room doesn’t last long. When the door opens again, Tia steps out, unharmed from the looks of it. The masked woman standing outside of the door escorts her down the opposite end of the hall away from all of us. The take a turn around the corner and are gone. Shortly after the next person is called into the room, the masked woman returns without Tia.
I listen closely for the sound of a gun shot, but thankfully it never comes.
After a few patients come and go, my name is called. I look over at Glensy and Boston, who are still waiting in the hall. They both give me weary expressions before I turn to head down the hall for the open door.
I’m immediately uncomfortable by the emptiness of the room. The long, drag marks on the carpet looks like a repo team came in and hurried off with all of the furniture minus the chair Devin is sitting in. What’s even odder is that Devin has positioned himself in the middle of the room as if there were still a desk to sit behind. The woman is standing near the back, left corner of the room. Devin points a finger at the floor in front of him where he wants me to stand. As I walk over to Devin, I feel a steady flow of compliance-induced feelings. It’s obvious from his size that Devin’s a Dynamar, but I already knew that from my time at The Academy, so I assume the dull emotions I’m picking up on is what the chick is here for.
When I stop in front of him, Devin opens his mouth, taking a second to look at me before he speaks as if he only faintly remembers me.
“There have been detectives showing up at the hospital you were staying at. Have you seen them?” he asks. I give him a nod, but he continues to stare at me.
“Yeah,” I say after a few awkward seconds of holding his gaze.
“Do you know what they’re planning?” he asks.
I stare at him a minute, wondering if he’s joking. “Sure,” I say when I realize he’s being serious. “I’ll tell you everything I know,” I say, feeling somewhat relieved. The part of me that thought we were all going to be shot back at the bus, and then again at the fire department, has since been waiting to be dragged down to a basement similar to what we found under The Academy. If they’re just wanting to get information out of us than maybe they were just looking for certain patients on the bus, and since they weren’t on it they’re just getting what they can, and then, maybe, they’ll let us go. I look Devin in the eye feeling more comfortable as I say, “The investigators are talking to the Seraphim you left for dead around campus and in that basement under the school.” I look between the both of them, neither of which appear bothered by what I’m saying. “They’re also questioning the Rogues you left behind,” I continue, “but as far their plans,” I say with a shake of my head, “I have no clue.”
Devin doesn’t look surprised by my answer. “Have any of the detectives mentioned coming to a peaceful resolution to this…” Devin covers his mouth to let out a yawn, “…this misunderstanding?”
Misunderstanding, huh? I don’t know whether to laugh to shout at him.
Devin doesn’t push it. Instead, he inquires about my wellbeing.
“Do you have any family? I can contact them on your behalf to inform them that you’re unharmed,” he offers. I feel as though he’s smirking as he watches me, but it’s too subtle to tell for sure.
I roll my sleeve up slowly, and the woman in the corner takes a step forward hesitantly. Devin, though watching me carefully, doesn’t move. I pull the bandage off of the worst of my burns, the skin stretching painfully.
“I didn’t do this to myself,” I say, looking down at the fiery red tissue. “You don’t want to help me,” I say, looking between him and the woman, who is inching closer, “You just want me to tell you something your people don’t already know.”
Devin looks up at me from my burns giving me frustratingly smug smirk as if my injuries were funny to him. The Tempero has stepped up her game now, and I feel the calmness settling over my brain. She would be in trouble if I blocked her, and for a second I entertain the thought of punching the smirk off of Devin’s face. I mimic the yawn Devin gave me to put her at ease, but why bother. “Also,” I say, watching the woman take another step toward us. “I was informed at The Academy that my only living relative died.”
The Tempero stops just behind Devin, glaring at me. Devin looks like he can barely keep his eyes open. With the silence growing uncomfortable, I say, “If you can contact someone besides relatives for me, I would like you to call the FBI and give them this address.”
“Sure, kid. We’ll get right on that,” Devin says dryly.
The Tempero eases up on the room. “You can go,” she says to me coldly.
Devin stops me as I turned to leave the room. “One more question,” he says. “Have you had any withdrawal symptoms?” he rubs his face, his eyelids heavy. “Such as but not limited to: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, headaches, chills, or fatigue since being brought to the hospital?”
“I have a headache right now from the pain shooting through my arm. You gonna offer to help me with that?”
“We’ll get you something,” he says with a seriousness I’m not expecting. “But I’m asking about symptoms that aren’t related to your injuries.” Devin takes a folded up paper out of the chest pocket of his shirt.
“I haven’t,” I say honestly. He writes down my answer.
Chapter 9
After a couple weeks, things settle into somewhat of a pattern. All of us from the bus know we’re prisoners, but we’re treated better than they had treated Seraphim in the basement below The Academy. That’s something, I guess. We get medical treatment and three meals a day. We’re all kept on the same floor of the building. The Rogues keeping an eye on us come
and go in twelve-hour shifts. With not a lot to do inside, mealtime has become the highlight of everyone’s day.
Everyone enjoys the food they serve in the cafeteria. I’m the only one who knows how much it truly sucks. The first meal they served us, everyone was skittish. Most didn’t even bother leaving their barracks. But by the third meal, the cafeteria was full.
Thanks to the chaos, none of the Tempero seemed to notice when I blocked them. With the Tempero-induced feelings of appreciation and pleasure fading, my limbic system finally was able to fend for itself.
It took so long to feel an actual emotion of my own that I thought maybe I had become incapable of creating my own emotional sensations. With each bite, I had felt my frustration mount. With my own emotions in control, I could see the food for the bland hoax that it was. Since then, I’ve let the Tempero do their thing since I still need to eat while reminding myself at every meal that it’s a mirage just to keep myself from getting too wrapped up in the phoniness.
Today, Boston, Glensy, and I are some of the first in line for lunch. Getting to the cafeteria promptly means the food is fresh, and that we get the best seats. The only thing that reminds me of our old school is the lunch tables. They’re long and too close together, just like the cafeteria tables at The Academy.
Glensy peers around me down the lunch table and says, “She’s looking better.”
At the end of our long table, Lena is sitting down with her cafeteria tray, the seats around her empty. Her tray has a shiny, red apple and four pieces of stacked toast. Her hair has a sheen to it around the roots; I doubt she’s washed it in a while. She would have never allowed herself to look like that when we were all students. At The Academy, she and her cousin Abby had always looked flawless, their thin waists complimented by tight jeans and cropped shirts. But that was before the basement.
Lena cautiously looks around cafeteria. She checks out the Rogues handing out food and then those perched on stools on either side of the cafeteria by the tables watching us while we eat. Her eyes linger on the largest Rogue in the room. He’s sitting on the stool against the wall adjacent to the lunch line, eating an oversized roll. She glances once more before her eyes dart down to her tray. She picks up a slice of toast and lowers it onto her lap. Then, looking around as if waiting on a friend to join her, she tucks the toast under her waistband and pulls her shirt over it.
