Roger tosses an amused glance at Cas and starts toward Dallas, knowing how much it would piss him off. It reminds me of how Roger was in The Program, and how he would taunt Realm by harassing me. Realm? I look toward the woods again, wondering if he’s there, watching. I won’t believe he abandoned us. He wouldn’t do that to me.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Roger asks Cas as he comes to stop in front of Dallas. She’s helpless, but she looks at him with an eerie sort of calm. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more terrifying sight.
Cas ignores Roger’s question and tries to get Dallas’s attention. “I’m sorry,” he calls to her. “I had to stop running. I was tired, Dallas. I wanted us—you—to finally have a normal life. I’ll talk to them.” He looks around. “I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”
Roger sucks on his teeth, looking Dallas up and down and evaluating her. “Oh, don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says to Cas. “She hates that.” He grins, and I think he’s the biggest monster I’ve ever met. But before I can imagine what horrors he has in store, Dallas reacts.
In a sudden movement she kicks out the knee of the handler behind her, spinning out of his grip and freeing her arms. She’s a whirlwind of motion, and I see the glint of the metal of her knife before I realize she’d even grabbed it from her pocket. She growls like a wild animal and slams into Roger, burying the blade to the hilt in his gut.
“I hate you!” She screams a high-pitched squeal that’s barely human. Roger is too stunned, or too hurt, to do more than double over. Dallas yanks out her knife and plunges it into his chest with both hands, before another handler tackles her to the pavement with a sick thud. Roger is wailing, rolling on his side as blood pools on the gray concrete.
Before they can take her away, Dallas stares down at Roger. His blood is halfway up her arms and splashed across her shirt. And she begins to laugh—not joyous or even maniacal. It’s unhinged. It’s crazy. She starts to pull on her dreads, yelling that she wins, she fucking wins, even as they start to drag her away.
My body shivers, my teeth chattering even though I can’t feel the cold. Arthur Pritchard is slowly waking up, but they pull me past him before he’s fully conscious. A handler snaps restraints on my wrists, claiming they’re for my protection, although really they’re for his.
A van pulls away before the others do, and I realize James was inside it. He’s gone. Dallas is gone. The handler leans me against the door of the van before taking a moment to call in the incident. Although Cas isn’t in custody, he’s led by with a handler. He pauses, glancing over apologetically. But I don’t care to hear his excuses. There’s a giant hole in my chest, leaking out the remainder of my feelings.
“You killed her,” I murmur in his direction, thinking of how broken Dallas is now. “You’ve killed what’s left of her.”
Cas sways with sorrow. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he says, pulling his arm from the handler. “They told me she’d be safe. That we all would.”
“Then you’re stupid for believing The Program. You’re stupid for thinking they’d ever let us walk out of here. And what about Realm? What did you do to him?”
Cas furrows his brows, confused. But then my handler is back, opening the door and pushing me onto the seat. He buckles me in place, leaving me helpless with my hands bound. From outside the van, Cas watches on in horror. “I have no idea where Realm is,” he says before they slam the door shut.
There’s a spike of fear that Realm isn’t waiting in the woods at all. That maybe Roger already found him and did something to him. I’m so overwhelmed. I’m so completely buried in despair, I don’t think I’ll ever find the way out.
Up front two handlers climb onto the seats. The driver reports our location, and over the scanner the operator asks if Roger is dead.
“Not sure,” the handler responds. “Ambulance is in route.”
“If Roger survives,” I call out in a raspy voice, my entire body trembling, “I’ll finish the job. I’ll kill every single one of you.”
The handler turns, his brown eyes wide, as the other guy glances at me in the rearview mirror. They have the balls to actually look concerned. I rest my head against the seat, rocking with the bumps of the road, thinking I’ve come undone. All hope is lost now.
I’m going back to The Program.
PART III
NO APOLOGIES
TEENS TAKEN INTO CUSTODY
The Program is reporting that they’ve taken a group of teens hiding near Lake Tahoe, Nevada. The names are being withheld at this time, but there’s speculation that the suspects include Sloane Barstow and James Murphy.
The two teens, first reported missing last month, have led authorities on a multistate manhunt. Exactly why Barstow and Murphy were running has never been made public, but the effectiveness of The Program has come into question.
Arthur Pritchard, creator of The Program, has stepped down amid the controversy, and his lawyer will be making a statement later in the week. He is currently unavailable for comment.
—Reported by Kellan Thomas
CHAPTER ONE
THERE ARE VOICES, BUT I can’t make out their words. Not at first. My eyelids are heavy as I try to open them, letting in small slivers of light when I blink. The voice next to me is only an echo.
“Is there anybody in there?” she asks again more clearly.
My lips are numb as I turn my head lazily to the side. My head is throbbing from where I hit it on the pavement. “Help me,” I whisper to the waiting nurse. I try to reach out, but my wrists are fastened down. I’m surrounded by stark white walls with the smell of bleach thick in the air. The nurse leans closer, and I recognize her from my first stay in The Program. Nurse Kell places her hand on my shoulder.
“We are going to help you,” she says, an earnest smile on her thin lips. “But first we have to cure the infection.” She takes a syringe from the pocket of her fuzzy blue sweater and uncaps it. “Now don’t move, dear,” she says, pushing up my shirtsleeve, “or this will really hurt.”
I hitch in a breath, choking on it as I start to whimper. “Please, Kell,” I say. “I’m not sick. I’m really not.”
“That’s what they all say.” Her manners are sweet but firm. And when I feel the pinch and burn of the needle, I openly sob.
A handler walks in. He’s tall, a bit unkempt compared to the others. He’s the same one who put his hand on Cas’s shoulder back at the parking lot. My heart breaks and I shake my head, trying to rid myself of Cas’s memory. Pretending the past few weeks with him never happened. I can’t reconcile in my mind that the guy who looked out for us is really the one who turned us in.
The handler comes over, talking quietly with Kell. When they finish, they unfasten me from the bed and drop me into a wheelchair, securing me to the armrests. The burn from the needle has turned to a tingle, and then it’s like warm bathwater. A sense of calm stretches over me, even though I know logically it’s not really there. The drug is numbing my panic, but it can’t mask everything. I won’t let it. I kick my legs, trying to buck my body out of the chair, but I’m too lethargic. I end up flopping like a fish, gasping for breath, and by the time I’m out in the hallway, I’m too tired to fight anymore. I melt into the chair, feeling the trickle of tears slide down my cheeks.
“Where are we going?” I mumble as Nurse Kell walks hurriedly beside me, her hands in the pockets of her sweater.
“To see the doctor, Sloane. They need to determine if you’re a candidate for continued therapy.”
My heart skips. “And if I’m not?” I ask. Kell doesn’t answer me, just smiles as if it’s a silly question. We’re passing patients in the hallway, flashes of lemon-yellow scrubs streaking my vision. But it’s the last face I see before I’m pushed through the double doors that sinks my hope.
Lacey Klamath stares at me from a chair near the window, her eyes wide and doelike. Her blond hair is styled in a short pixie cut, and her serene expression gives no sign of recogni
zing me, gives no hint of emotion. I almost call out to her but stop short when I see a nurse appear at her side, placing a small Dixie cup in her hand. Obediently and without complaint, Lacey swallows whatever’s inside and goes back to staring blankly ahead.
When the handler pushes me through the doors marked THERAPY WING, I turn to face forward again. She’s here—Lacey is here. Although I’m glad to know she’s safe, it’s obvious she’s . . . different. I don’t know what they’ve done to her, but I have to lock the thought away. I’ll come back for her. Just like I pray James will come back for me.
They don’t free my arms once I’m inside the doctor’s office. I sit on the wrong side of a huge oak desk that’s cluttered with papers. This isn’t The Program I was in before, even if Nurse Kell is still playing the role of Nurse Ratched. Since I left Oregon, other facilities have opened up around the country. There’s no way to tell what state I’m even in.
Unlike the hospital feel in the hallways, this office is homey, yet masculine. There are rows of bookshelves lining the hunter-green walls, a heavy maroon rug under the ornate chair they’ve fastened me to. This reminds me of someone’s high-end man cave, complete with a standing globe that could be filled with liquor bottles.
Are they trying to create a false sense of comfort? Normalcy? Doesn’t matter, I guess. I have to find Dallas and make sure she’s okay. She’s always been the one to get information for us, but now it’s my turn.
Doors open behind me, and I clench my muscles. I half expect Dr. Warren to walk up, her brown hair in a cute ponytail—so nonthreatening and relatable. But the figure who rounds my chair is not Dr. Warren. I watch as a man sits in the leather chair on the other side of the desk.
He looks up after opening my file and smiles warmly. “Hello, Sloane,” he says. His voice is clipped as if he’s spent years getting rid of an accent. He has a manicured salt-and-pepper beard, highlighting what would be a handsome face—except for the scar that splits through his top lip. Even still, it doesn’t make him unattractive, just a little edgier than the sterile doctors I’m used to. I look him over, my thoughts honest because of the drugs coursing through my veins.
“My name is Dr. Beckett,” he says, and pulls a pair of thin wire-rimmed glasses from his front pocket. He puts them on, studying me. “I see they’ve already given you the medication.” He jots something on the paper in my file. “That’s unusual.”
“I would say most of this is unusual.” My voice is hoarse, and Dr. Beckett puts his elbows on the desk, leaning closer.
“I tend to agree, Sloane. You’ve already been through The Program. What could have happened to land you here twice? Has the depression set in again?”
“Are you joking?” I ask. “I’m here because I tried to get away. Because you’re all a bunch of psychopaths!” My outburst is immediately met with another rush of warmth, and I curse as my head lulls to the side. I don’t want to be relaxed. I want to tear this place apart.
The doctor nods his head solemnly. “Seems you’ve grown delusional. It’s not uncommon.” He jots down a note in my file. “When suicidal, patients often misinterpret the world around them. They grow paranoid. Think everyone’s out to the get them. It’s too bad you feel so alone. We were all really rooting for you.”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh, come now,” he says, waving his hand. “Use your common sense, Sloane. You can’t really believe we wanted you to fail. In fact, Nurse Kell personally requested this assignment. We want you to be successful. Think of your potential. You could have been such a help to the community—a poster child. Pretty, smart, flawed. The public would have embraced you as a motivational speaker. You would have convinced kids to volunteer for The Program instead of us having to seek them out. But you didn’t follow your doctor’s instructions. Or your handler’s.” He pauses, and folds his hands in front of him. “I am sorry to hear about Kevin. He was a good man. We worked together in another facility.”
Although the medication should keep my calm, at the mention of Kevin I sit up straighter; the ties on my wrists squeeze in protest. “What did you do to him?”
Dr. Beckett shakes his head as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Me? No, my dear. He became sick again because of you. Because of the stress you and James Murphy inflicted on him. Kevin took a dive from the St. Johns Bridge shortly after you skipped town.”
It’s a crushing blow, and I lower my face. Pain, sharp and jagged, rips into me before the medicine can try to mask it. Kevin isn’t in The Program. He’s dead. “You killed him,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Don’t be silly,” the doctor says with a twinge of annoyance. “We wanted to help Kevin, but he chose another way. They do that sometimes—the sick ones. My question is”—he takes off his glasses—“what will you decide? Given the chance, would you kill yourself, Sloane? Would you go that far to keep your infected memories?”
Yes. I think my short answer is yes—but why is this the question? Why are there no other viable options? I want to be strong. I shout inside my head that I have to be strong, but really I start to fall apart. Kevin—my handler, my friend—is dead. The Program could have thrown him off the bridge for all I know, but even if he did jump, he did it to protect us. The Program pressured him into it. And when they start to exert that same force on me, what will I do? Everything is gone. They’ve changed Lacey. They’ll change me. Is life worth living?
“Do we have to keep you restrained for your own protection, Sloane?” Dr. Beckett asks gently.
“Yes,” I respond, defiant and angry. “Yes, you do.”
Dr. Beckett exhales and then falls against the backrest of his seat. “That’s too bad.” He presses a call button on his phone. “Have Nurse Kell stand by with the next dose,” he says, shooting me a wary look. He takes a moment to compose himself, folding up his glasses before tucking them into his pocket. I have a thought that he wears them only to appear more official. We’re apparently skipping that stage of our relationship.
“We can be friends,” he tells me in a soft voice, “if you want. But there is one definite to our equation: You will never, ever, leave this place with your memories. We just can’t allow it. Try and understand our position.”
“You’re monsters.”
“Are we? Or are we the cure for a worldwide epidemic? All vaccines came with an initial loss. Aren’t you willing to die for future generations?”
“No. Are you willing to kill me for them?”
“Yes. Simply, the answer is yes.”
I don’t remember my time in The Program. Were they always this blunt? This terrifying? Or has my current situation stripped away the niceties? Part of me wishes he’d lie to me, say something to placate the fear. Then again, his honesty will keep me grounded, keep my purpose renewed.
“Now,” Dr. Beckett says, “I know you’ve been under extreme duress. Have any memories resurfaced?”
There’s a jab of grief that comes with the knowledge that I’ll once again lose the pieces, lose Miller. But if I hope to get out of this alive, I’ll have to play along—at least for a little while. “Yes,” I say. “But not negative ones. I’ll . . . I’ll tell you about them, no fighting. No lying. But first you have to do something for me. I need to know that Dallas is okay.”
The doctor smiles, seeming pleased that I’m willing to participate in my recovery. “Ah, yes. Dallas Stone. Seems her illness is fairly progressive. They don’t expect her to survive the night without extreme measures. She’s in solitary until further notice.”
“What? You can’t just lock her up. She’s not an animal!”
“She was ripping out her own hair. She’s a danger to herself and others. For God’s sake, she stabbed a handler.”
“He deserved it!” I shout.
“She’s gone completely mad. She’ll kill someone.”
“Let me talk to her. Please.” I yank on my restraints, wishing I could clasp my hands in front of me to show him how sincere I am. Dr. Beckett ti
lts his head, seeming to weigh his options. “She’s my friend,” I plead. “I can calm her down.” Dallas is my friend, one I would fight for. I wish I would have realized this sooner, gotten us out that house before The Program showed up.
“You really think you can get through to her?” he asks cautiously.
“Yes.” I breathe out. “I really do.” Although helping Dallas is part of the reasoning, I’m more concerned with her keeping her shit together until I figure out what to do. We’ll need each other to stay sane.
After a long moment Dr. Beckett nods and presses a button on the intercom—watching me as he talks. “Please take Miss Barstow down to solitary to speak with the patient. Keep them both close.” When he sits back in the chair, he picks up my file and glances through it once again.
“I hope you really can talk her down, Sloane,” he says, slapping the manila folder on the desk. “Because if not, you’ll really hate what comes next.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE HANDLER PUSHING MY WHEELCHAIR smells like cigarette smoke. He’s the same one who brought me from my room earlier, but Nurse Kell is nowhere in sight. This small fluctuation, the fact that he doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid, is a bit of hope. It reminds me of—
I lower my face, tears gathering now that the medicine’s calming effects have started to wane. Kevin is dead. Lacey will be devastated. The painful fact is that it really could be my fault. If I had followed the rules, Kevin wouldn’t have had to help me. He would still be alive.
There’s a brush against my shoulder, and then a cloth is wiped across my eyes, over my cheeks, under my nose. I shrug away, and when I look back at the handler, he’s tucking a handkerchief into his pocket.
“You’re crying,” he says in a low voice. “Don’t do that.”
I scoff, ready to tell him to drop dead because what does he care? I’m crying over a real tragedy, and he’s just some asshole working for The Program. Before I can, the handler stops at a doorway with a small rectangular window and then takes a keycard from the retractable chain at his waistband. He pushes the door open, weaving his head as he tries to see inside the dimly lit room. He takes the Taser from his hip and disappears inside. I’m listening for Dallas’s scream, or worse, the sound of her hitting the floor, but the silence stretches on until the handler emerges with a stony expression. He comes behind my chair again and pushes me inside the room. He unfastens my hands, giving me a stern look as warning, and then walks out, closing the door behind him.
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