by Aaron Hodges
Chris followed her and pulled out a chair at the wooden table. The kitchen was small, barely big enough for the two of them, but it was all they needed. His mother was already standing at the stove, stirring a pot of stew he recognized as leftovers from the beef shanks of the night before.
“Most don’t seem to care, as long as the attacks are confined to the countryside,” Chris commented.
“Exactly.” His mother turned, emphatically waving the wooden spoon. “They think it doesn’t matter, that their shining cities will protect them. Well, it won’t stay that way forever.”
“No.” Chris shook his head. “That one in Seattle…” He shuddered. Over fifty people had been killed when a Chead woke in a shopping mall. Police had arrived in less than ten minutes, but that was all the time it had needed.
Impulsively, he reached for the pocket watch he wore around his neck. His mother had given it to him ten years ago, at his father’s funeral. It held a picture of Chris’s parents, smiling on the shores of Lake Washington in Seattle, where they’d first met. His heart gave a painful throb as he thought of the terror engulfing the city.
Noticing the gesture, his mother abandoned the pot and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, Chris. We’ll survive this. We’re a strong people. They’ll come up with a solution, even if we have to march up to the gates of congress and demand it.”
Chris nodded, and was about to speak when a crash came from somewhere in the house. They pushed apart and spun towards the kitchen doorway. Though they lived in the city, they barely had the money to survive week to week, and their house was not in the safest neighborhood.
It was well past the eight o’clock curfew now. Whoever—or whatever—had made the noise was not likely to be friendly.
Sucking in a breath, Chris moved into the doorway and risked a glance across the lounge. The single incandescent bulb cast shadows across the room, leaving dark patches behind the couch and television. He stared hard into the darkness, searching for signs of movement, and then retreated to the kitchen.
Silently, his mother handed him a kitchen knife. He took it after only a second’s hesitation. She held a second blade in a practiced grip. Looking at his mother's face, Chris swallowed. Her eyes were hard, her brow creased in a scowl, but he did not miss the fear there. Together they faced the door—and waited.
The squeak of the loose floorboard in the hallway seemed as loud as a gunshot in the silent house. Chris glanced at his mother, and she nodded back. There was no doubt now. Someone was inside.
A crash came from the lounge, then the thud of heavy boots as the intruder gave up all pretense of stealth. Chris tensed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the knife handle. He spread his feet into a forward stance, readying himself.
The sound of breaking glass came from their right as the kitchen window exploded inwards, and a black-suited figure leapt into the room. The man bowled into his mother, sending her tumbling to the ground before she could swing the knife. Chris sprang to the side as another man charged from the lounge, then drew back and hurled his knife.
Without pausing to see whether the blade struck home, Chris twisted and leapt, driving his heel into the midriff of the intruder standing over his mother. But the man was ready for him, and with his greater bulk, he brushed off the blow. Stumbling sideways, Chris clenched his fists and charged again.
The man grinned, raising his hands to catch Chris. With his attention diverted, Chris’s mother rose behind him, knife still in hand, and drove the blade deep into their attacker’s hamstring.
Their black-garbed attacker barely had time to scream before Chris’s fist slammed into his windpipe. The intruder’s face paled and his hands went to his throat. He staggered backwards, strangled noises gurgling from his mouth, and toppled over the kitchen table.
Chris offered his mother a hand. Before she could take it, a creak came from the floorboards behind him. The man from the lounge loomed up, grabbing Chris by the shoulder. Still on the ground, his mother rolled away as Chris twisted around, fighting to break the man’s hold. Cursing, he aimed an elbow at the man’s gut, but his arm struck solid body armor and bounced off.
The body armor explained what had happened to the knife Chris had thrown, but before he could process what the information meant, another crash came from the window.
His mother surged to her feet as a third man leapt inside. Still holding the bloodied knife, she screamed and charged. Straining his arms, Chris bucked against his captor’s grip, but there was no breaking the man’s iron hold. Stomach clenched, he watched his mother attack the heavily-armed assailant.
The new intruder carried a steel baton in one hand, and as she swung her knife it flashed out and caught her wrist. His mother screamed, and the blade tumbled from her hand. She retreated across the room, cradling her arm. A fourth man appeared in the doorway to the lounge. Before Chris could shout a warning, he grabbed her from behind.
His mother shrieked and threw back her head, trying to catch the man in the chin, but her blows bounced off his body armor. Her eyes widened as his arm went around her neck, cutting off her breath. Heart hammering in his chest, Chris twisted and kicked at his opponent’s shins, desperate to aid his mother, but the man showed no sign of relenting.
“Mom!” he screamed as her eyes drooped closed.
“Doctor Fallow, situation under control. You’re up,” the man from the window spoke into his cuff. He approached his wounded comrade, whose face was turning purple. “Hold on, man. Medical’s on its way.”
“Who are you?” Chris gasped.
The man ignored him. Instead, he went to work on the fallen man, removing his belt and binding it around the man’s leg. The injured man groaned as the speaker worked, his eyes squeezed closed and his teeth clenched. A pang of guilt touched Chris, but he crushed it down.
“What the hell happened?” a woman exclaimed as she entered the kitchen.
The woman was dark-skinned, but the color was rapidly fleeing her face as she looked around the kitchen. She raised a hand to her mouth, her eyes lingering on the blood, then flicking between the men and their captives. Shock showed in their amber depths, but already it was fading as she reasserted control. Lowering her hand to her side, she pursed her red lips. Her gaze settled on Chris.
A chill went through him as he noticed the red-emblazoned bear on the front of her black jacket. The symbol marked her as a government employee. These were not random thugs in the night. They were the police, and they were here for Chris and his mother.
Nodding to herself, the woman reached into her jacket and drew something into the light. The breath caught in Chris’s throat as he glimpsed the contraption in her hand. For a second he thought it was a pistol, but as she drew closer he realized his mistake. It was some sort of hypodermic gun, some device he’d only thought existed in old movies. In real life though, it was far more terrifying than anything Hollywood had ever produced.
“Who are you?” Chris croaked as she paused in front of him.
Her eyes drifted to Chris’s face, but she only shook her head. She studied the liquid in the vial attached to the gun’s barrel, then looked back at Chris, as though weighing him up.
“Hold him,” she said at last.
“What?” Chris gasped as his captor pulled his arms behind his back. “What are you doing? Please, you’re making a mistake, we haven’t done anything wrong!”
The woman didn’t answer. Chris struggled to escape as she raised the gun to his neck, but the man only pulled his arms harder, sending a bolt of pain through his shoulders. Biting back a scream, Chris looked up at the woman. Their eyes met, and he thought he saw a flicker of regret in her eyes.
Then the cold of the hypodermic gun touched his neck, followed by a hiss of gas as she pressed the trigger. Metal pinched Chris’s neck, and then the woman stepped back. Holding his breath, Chris stared at the woman, his eyes never leaving hers.
Within seconds, the first touch of weariness started to seep through Ch
ris’s body. He blinked as shadows spread around the edges of his vision. Idly, he struggled to free his arms, so he might chase the shadows away. But the man still held him fast. Sucking in a mouthful of air, Chris fought against the exhaustion. Blinking hard, he willed himself to resist the pull of sleep.
But there was no stopping the warmth spreading through his limbs. His head bobbed and his arms went limp, until the only thing keeping him upright was the strength of his captor.
The woman’s face was the last thing Chris saw before he slipped into the darkness.
5
Liz shivered as the air conditioner hummed, sending a blast of icy air in her direction. Wrapping her arms around herself, she closed her eyes and waited for it to pass. The scent of chlorine drifted on the air, its chemical reek setting her head to pounding. Her teeth chattered and she shuddered as the whir of fans died away. Groaning, Liz opened her eyes and returned to studying her surroundings.
She had woken ten minutes ago in this thirty-foot-wide concrete room. A single door stood closed on the opposite wall, a small glass panel revealing a bright hallway beyond. It appeared to be the only exit, but it might as well have been half a world away. Between Liz and the door stood the wire mesh of her five-foot by five-foot steel cage.
Trembling, Liz gripped the wire tight between her fingers and leaned her head against it. She tried to search the vaults of her memory, to recall how she had come to be there, but her last recollection was of serving beer to a drunken customer in Andrew’s pub.
A curse slipped from her lips as the blast of the air conditioner returned. Without her jacket, her clothes were no match for whatever freezing temperature the climate control had been set to. To make matters worse, her boots were gone, and the concrete was like ice beneath her feet.
At least I’m not alone, she thought wryly, looking through the wire into the cage beside her.
A young man somewhere around her own eighteen years lay there, still dozing on the concrete floor. His clothes were better kept than her own, though there was a bloodstain on one sleeve. From the quality of his shirt, she guessed he was from the city. Pale skin, untouched by the scorching heat of the countryside, only served to confirm her suspicions.
Groaning, the young man began to stir. Idly, Liz wondered what he’d make of the nightmare into which he was about to awaken.
She shivered, not from the cold now, but dread. Casting her eyes around the room, she sought one last time for something, anything, that might offer escape. Long ago, her parents had warned her of the fate destined for those who drew the government’s ire. Though never reported, disappearances had been common in her community. Adults, children, even entire families were known to simply disappear overnight. Few were brave enough to voice their suspicions out loud, but everyone knew who’d taken them.
It seemed after two years on the run, those same people had finally caught up with Liz.
The clang of the door as it opened tore Liz from her thoughts. She watched as two men pushed their way past the heavy steel door and stepped into the room. They wore matching uniforms of black pants and green shirts, and the gold- and red-embossed badges of bears on their chests confirmed Liz’s suspicions—she’d been taken by government soldiers. The men were armed with rifles and moved with the casual ease of professional killers.
Liz straightened as their eyes alighted on her, refusing to show her fear. She suppressed a shudder as broad grins split their faces. Fixing a scowl to her lips, she crossed her arms and stared them down.
“Feisty one, ain’t she?” the first said in a strong Californian accent. Shaking his head, he walked past the twin cages to a panel in the wall.
“Looks like the boy’s still asleep,” the second commented. “Gonna be a nasty wake-up.”
Together, the men opened the panel and retrieved a hose. Thick nylon strings encased the outer layer of the hose, and a large steel nozzle was fitted to its end. Dragging it across the room, they pointed it at the sleeping boy and flipped a lever on the nozzle.
Water gushed from the hose and through the wire of the cage, engulfing the unconscious young man. A bloodcurdling scream echoed off the walls, and he seemed to levitate off the floor. Another cry followed as he thrashed against the torrent.
Liz bit back laughter as his scream turned into a gurgle. The men with the hose showed no such restraint, and their laughter echoed loudly in the confined space. Ignoring the young man’s strangled cries, they held the water steady until it seemed he could not help but drown in the rushing water.
When they finally shut off the nozzle, the boy collapsed to the floor of his cage, gasping for breath. He shuddered, spitting up water, but the men were already moving towards Liz, and she had no more time to consider his predicament.
She raised her hands as the men stopped in front of her cage. “No need for that, boys. I’m already clean, see?” She did a little turn, her cheeks warming as she sensed their eyes on her again.
The men chuckled, but shook their heads. “Sorry girl, boss’s orders.”
They pulled the lever before Liz could muster up any other arguments.
Liz shrieked as the ice-cold water drove her back against the rear of the cage. She lifted her hands in front of her face, fighting to breathe, but it made little difference against the rush. Gasping, she choked as water flooded down her throat, and fell to her knees. An icy hand seemed to grip her chest as she inhaled again, turning away to protect her face. The power of the water forced her up against the wire, and she gripped it hard, struggling to hold herself upright.
When the torrent finally ceased, Liz found herself crouched on the ground with her back to the men. She did not turn as a coughing fit shook her body. An awful cold seeped into her bones as she struggled for breath. Water filled her ears and nose, muffling the words of the men, until she shook her head to clear it.
Tightening her hold on the wire, Liz used it to pull herself to her feet. Head down, she gave a final cough and faced the room.
The men were already returning the hose to its panel in the wall. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, but fell silent as the hinges squeaked again. A group of men and women entered the room. There were five in total, three men and two women. Each wore a white lab coat with black pants, and golden bears pinned to their collars. Four carried electronic tablets, their attention on the little screens, while the fifth approached the guards. They straightened as he stopped up in front of them, their grins turning to staunch grimaces.
“Are our latest subjects ready for processing?” the man asked, his voice cool.
One of the guards nodded. “Yes, Doctor Halt. We just finished hosing them down.”
Halt smiled. “Very good.” He dismissed the men with a flick of his hand and turned to face the cages.
Pursing thin lips, Halt paced around Liz’s cage in a slow circle. His grey eyes never left her as he completed the circuit, and eventually she was forced to look away. He watched her like a predator studying its prey, eyeing up which piece of flesh to taste first. Wrapping her arms around herself, Liz fixed her eyes to the concrete and tried to ignore him.
When she looked up again, Halt had moved on to the young man in the other cage. But her fellow captive was ignoring the doctor, and was instead staring at the group of people in lab coats. His brow creased, as though struggling to recall a distant memory.
“You!” the boy shouted suddenly, slamming his hands against the wire. “You were at my house! What am I doing here? What have you done with my mother?”
Halt frowned, glancing back at the group of doctors. “Doctor Fallow, would you care to explain why the subject knows your face?”
The woman at the head of the group turned beet-red. “There were complications during his extraction, Halt.” She spoke softly, but there was a challenge beneath her words. Goosebumps spread down Liz’s spine as she recognized the voice, though she could not recall from where. “I had to enter before the subject was fully secured, or we risked further casualties amongs
t the extraction team.”
Halt eyed her for a moment, apparently weighing up her words, before nodding. “Very well.” He turned back to the cages. “No matter. Elizabeth Flores, Christopher Sanders, welcome to your new home.”
Icy fear gripped Liz by the throat, silencing her voice. They knew her last name. That meant they knew who she was, where she came from. The last trickle of hope evaporated from her heart.
Christopher was not so easily quelled. “What am I doing here? You can’t hold us like his, I know my rights—”
Halt raised a hand, and Liz’s neighbor fell silent. Standing outside Christopher’s cage, Halt stared through the wire. “Your mother has been charged with treason.”
Color fled the boy’s face, turning his skin a sickly yellow. He swallowed and opened his mouth, but no words came out. Tears crystallized at the corner of his eyes, but he blinked them back before they could fall.
Biting her tongue, Liz watched the two face off against one another. She was impressed by Christopher’s resilience. He might speak with the accent of someone from the city, but he seemed to possess more courage than any of the boys she’d once known at her boarding school. If his mother had been accused of treason, it meant death for her and her family. The elderly would be afforded an exception, but her children…
Liz turned her attention to the group still lingering behind Halt. If that was the reason Christopher was here, she didn’t like her chances. She had feared the authorities would come for her, and had done her best to avoid detection. But with government agents hiding behind every shadow, she had always known it was only a matter of when, not if, they found her. It seemed her time was finally up.
And yet, she needed to know: how much did these people truly know about her?
6
