by Meli Raine
The long trail stretches on, Janice's mowing making the space between me and the fence clean and clear. To my right, the fence. To my left, thick woods that remind me of my earlier years here. Callum and I spent countless hours in those woods, learning how to be who we are now.
I killed a man in those woods. No, not a man, though he was eighteen. A boy. Jason was an angry, conflicted kid who let his baser nature control him. That doesn't mean I shouldn't have defended myself. The coordinated attack he, Chui, and Murphy mounted against me required a response or my own death. But as time passes, and I grow older while he just rots in the ground, I can see The Test for what it was.
A farce.
Worse than a farce, it was unnecessary. Teaching us to be predators and not prey could be accomplished in ways that don't involve bloodsport.
The unnecessariness of it is what makes it so appalling.
“Judging,” I whisper to myself, the word cracking through the air as if it comes from another dimension. My judging mind is taking over, let loose like my legs, the air rushing into and out of my lungs like a silent, burdened witness. Changing tactics, I close my mouth, breathing cool air in through my nostrils, hot air out through my mouth. I pick up my pace.
I need to outrun this state of mind.
Losing track of time when I run is a benefit, an intention, a goal.
The mower’s hum on my right changes, the sound of the motor winding down like a dying game animal. The sudden silence makes me appreciate my other senses more, fresh-cut grass, raw and verdant, tickling my nose. I glance over and see the guy with the mower ahead of me, reaching for something on the dash.
My heart quickens.
At a point in the trail where I could easily turn off into the woods, I let my body decide, moving past the point of no return.
As I run past him, the guy lifts his wrench as a form of greeting. “Hey there!” he shouts.
Two words.
This is getting serious.
Entering into mainstream society mode, I wave, not smiling.
“Hey! Excuse me!”
Three more words. We're snowballing.
This time, I stop, keeping my feet moving, my calves finally pumping blood at a nice rate, filling me with the right kind of energy.
The man walks toward me, arms swinging with confidence, bright eyes coming into focus as he gets closer.
His eyes remind me of Callum.
But then, everything seems to remind me of Callum these days. I shake my head a little.
“I know this is awkward,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “But I ran out of water. Any chance you have some? My mower just broke down and I'm dying of thirst. It's at least an hour round trip to town, and–”
My hand goes to my hip, where I carry my water bottle. I pull it out. “Here. I haven't had a sip yet. It's clean.”
Relief and gratitude make the skin around his eyes soft. Underneath the baseball cap, his hair is short. It looks like he shaved it a while ago and let it grow out without seeing a barber.
The walk to the fence makes me start to shake inside. Video cameras capture our every move. When Janice and I were out here together, we were recorded, too.
But I'm alone now. I'll be asked later.
My arm outstretched, I slip the small, slim water bottle through the fence, surprised it fits. His grin makes it clear he's happy.
“Thanks. Let me just pour some into my own empty one back there,” he thumbs. “I don't want to take it all.”
I nod. He jogs away, disappearing into the little hut. In under a minute, he's walking toward me, his own water bottle in one hand, mine in the other.
“You're a lifesaver,” he says, handing me back my water. I can feel the weight cut in half. He stuck by his word.
Of course, I won't drink it now. I'll dump it out in the woods–for all I know, he poisoned it. The bottle feels different as I wrap my fingers around the base, slipping it back into the elastic pouch on my hip, but I ignore it. Later, I can examine it.
For now, though, I play along.
“Anyone would do the same.” I add a smile because it’s socially expected.
“Not necessarily.” He glances around, obviously referring to Janice. “What is this place?”
“Water treatment research facility.”
“You run there?”
“Sometimes.” I conjure a lie. “My dad works here. Gets in early. This way I can run without being hit on, like in town on the paths.”
“You work with your dad?”
“I'm in grad school.” The lies flow so easily.
He nods, drawing out the conversation, eyes everywhere but on me. “That's cool. I wish I'd done that. I dropped out of college after my first year.” He looks at the broken mower. “And look where it got me.”
I give him a pained smile and start jogging in place. “Dad'll wonder where I went if I don't get back.”
“I'm sure lots of people are worried about you.”
I peer at him, the scar on his face a twisted, pale spider’s web from the corner of his eye to his temple. “How'd you get that?”
“Car accident.” The answer is too quick.
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“You look really familiar,” I say, taking the chance.
“I get that a lot. Most people say I look like something out of an Avengers movie. And not like I'm Thor.” Laughter seems to be his expected response, so I give it to him.
“You look familiar, too,” he says, moving back closer to the fence. Oh, no. Did he mistake my comment for flirting?
“I get that a lot. People say I look like that actress from Hunger Games.”
“Jennifer Lawrence?”
Oh, no. The way he’s peering at me. What if he’s seen Glen on television? What if he thinks I’m her, the woman who works with the president?
That strange, creepy feeling takes over my body again, as if someone in the woods is watching me. It’s more than the usual sense of being monitored. Instead of leaving, I look around carefully, knowing this guy is wondering what I'm doing.
“What's wrong?”
“You ever feel like someone's watching you when you're out here?”
“All the time. Probably just a deer.”
“Right.” I give him a half wave and start to move away. “Good luck fixing your mower.”
Before he can say more, I run off, but my creepy feeling doesn't lessen.
In fact, it grows stronger.
16
Callum
Split seconds add up to hours of my life.
Every sliver counts.
It's during one of these fragments of time that Kina discovers me across the fence, behind McDuff in the woods, gun drawn, sight even. She ran a little way down the trail, then stopped and turned, scanning the trees around me, finding me.
No, she says silently, her head shake almost imperceptible, hand over her heart, breathing hard.
I lower my firearm.
Do her shoulders drop? Does her chest rise and fall faster? I am not imagining this. Her nonverbal cues are clear to me, and she's practically screaming Stop!
Why would she stop me from killing the man I'm assigned to kill? Svetnu hasn't given me the order yet. I've followed McDuff for nine damn months now. Nine months of watching and waiting, observing and documenting, and most of that time he's done nothing but dote on Lily Thornton or meet with Drew Foster and Silas Gentian in California or Texas. Once he met with Foster, the president, and vice president Ludame at The Grove, the president's private residence in southern California.
That's it.
The electronic communications reports Smith sends me twice a day reveal only boring, operational conversations. Smith and I have discussed it: Anyone working in security knows how to self-filter, so it’s really no surprise.
There's nothing to learn here. He's an operative casing the compound, pushing the boundaries too far. Why shouldn't I kill him now?
Especial
ly when may have poisoned Kina’s water?
The fact that she's spotted me is a separate issue I have to deal with. Being here but not letting her know has put me in a quandary. I've tamped the feeling down, elevated it away, done my duty and surveilled McDuff.
Now what?
No, she mouths, shaking her head, her body hidden from McDuff by some brush. My line of sight is clear, his compromised. She won't reveal me, I know.
As she turns away, I look at McDuff. He’s crouched over his mower, the engine case off, his arm bulging with the effort to unscrew something. He's paying attention, of course, ears at the ready, listening for anything and everything. Asking for water from Kina was an obvious ploy. Surely he knows she didn't fall for it.
Surely he knows what he's doing.
And that's why he's dangerous. Because I don't know why he's doing what he's doing.
The text comes quickly, surprising me, because earlier I had no bars. This is weird.
You're here? Kina texts. She’s using an encrypted messaging app.
Yes.
How long have you been here?
Long enough.
There’s a pause, then the three dots of typing.
Is he McDuff? Don't do it.
Why not?
You weren't ordered to.
How do you know?
You hesitated.
A calculated choice. You're the one known for injecting emotionality into situations, I text back. And then I regret it.
She reads.
She runs away.
Damn it. Not the homecoming I was hoping for.
My phone buzzes again. Good. She's reaching out, trying to–no.
Not Kina.
It's Smith.
Svetnu ordered a meeting. Come immediately.
Closing my eyes, I breathe in through my nose, working hard to calibrate my emotions and my body, bring them both down to the control level I need.
The mower engine revs hard, bursting to life with a crack that sounds enough like a gun to make me duck. McDuff makes a sound of victory and pops on his ear covers, grinning like a workman proud of his efforts, and maneuvers the mower away from me, lowering the blade.
The roar pisses me off.
The green cuttings spewing out from the machine make me see red.
I obey my order.
I find the small opening I've dug under the fence, in a thatch of snarled, thick vines. I’ll fill it in again before I leave, if I can. If I don’t have time, I'm sure some grounds-crew member will discover it eventually and report it, but for now it's my secret.
We all need secrets.
My hand itches as I stand on the compound side of the fence, McDuff in my peripheral vision, moving the mower in long, straight lines that irritate the hell out of me.
So close.
I was so close to killing him.
Why did Kina stop me?
Time to find out.
17
Kina
Bastard.
That bastard.
I know why he said that. My comment crossed a line.
His drove a bulldozer over it.
Not because he's wrong. But because he wrote that for a different audience, not me. That was a show. He can’t tell if we're being monitored on the app, because he put in warnings when he installed it on my phone, but nothing is ever one hundred percent secure. He used a perceived weakness of mine, though, and that was beneath him.
Low-hanging branches whip against my shins as I run, half on trail, half off, tears filling my eyes with a fury and sadness that is alarming. Emotions shouldn't rip to the surface like this, as if there’s a machete inside me, the feeling itself cutting its way out of my chest.
But they do.
By the time I reach the nursery, I'll have to make sure my eyes are dry, but for now I can cry freely. And for a few minutes, I do. But tree roots and pine cones litter my path, and my blurred vision is dangerous. I can’t afford to get hurt now. Eventually my calves scream, my hamstrings beg for a break, and my mouth and eyes are too dry to keep running.
Can't drink from my water bottle, but I can pour out the water and stop carrying so much weight. I'll keep a little in there, so it can be tested. I have no choice but to report what the guy back there did.
I'll report it straight to Callum.
He's here? He’s been here? How long? Why is he on the other side of the compound fence? The second my eyes landed on him, my heart went into overdrive.
A sense of hurt fills me. Why didn't he tell me he was here? Why the secrecy?
That's easy to squash. Because it's Stateless. We live and die by secrecy.
Uncapping the water bottle is easy, but my fingers realize there's a problem before my mind can process it. Something scrapes against my fingertips, my skin trying to identify the shape. It's got a straight edge and it's small.
I look down, turning the bottle in my hand.
There's a memory chip taped to the bottom. My bottle is black, and he’s used black electrical tape.
The mower guy taped a memory chip to my bottle.
Ice water explodes in my blood, making me shiver. The sensation is so swift, it makes my neck pop as I stretch up, dropping the bottle. It cracks against a bare stone and I nearly scream, bending down quickly, hoping the chip wasn't destroyed. The air chills my knees, my fingers numb as I touch the bottle and find the chip.
Intact.
I look up, nowhere near the fence where I saw Callum before, but searching anyhow. Why would the mower man give me a chip? Is this a trap? Callum might be out there because he's Stateless. Maybe this is a loyalty test. It wouldn't be the first. We're tested constantly when we're in training, but I haven't had a loyalty test since graduation.
Why would they bother with me? I'm on compound. A mere nursery worker. They assume I would never cross them.
Until now?
Going to the hospital with Jay may have triggered this. If it’s a trap, and I look at the chip, they could use that against me.
But if the mower man is not Stateless, then ignoring the chip could create a new set of problems.
If only Callum were here–right here, next to me–to talk this through.
I palm the chip, pressing it against my thigh, inside my shorts. I make it look as if I’m adjusting them. The tape is convenient, easily hidden, thin skin taking a few seconds to adjust.
Five minutes of walking along the trail brings me to the opening near my building. Heart slamming against my ribs, I enter and go to my apartment. I peel the chip from my skin with minimal wincing, then stare at it on my fingertips.
What is in there that is so important, some operative would create the days-long charade of mowing on the other side of the fence to get this to me?
And why me?
“Kina?”
Philippa's voice makes me startle so badly, I tip a kitchen chair on its side, the clattering bang reverberating as the top of the chair settles, each sound an indictment.
“Are you ok? You look really off.”
“I'm fine. Just ran too hard. Pushed too hard.”
“You haven't been getting enough sleep,” she chides, then changes topic. “Jay's complaining that his ear hurts.”
“Seizure?”
She shakes her head. “Seems fine. Could be a regular old ear infection.”
“Give him ibuprofen and we'll have the medical office take a look.”
She starts to leave, then stops herself. “Kina?”
“Yes?”
“What was it like?”
“What was what like?”
Jutting her chin, she motions in the direction of the compound gates. “Out there. At the hospital with Jay.”
I smile sadly. “It was everything we were told it would be.”
“That bad?”
“I wouldn't call it bad,” I answer slowly, wondering if this, too, is some sort of loyalty test they've put Philippa up to. “Different. People are different.”
“Becaus
e they are vacuous?” A tilt of the head tells me she's studying my every word, processing it.
“They have different priorities than we have,” I answer, measuring my words.
“Their system treated Jay like a checklist, didn't it? People have to fit into institutions. They worship those. What we need is strong leadership–”
A baby cries in the distance. Without another word, she turns away. A door shuts. Murmurs.
Then the distinct sound of running water. A child must have had a diaper blowout.
If Philippa's strange line of questioning is a sign that I'm being monitored carefully, my urge to view the chip the mower man gave me could be my downfall.
Then again, doing nothing could destroy me, too.
I peek my head out my front door. Philippa is talking to a toddler who argues defiantly against the bath she's trying to get him into.
I take my chance.
I slide the memory chip into the tiny slot on the side of my phone, and open the Downloads folder.
File #1: can’t open. Same with the next six. Panic races through my blood, slapping at my skin like a crowd caught in a burning building, trying to break through locked doors. What is going on? Why can’t I read any of this? What have I done, downloading these, leaving tracks in the computer system pointed straight at me?
Click.
I click nevertheless. Because I’m already doomed. The files are traceable to me. I forgot to be traceless.
Might as well see what I’ve got here.
The first file that finally opens is an MP3. My earbuds are right here. With shaking hands, I insert the jack and one earbud, keeping the other ear clear to listen for someone coming.
It's a phone call. A man and a woman.
“No. No luck.”
“None at all? What about the boxes from Jane's ranch?”
“Alice's files reach a dead end. Some sort of water treatment research center where Maryland and West Virginia converge. It makes no sense that Wyatt would be–”
