The Separation Trilogy Box Set: Books 1 -3

by Felisha Antonette

  I look over my left shoulder, seeing another couple of soldiers posted up behind me. Over to my right, there are two more. All of this isn’t necessary. “I don’t remember saying anything,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “And yesterday? How long have I been sitting here?”

  “Obviously, a day,” says the same soldier from a moment ago. “The three-legged creatures, your annoying skateboard ride to the town meeting, hunting for Jackson?”

  “And your hunt for Jackson is why we are here,” says the soldier in front of me, pressing his armored palms to the table. “Where is Jackson?”

  I rack my brains, but I come up blank. The last thing I remember is being thrown into a car. They’ve drugged me with some kind of serum that had me rambling for hours—maybe an entire day. What could I have said? Apparently not much if they are asking me about Jackson. And maybe the soldiers aren’t the ones who took Jackson, considering they are asking me where he is.

  I lift my wary gaze a quarter of the way to the soldier’s face in front of me, glimpsing the lower half of his bearded chin, encased behind the shielded helmet. “I don’t know where Jackson is. I’ve apparently told you all I remember. Please, I just want to go home.” Handcuffs clutched around my wrists rattle against the thin bar, keeping my arms chained to the table. I sit on a chair with restraints shackling my thighs and ankles. “Please let me go. The next step is for you to take me away, right? Don’t take me back there. I promise, I’ve told you everything. I just want to go home.”

  “This is your home now.” The soldier stabs his index finger against the table. “We know you know where Jackson is. Tell us, and we will no longer put you through the trials. Continue to lie, and we will wipe you clean, give you a reason to not remember. If that’s something you prefer, advise me now, and we will completely erase, then reconstruct you.

  My hands shake. “You… You can’t treat people like this. We are human beings! You can’t steal us from the world and just do what you want with us. It’s inhumane.”

  “Would you prefer we do this to animals?” The man smiles. The blue light shining up from around his neck illuminates his face, highlighting every strand of gray hair on his chin. Leaning toward me, from the other side of the table, he looks me head on, awaiting my response to his absurd question.

  To the left, the silver metal door in the wall slides open, and another man enters, also suited in his exoskeleton armor. Engraved on his chest, Commander. His strides are smooth, his suit doesn’t whine, and his steps don’t thud. He approaches the man still hunched over the table and gives him two taps on his shoulder. As the Official straightens, he says, “This is the last opportunity you’ll have to tell us where Jackson is.”

  “What do you want with Jackson?” I try to avoid looking them in their eyes, but it’s so hard. I want to glare at them, give them a warning glower to keep away from him or else.

  “Is that your response to the question?” the Commander asks, tone also calm. He draws his hands behind his back and takes a stance with his feet apart. I feel him staring down at me, patiently, threateningly.

  A line of soldiers march into the cramped room, lining up against the wall behind him.

  I breathe heavily, every inhale like a punch in the chest. “No. No. I’m sorry.” Tears warm my cheeks, and my body shakes as my heart pounds. “I really don’t know where he is. I’m sorry. I don’t know, but I’ve told you everything. Everything that happened that night.”

  Unconvinced, the leader of the pack shakes his head. “We don’t believe you.” Starting in a calm voice, he explains, “What we’ve learned from you all, this tested group of humans, is that you know how to keep lies and resist. It’s better that we clear your past and reconstruct you to better fit our needs for the future.”

  I’m frozen, silenced with fear. I’ve seen what a reconstructed human is like. I’ve seen what they do to us. What Jerry had warned me about. We will no longer be ourselves. We’re turned into emotionless, man-made robots that will jump when they say jump and kill when they say kill. Someone you’ve loved forever, they’re forgotten, and we will slit their throats at a simple command.

  “Don’t,” I utter, knowing death will be better than being a mindless slave. “Just kill me.”

  He waves his footmen over, each happy to approach. I avoid looking at them. They release the restraints on the chair. “Wait! Wait!” I struggle to catch a grip on the flat, slick table. “Please don’t take me into that room! I’ll tell you whatever I know. I’ll tell you everything! Please don’t take me into that room!”

  Jabbing his shiny metal finger in my face, the man seethes, “We need to know where Jackson is. If you don’t know that, then your mind is of no use to us. Get her out of here!”

  They yank me away, armor cold as ice clutched around my arm. “I was with him that night, but I lost him. It was like magic. He was there one moment and gone the next. What do you want to know about Jackson? I’ll tell you; I promise. Don’t have them take me away.”

  The man holds up a hand, and everyone halts. “Where did you meet him? What are some things you’ve talked about? What conversations have you two had about the dome? What has he taught you about the plan?”

  “What plan?”

  “You tell me…”

  Chapter Three

  “It was nearly a year ago,” I say, fiddling my thumbs, one flicking over the other. “I was with my mom and had busted up my ankle pretty bad.” I close my eyes as I relive the day I met Jackson and the days to follow.

  “Mom, I’m okay,” I tell her, throwing my head against the headrest. “It’s just a sprain.”

  “It is not just a sprain, Ari.” She slams her perfectly manicured hand against the steering wheel. “The damn thing is twisted in the opposite direction!” My mother, the worry bug. If I sneeze, we need to call the doctor. If I shed too much hair in one month, we’re calling the doctor. If I fall off my skateboard and twist my ankle, we’re rushing to the emergency room. She’s breaking the speed limit, zooming through our small town to the only hospital under the dome. Tulson Valley Medical Center.

  I look down at my left foot facing the direction of my calf instead of my shin. I can’t move it. “It does hurt pretty bad.”

  Mom calms a little, turning her frown into a worried smile. “We’ll get it fixed, Ari. Sit tight, I’m a block away. You have to be careful and…” She goes on with her ‘be careful’ speech and how careless I can be. I don’t argue with her. After losing my father, being locked in a dome while the so-called ‘aliens’ destroy the rest of the world, it’s been a little tough, and I try not to make it worse.

  I look away from her when she flicks her amber eyes to me. They sparkle against her olive skin, and chestnut curls whip in the wind from the rolled-down window. We look alike. Time is extremely kind to my mother. She’s often mistaken as my second sister.

  Mom cuts the wheel and pulls into the parking lot of the hospital. She parks at the hospital’s emergency entrance and kills the engine. I swing open the door and take a leap out of her truck, forgetting to land on the right foot.

  Mom shouts behind me, warning me a second too late. I fall, cringing in pain as a whine cuts from my throat. Hitting the ground, I scramble to sit on my butt and hug my leg to my chest, crying in pain.

  “Can I help you up?” a boy asks. He looks down at me. Dark, shaggy hair brushes the top of his brows. “Your... Mom? Is coming with a wheelchair.”

  I take his extended hand, and he helps me to my foot. Once I’m settled in the wheelchair, he nods once as I thank him, and he goes back to his phone conversation as Mom wheels me into the hospital.

  He doesn’t look back as he walks away or seems the least concerned. I recognize him from around town, mahogany-colored hair with eyes to match, his boyish face with not a speck of facial hair, and his height, well over six feet.

  I’ll later find out that his name is Jackson Gene. This day, he was at the hospital with his mother who was having a severe asthma attack.
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  I think little of our meeting or him helping me, but I take notice of how, for days, I don’t see him again. Not until a month later at our town’s weekly neighborhood watch meeting.

  Jerry McGuire, a boy I go to school with and will graduate with me next year, waves me over to him. He sits among some familiar and unfamiliar faces. “I took your advice, and I met some new friends,” Jerry says with a smile brightening his deep chocolate eyes. He points to the boy whom I’ve yet to grab the attention of. At least, I thought I didn’t grab his attention.

  He surprises me, saying, “Hi. I’m Jackson. Please don’t call me Jack.”

  “We’ve met.” I press my lips together, giving Jackson a smug smile. “You helped me out at the hospital.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He snaps his fingers once. “That’s why you look familiar. How’s the ankle?”

  Lifting my left foot into view by placing it on the bleacher in front of him, I say, “Better. Thanks. I’m Ari. Nice to meet you.”

  Looking me dead in the eyes, Jackson silences the people around him by simply raising his hand. “Ari?” he asks, brows tugging together as he purses his lips.

  I nod. “Yeah. What of it?”

  “Would your last name happen to be Raven?”

  Taken aback, I slowly nod.

  “Do you know Paul?” Jackson asks.

  “No,” I tell him. But I wonder how he knows my name. Maybe I’ve come up in a conversation he’s had in the past with this Paul person who knowns someone I know.

  “Oh.” The interest that sparkled in his eyes and lingered as he observed me dims out. He looks away from me, but before he resumes his chat with his friends, he turns back and asks, “Would Teddy happen to be your father? Excuse me. If he were still here?”

  I swallow hard. No one ever brings up my father. “He would.” I clear my throat and make sure I don’t let the sting of loss in my expression show.

  “Sorry,” Jackson says, seeming to notice my discomfort.

  I smile and say, “It’s fine.” At least, I’d like for it to be, but those wounds are still a little raw.

  Jackson stands and throws his arms around me. “It’ll get easier with time,” he whispers in my ear. “It’s still fresh for us too.” Shocked by the sudden gesture, I’ve not returned his hug by the time he pulls away. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “Finally?” I rub the upper parts of my arms, examining Jackson. “Who was my father to you?”

  Jackson looks away from me to his friends. They give a hinting nod, and Jackson says, “He was a major part of our watch group.”

  My father, Teddy Raven, was a part of our town’s primary watch group. Until the soldiers killed him based on a conspiracy against him and others hiding behind the title of a watch group while they were really the start of the Resistance. They murdered him in front of the entire town and promised to do the same to anyone who dared go against the rules.

  Whoever sent the soldiers here to watch us claims to be our saviors and going against them isn’t tolerated. They’ve not given themselves a name, but we all think it’s a government agency. What or who else has the power, funds, and ability to block off a town? Or kill off people just because they want to?

  What they did to my father is a sight I will never get out of my head.

  “I had to go to all of his watch meetings. I don’t remember seeing you there,” I tell Jackson.

  “I was there,” he assures me with a soft pat on my shoulder. He sits and continues his conversation with the others.

  I spread my hands, palms up. “There. Happy now?”

  I analyze the man in the armor suit, learning his name is Commander Kelly Fields from a speaker sat in the middle of the table. A woman called for him because a decision was needed about the lives of some erratic locals. He instructed to wait until he interrogated them. Back home, after that battle at the school, I suspect everyone in town is still very shaken up. My mother must be worried sick.

  At least I’m no longer cuffed or shackled. The restraints are pointless anyway. I wouldn’t dare run away. Unless they try to take me to that room.

  “And?” Commander Fields asks, crossing his arms.

  I lean back on the chair, sighing as I say, “Months passed before I saw Jackson again, and suddenly, I went from never seeing him, to seeing Jackson all the time.” Lifting my gaze to the ceiling, I drop it to the top of the man’s helmet, doing my best to avoid his eyes. “Is... Is this what you want?” I ask. “You want to understand who Jackson is?”

  “Yes.” Commander Fields says, nodding. “What happened from there?”

  I look over my shoulder. “This dweeb behind me obviously has something against my skateboard. But at this point, my ankle was finally healed enough for me to jump on my favorite board,” I blurt the words, rolling my eyes, “and coast down the slowest street on a Wednesday morning.”

  Chapter Four

  Orbit Street.

  It’s a bit of a slant, and I kind of feel like a daredevil boarding all the way down, over the cross street and onto the rocky slope on the block after. The rocky incline leads to flat land that’s just before a ditch that sinks deeper than ten feet. Beyond the ditch is the edge of the dome, which we’re restricted from approaching. No one knows exactly how far the ditch goes because most are too afraid to get closer to the edge of the dome and others claim to not be able to see the bottom.

  “Hey, Ari!” It’s Jackson. I don’t need to look to put the voice to the face. It’s been stuck in my mind since the day he helped me at the hospital. I come upon Orbit, and he’s crossing the street from my left, 34th Avenue, jogging in my direction.

  I kick up my board, taking it in my hands as I wait for Jackson to reach me. “Oh, hi,” I greet when he makes it to my side.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

  I narrow my eyes and purse my lips, “Aren’t you?”

  “No,” he says with a frail chuckle. “No way am I letting them stuff my head with that garbage.”

  I smack my lips and place my free hand on my hip. “You don’t have a choice, Jackson. All of us who are school-aged must attend.”

  Jackson shrugs, and our conversation falls by the wayside as he conveniently changes the subject. “It’s been months since I saw you last. How’s everything?” he asks. He’s comfortable, like we’ve known each other for years instead of having only met recently.

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “I guess.” Throwing a point toward the hill, I say, “I’ll catch you later. I’m about to hit this slope.”

  Jackson laughs at me as he mocks, “Slope, huh?” Sobering, he asks, “Mind if we walk and talk?”

  Turning my back to my Wednesday joy, I shrug. “Sure. I guess.”

  “Here.” He gestures toward my skateboard. “Let me carry that for you.”

  I pass it to him, eyeing him suspiciously. “Thanks,” I say slowly, interest piqued in finding out what he’s up to.

  He flashes me a crooked smile and winks.

  Jackson is nearly a half-foot taller than I. He practically lives in a black hoodie, black jeans, and black boots. All the guys I see him around dress the same. My father, most days, did as well. Jackson’s eyes are dark, such a warm brown they’re nearly black, and when he meets my eyes, they intensify with an interest or a conclusion, or maybe it’s just remorse. I’m not sure. All I know is, when he turns to me, and our gazes collide, I don’t want to look away.

  He’s attractive in a “slumming it” kind of way, with his hair always shaggy and his personality mellow as if he never has anywhere too important to go, and the steady drawl in his tone that carries his words a little longer than the average person, making our conversations long, but enjoyable.

  I imagine, when he looks at me, he sees this fragile, brown-eyed, messy-haired brunette, with puffy red cheeks, chewed on lips, scuffed up sneakers, and sadness. And he’d be right about five of those things. I’m not fragile, and I’m not sad. Not anymore. But when he looks away from me, the way t
he corner of his eyes twitch, I can tell…

  From this day onward, every day I’m not in school, Jackson and I are together as he insists on training me.

  “Train me for what,” I ask him every day leading up to the day we put on boxing gloves and meet in his basement.

  “You have to not only know how to defend yourself but protect yourself,” he tells me, slapping the sides of the punching bag.

  Jabbing at the bag hanging from a pole in his basement, I huff. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “No,” he snaps as if I’ve made a stupid statement. “One builds strength and confidence; the other builds character. Now anyone can block a punch or avoid getting hit, but not everyone can punch back, and not everyone will risk taking a hit to land one.”

  Hugging the punching bag as a thanks for holding my tired frame up, I pant. “Jackson, why do you think I need to fight someone. Why’s all this even necessary? We’re going to be stuck in this dome for the rest of our lives. No one is going to be attacking me.”

  I peel myself from the bag and wipe the sweat from my face with the bottom of my tank top.

  Jackson snorts and turns away from me. It stings when he does this like I’m not worthy of his stare or my presence has disgusted him in some way, and he can no longer stand the sight of me. I guess I want him to watch me. To be caught by his eyes. To be enveloped in his gaze. But I won’t tell him that.

  I start back at the bag, throwing two right jabs and then a left. “Why the dramatics, Jackson?”

  “It’s just funny to me, that’s all.”

  “What? The pronoun game?”

  He snorts again. “You’re a Raven, Ari. It just amazes me the things you don’t know.”

  Shoving the punching bag from my path, I march up to Jackson’s back and jab my gloved fist against his spine. “Then tell me. What don’t I know?”

  Jackson turns on his heels but looks over my head. “I suspect if your father wanted you to know, he would have told you.” He bumps my shoulder, passing me, going back to the punching bag. “Now get your ass back over here and practice those high kicks.”