“Open it,” Shannon says.
The red-velvet lined interior holds a row of small clear drinking vessels, almost like tiny shot glasses. The bigger screw-top vial in the middle is filled with a tawny liquid. I notice Josh tense up.
“I think Ben wants us to take communion,” Todd says. He holds up the liquid-filled vial. “But this isn’t grape juice.”
“What is it, then?” Eva asks.
“I guess we’ll have to find out,” Shannon says.
“No,” Josh says.
“Are you going against Ben?” Todd asks.
Josh nudges me behind him. “I’m not doing it. And neither is Em,” he says.
Shannon steps toward Josh and gets in his face. “Are you kidding me? You would go against the Kingdom’s plan because of her?”
Josh stands still, his entire body rigid as if ready to strike if necessary.
Shannon looks at me condescendingly. “Well, I think we’ve identified the sinners in the room.” The others turn to me.
“How long have you two been hiding as a secret couple?”
“We aren’t a secret couple,” I say.
“Well, maybe Josh thinks so.” Shannon walks up to him. “I’ll bet you think impure thoughts about her. And Kara, too. Maybe even about both of them at the same time.”
“That’s enough, Shannon.” I’ve never seen Josh angry like this.
“You two obviously need the communion more than any of us.” Shannon cocks her head to the side and turns to me, so close that she’s spitting words into my face. “God cannot help you until you repent and cleanse your soul.”
“Leave her alone,” Josh says.
“Oh, really,” Shannon says. “Don’t you want to explain to your girlfriend how you got that tape out of this room? What else have you been doing in here, Josh?”
I turn to Josh, who looks horrified. My head is churning. “What is she talking about?” I ask him.
Josh stares down at Shannon.
“Go ahead. Tell her the truth,” Shannon says.
He looks at me with a pinched expression.
No. When he was in this room the other day, he was looking for something—it just wasn’t me. Kara’s mix tapes. But why would he want Kara’s stuff? Nothing makes sense. My eyes sting with tears as Josh turns away.
“Ha!” Shannon says. “I knew it.”
I have to get out of this room and back to Kara. I turn to the window again. There has to be another way to unlatch it. Kara is probably wondering where I am by now. What if she leaves me here? Then I see a dark line slip by my feet and off to the other side of the room. Eva screams. My head begins to spin so fast that I can’t tell which way is up. I’m pushing the window, but it’s bolted shut from the outside. I pound my fists against it. I’m so dizzy I can barely stand. Please help me! I can’t even tell if I’m saying it out loud or in my own head. Then a sudden uplifting—almost ecstatic—sensation releases through my body just before I hit the floor.
EMILY X—
(continued)
Cory Daniel gets up every morning in his Florida garden home at 5:45 a.m. to make coffee for his wife and feed his German Shepard named Ace.
At 8:00 a.m., our designated time, I tap lightly on a metal door flanked by the freshly painted beige stucco exterior of his garage. I’m here to meet Cory and see his collection. He’s still holding his coffee when he opens the door, revealing a dim room with a concrete floor.
A fluorescent light casts a manufactured glow over a wall of Tupperware containers lined with newspaper. If not for the light, one would imagine this as an ordinary storage room in the back of a garage, the plastic containers full of Christmas ornaments and itchy, out-of-season clothing.
Upon first glance, the containers appear mostly empty, but if you stare in their general direction, you will see that they contain living shapes, some curled up in a corner as still as a rubber toy, but others in perpetual motion, their heads exploring, searching for a way out of their clear prisons.
“Most of my clients are other collectors,” Cory says. “They have to have permits, though. I can’t just sell them to anyone.”
He cheerfully offers to demonstrate his expertise in what he says “pays for the hobby and the Harley in my garage.” I instinctively back away toward the door.
He walks to the sink to find a suitable shot glass and rips a small square of plastic wrap from a yellow Saran Wrap box. He carefully stretches a clear film tightly across the top and secures a rubber band around the glass as an extra precaution.
He turns to the wall of crates, as if thinking through a crucial decision.
“Now comes the hard part,” he says.
INTERVIEWS FOR EMILY X—
Article by Julia O. James
WORLD SECTOR LEADER (BOSTON): Yes, the Italy mission was the biggest failure in the history of all active missions to date, but we like to focus on our countless successes, as outlined in the Victory Reports I sent for your article. Would you like to hear the most current statistics?
BEN (GAINESVILLE, FLORIDA): The Remnant was inevitable. Without the Remnant, the Kingdom would be nothing.
JOSH (LOCATION UNKNOWN): I feel terrible. It was a nightmare for all of us. Especially for me. [long pause] I loved her.
JULIA: Which her?
JOSH: [silence before hanging up]
PART THREE Europe, July 1994
“There is no coming to consciousness without pain.”
—CARL JUNG
In Remembrance of Me
I wake up outside under scattered stars.
I try to move but nothing happens. I’m too heavy, too numb. A breeze brushes across my face, stirring the smell of dirt under my hair.
My hand is clenched around gravel. I remember the sound of rapid crunching underfoot. The pain when I fell. A voice in my head. Get up. Run.
A hand strokes my hair. I hear my mother’s voice. Sweet girl, she says.
I’m frozen with panic. “Did I die?”
Shhhhhhhh. She’s stroking my hair and humming.
A breeze rustles against my ear. I try to scream, but my mouth tastes like it’s full of metal. My tongue is heavy and thick. Something is crawling on my arm. No, under my skin. Spiders. Ants. Millions of microscopic bugs. Every pore on my body is taut, covered with goose bumps. My palms burn with scratches. I clench the gravel in my hand as the stars begin to gyrate into a pattern, like headlights moving along invisible interstates in the sky.
A raw terror overrides my discomfort. The humming stops.
Mama? I squeeze my eyes shut. They open again to the same sky, the stars now a jangled blur. I’m alone.
My memories are out of reach, careening ahead of my questions in scrambled clips. Running. Running away—where is—oh my God.
My first coherent thought is like a shot of adrenaline: No one can save us.
* * *
The clipped memories continually reorder themselves.
I can’t remember everything. There are blank gaps of time—blacked out with an expanding whine, and punctuated with horrifying fissures in between.
Eva begging, no, no, no, no. And Shannon’s voice. “As your DP, I’m telling you that you must repent in order to receive salvation.
“Just drink it,” Shannon snapped.
Todd grabbed her arm. No. Someone pushed Shannon. Was it Josh?
Then I’m running.
Eva’s scared voice still chanting no.
The memories scramble and run over each other again: Eva moaning and coughing, almost choking. I’m running. Slipping through the gravel. Grasping for traction, but getting nowhere. Ben. No.
Ben was on top of me, straddling my torso, holding me down.
“It’s the only way, Emily,” he said. His warm finger brushed gently across my lips and pushed its way inside of my mouth, methodically rubbing something bitter and metallic into my gums. A slow-blooming shock followed.
His eyes looked down at me with tender affection, like he was trying to save a
wounded animal intent on running away. “Do this in remembrance of me.”
A blank terror. The quiet sky. Then nothing.
I feel tears on my face. Mama?
I can hear myself screaming, but everything is black.
Shhhhh. Sweet girl. It’s okay.
It’s okay.
I wake up again to a brightening dawn. I squeeze the gravel. This time when I let go, my hand opens all the way. I hear the rocks gently click against one another as they fall out. I grab another handful and drop them. I immediately reach for my face and look down at the rapid rise and fall of my chest. I reach my arm above my head where I feel a tangle of grapevines. A vague determination begins to formulate and direct itself to my arms as I grasp the vines and pull myself up. I hear a car on a nearby road. The villa where the Americans were staying sharpens into view. I must have lost consciousness in the vineyard trying to get to Kara.
Kara.
I stumble a few times before I manage to run.
Kara comes into focus, stretched out in the grass beside the pool. Relief washes over me. I start to run toward her, attempting to call her name with my strangled voice. Then I notice her long wet hair swept in front of her face. Her leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Her arm swollen and bent against her gray T-shirt. Her other arm seemingly reaching out to me, palm up, fingers gently curled, as if she just gestured for me to “come here.” A needle lies in the grass beside her swollen arm.
No. No. No. No.
A strange knowing sensation billows inside me, covering everything that was once normal.
I step toward her, my feet heavy and numb.
“Kara?” I can barely choke out her name. I need her to answer, to see her stirring. A deafening static fills my ears. Her face is a pearlescent light blue.
“Kara!” This time I’m loud. Stillness.
A high-pitched tone vibrates in my throat, but my mouth won’t open. My teeth clench so tightly that it hurts. No. No. No. I turn away and look at the villa, my fist jammed against my mouth. Without looking at her again, I bolt inside.
“Help! Please help!” No one answers. I run into David’s room, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. It’s empty. Kara’s backpack is zipped up and sitting on top of the bed. Our documents are beside it. I look down to see my rolling suitcase on the floor. My heart fills with hope and remorseful gratitude. Kara was going to get me out of here. I look out the window where her body lies twisted and unmoved in the distance. This can’t be real.
“Hello?!” I scream. My hysterical voice echoes through the empty villa. Sunlight streams through the open window in a cheerful glimpse of normalcy. I tear through the house until I find the phone in a hallway by the side door. Grabbing the receiver, I dial 0 with no idea if that’s the correct number for an emergency.
Someone says something in Italian, and I whisper, “Help. Please help.” My hand begins shaking so violently that I drop the receiver. It cracks against the tile as an avalanche of fear immobilizes me. It’s pointless. You can’t save her. My mind flashes to Ben on top of me, to the sheer helpless terror of not being able to move or get away. You have to save yourself. The vision of Kara alone by the pool nearly stops me. I don’t want to leave her like this—like that—but there’s no choice.
In a blind panic, I rush to grab the documents, put on Kara’s backpack, and grab my own bag. I tear through the vine-tangled arch, past the stone wall, and onto the narrow road snaking down the steep Tuscan hill. I have to run. I move as fast as I can to get away.
Rows and rows of vineyards smear into the periphery as I sprint, never slowing down until I get to the concrete highway at the base of the hill. I stop on the pedestrian bridge that hovers over the traffic. The incessant roar of cars below echoes my confusion.
My emotions catch up with my thoughts. I try to scream, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. Something like a primal groan comes out of my throat. I cover my mouth with my hand and force myself to keep walking. The town is beyond the bridge, and I finally reach the normalcy of strangers acting out their morning routines. An old woman with a basket stands by a stone doorway. A calico cat leaps onto a flower-lined windowsill beside her. Young Italians glide around corners in every direction, blissfully unaware of the horror in the hills nearby.
An orange bus hisses into the parking lot across the street. I sit down on the sidewalk and try to focus. Breathe slowly. There is no reason to panic. The fear will not kill you. Just pick something and focus. I concentrate on the burly driver stepping off the bus. The clip of his silver name badge glints in the strengthening sun as he rests on a bench to light a cigarette. The engine idles in front of him with the doors wide open, a noisy reminder that his workday is just beginning.
My hands are trembling uncontrollably. This is not really happening.
Then the image of Kara’s lifeless face sears itself into my mind. I push my palms into my eyes until it goes away. A violent force converges inside me, a condensed burning in the base of my throat. I grip my suitcase and stand as the driver tosses his cigarette and steps onto the bus. When he revs a final warning, the consequences of my new reality set in, and the most important things in my life shuffle and reorder themselves, like the sudden successive tick-tick-tick-tick-ticks on the enormous schedule board hovering high inside the train station.
Falling Away
My train is headed to Paris. This is all I know.
I don’t find out where I am going until I find an empty compartment. I sit on my hands to keep them from shaking. This only causes me to shake all over. I put Kara’s backpack and my suitcase in the overhead shelf and step into the hallway where people are smoking impatiently. A man says something to me in Italian and offers me a cigarette. I’m about to wave him off, but my hand won’t stop shaking, so I accept. I inhale deeply when he lights it for me. As I cough out smoke, a wave of calm mixes with nausea. What am I going to do?
I can’t call my dad. He’d be enraged. And then disappointed. The part that scares me most is what would follow: He would be terrified. What have I done? He’d feel completely helpless so far away. It would take him days to get here, then— Then what? I try to imagine him talking calmly to Will or Meredith, or even Ben, but I can only see an explosion of chaos that blows up like an atomic bomb.
No. I can fix this myself. I’ll go back to the villa and pretend, play dumb. But Kara. A terrifying thought slips into my brain: What if one of them wanted her gone? No. That’s crazy. There has to be an explanation. I throw the cigarette out the window and go back to my compartment. The only known factor triggers the worst realization: Kara is gone and no one can bring her back.
My tears blur the moving lights as the train screeches out of the station.
The compartment fills quickly, and there’s nothing to do but sit and wait. The other passengers put on headphones or pull out books. I can’t take my eyes off Kara’s backpack. I can’t look through it now with all these people around. I have no idea what’s in it. I unzip the front pocket of my bag to pull out my passport and Eurail pass, grateful they’re actually there. Kara did the packing. I try to stay calm as I put my bag next to Kara’s. My heart is pounding when the conductor finally opens the door. What if they’re looking for me? I hand over my passport and Eurail with a forced smile. He stamps them without fanfare and hands them back.
As the passengers around me begin to settle in, I try to breathe in and out as quietly as possible. A middle-aged man and woman join hands and look out the window together. The man across from me takes some food out of a paper sack to eat. My stomach gives a slight growl, but I’m too upset to imagine eating anything. My mind won’t stop buzzing, like it might even be making a sound. I force myself to look out the window. Fields ripple into the distance and slick rivers snake in and out of sight as the rocking motion of the train soothes my frayed nerves. Breathe in. Breathe out.
No one knows me here. It’s going to be okay.
At our next stop, the couple pulls down their bags and leaves. W
hen the train rattles out of the station, the other man stands up and wanders off somewhere. I jump to pull the backpack onto the floor by the window. No one even pays attention to this, so I unzip it. I dig through all the way to the bottom, but there’s nothing except clothes, her Walkman headphones, an extra pair of shoes, and a Tampax box. I unzip the front pockets to find several 50,000 lire bills. I pull out a photo of Kara standing beside a beautiful woman with short black hair who must be her mother. They’re with Will in what looks like an African village. Will’s arm is draped around Kara’s shoulders like he’s proud of her. Kara stares into the camera with a half-smile. Another photo is stuck behind it. I pull them apart. The village appears the same as in the first photo, but this one shows Josh and Kara in an affectionate embrace.
I stare at it, every detail overwhelming me with confusion. I double over and moan as if someone punched me. A thousand questions and explanations come and go, but my sense of dread only intensifies. I snap to and shove the photo back into the backpack just as the door opens behind me. The man returns with a newspaper, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
I force myself to stare at the distorted landscape out the window, so as not to draw attention to myself. The soft curves of hills roll by in a languid blur, but my breathing grows uneven again. Look at the landscape. Except for the houses, the countryside almost looks like home. Home. I fight back tears.
I will not fall apart.
Growing up, when I used to get seasick, my dad would tell me to look at the horizon. “It’s always steady,” he’d say. “And no matter where you go, there’s never an end to it.”
I watch the horizon, desperately hoping for something better beyond it.
* * *
I’m shivering under a flimsy youth hostel blanket. The rain outside bounces under the large gap between the bottom of the locked door and the floor of my room in Paris. Herds of squeaky boots periodically cross the opening. Even with the noisy storm, I hear excited chatter, young backpackers eagerly discussing their plans for the day.
Those Who Prey Page 20
