by Shanon Hunt
“Exactly. You’re doing an excellent job. Opening another external line to the poisoned world is too risky. Each line significantly increases—”
“—our risk of being hacked. I know that, James. You’ve said it a hundred times. But what about the risk of HIV and hep C that comes with more drug abusers? You insist Eugenesis is not in the business of curing diseases, so why aren’t we more careful about who we bring in? Not to mention the increased time and effort it takes to clean them up before they can even join the inductees. Some of them have been in the meth clinic for weeks.”
Her favorite Mediterranean couscous salad appeared in front of her, but she had no desire to eat it. She wasn’t sure if it was the frustrating conversation with James or her changing sense of taste due to her pregnancy that turned her off, but she shoved the plate away.
James threw her a dismissive wave. “There’s a place for everyone on this campus. If they aren’t well enough for your program, they’ll be placed in a different one.”
She was only vaguely aware of the other experimental units on the campus. James refused to discuss them. Like everyone else, she was on a need-to-know basis. The access restrictions imposed by the Eugenesis council were ridiculously excessive, if you asked her—downright paranoid. But that was a fight for another day.
James picked up his cheeseburger and squeezed the bun gently. Grease dripped from the meat and onto his plate. Normally, that would’ve completely grossed her out, but she found herself staring at the small pool forming on his plate beneath the underdone patty, oily and slightly pink. She could detect the malodorous, gamy scent of grass-fed beef, but instead of repulsing her, it made her mouth water. She had the urge to lick his plate.
She forced herself to look away. “Mia gets outside access. How is her work more relevant than mine?” Mia was a GS-5, and Layla was only a GS-4. Sure, Mia had been there a lot longer, but Layla was running out of arguments.
“Mia’s work requires her to have external communications. Come on. You know we all have to make sacrifices here.”
“Sacrifice? What have you ever sacrificed, James?”
His smarmy smile returned; he was going to dodge the question. He held up a french fry as if it were a peace offering. “You are brilliant and beautiful and perfect as the leader of the purification program. The inductees practically worship you. All your new ideas and changes have done wonders for the program.”
She wasn’t interested in making peace or being mollified. She stood and slid her chair under the table with enough force to make it screech against the ceramic tile and turn the heads of the physicians on the upstairs balcony. She scowled at them. “I have to get back to the intake room.”
“Layla, don’t leave mad. Come on, tell me what kind of research you want, and I’ll get it for you.”
“You’re missing the whole point,” she called over her shoulder as she stomped away.
“Have a great afternoon, beautiful girl,” he yelled after her. “See you tonight!”
She grunted with exasperation as the dining hall door slammed shut behind her. A hot breeze swept between the buildings and her long hair whipped across her face, stinging her eyes. The medical research building, which loomed high above any other on campus, was directly across from the dining hall, connected via an enclosed bridge on the second floor. The design had turned the space between the buildings into a pesky wind tunnel.
She growled. She was obviously too emotionally charged to go straight back to the recruiting center. She needed to unwind.
She crossed the walkway to the medical center, which had a small gym on the first floor. Despite Dr. Farid’s warning to take it easy, she had no intention of giving up the muscle mass she’d built over the last couple of years. She still jogged on the treadmill, albeit significantly more slowly, and she still pumped weights. She’d gone into this pregnancy with Dr. Farid’s mandatory seventeen percent body fat, and she planned to be back down to thirteen within three months of giving birth.
She gathered a few dumbbells and straddled the bench. Most people used the fancy weight machines, but Jonah had taught her the greater benefit of free weights. Those machines might build bulk, but they do nothing for your stabilizers. You’re only getting half the workout, which I know isn’t good enough for our Princess of Pain. It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen Jonah in the gym for a long time. Weeks, maybe. She made a mental note to check up on him—not that mental notes worked these days. If she didn’t have it written in her planner or better yet, on her arm, it was unlikely to ever make it to her forebrain again.
She did three sets of rows, chest presses, biceps, and triceps before she called it quits, just enough to cool her head without requiring a shower and change of clothes. She gave herself a quick rinse in the locker room sink and headed back toward the recruiting center.
The intake room, where she spent two days a week interviewing prospective recruits, wasn’t much more than a sensible lobby serving as the gateway to the recruiting center. Beyond that, through another set of gates, lay the induction and purification facilities on a campus that included housing, dining, laundry, exercise facilities, and an infirmary. Her favorite building was the ritual center—Torturetown, as some of the newer inductees had called it a while back. Thankfully, the nickname hadn’t stuck. It took newbies only a few days to realize the solemnity and import of the pain rituals. They were nothing to be disrespectful about.
“Good afternoon, Sister Layla. With pain comes peace.” Three inductees cleared the path to allow her to pass by, as they always did. Their genuine smiles warmed her heart and reminded her how fortunate she was to be here.
“With gratitude comes the Father’s love. How’s your day so far?”
“Wonderful.”
“Keep up the good work.” She gave each a quick hug and continued down the path past the purge clinic.
She paused in front of the double doors and checked her watch. She had a few extra minutes. She badged inside and sauntered down the hallway, glancing through the one-way mirrors into the sterile white purge rooms. Two were empty. One contained a solo inductee lying prostrate across a hard marble bench. His linen pants and shirt were dazzling white, freshly laundered, indicating he’d come early to mentally prepare for his cleanse. She watched him for several minutes, but he didn’t so much as flinch from the discomfort of his position. He was in the zone, no doubt anticipating with great pleasure what was to come. Her neck tingled as though she were experiencing his moment vicariously.
The door opened and Brother Zane entered, carrying the bullwhip. Although she couldn’t hear his introduction, she whispered the words along with him. “Remember to focus on your breathing, in and out to the count of four. The Father loves you very much and wants you to be cleansed of the poison that consumed you during your life as an impure.”
Her eyes widened as Brother Zane lifted the whip over his head. It truly was magical. Her hand mindlessly circled her belly as the leather strap lashed the inductee’s back. It didn’t tear through the linen or draw blood; the first two lashes were intended to be softer, allowing the inductee an opportunity to request a halt. The ritual was fully voluntary, even once it had begun, but it was reserved for only the strongest of mind, body, and spirit. If inductees hadn’t yet found that strength, they wouldn’t be granted the honor of the cleanse.
Brother Zane finished all ten lashes and settled on the floor next to the inductee. He pressed a cool damp cloth to the young man’s face and offered soothing words—how proud he was, how proud the Father was, and how much closer the young man was to purification—as shuddering sobs racked the inductee’s depleted body.
Layla couldn’t help being a little jealous. Her cleanse had been so long ago that she barely remembered the exhilaration. But at that moment, just reliving his suffering was enough to fuel her for the rest of the workday. She smiled at her reflection in the glass. Witnessing his progression to the next step on his purification path felt like an omen of her own suc
cess. The winds of change were coming, and she would finally get the credibility and respect she long deserved.
3
October 2022, Mexico
Layla paced the small intake room to get the blood flowing in her legs. Eleven intakes in a day were far too many for a single interviewer, especially one carrying an eight-month fetus. She pulled the folder on Vanessa Sykes from her stack and readied herself for another tough call. The whole day had been one disappointing recruit after another. She felt edgy, still irate at James and still troubled about Isaac walking out with that bitter comment.
She eased herself through some yoga stretches while she skimmed the details of Vanessa’s recruitment. Vanessa had grown up in the Midwest back in the States, moved around a lot, dropped out of high school because of mean girls, and ended up in a bad section of Milwaukee, where she found a “family” of drug dealers and addicts who were more than willing to give her the friendship she craved. It was a common tale.
The door opened and Michael entered with the woman. “Sister Layla, this is Vanessa.”
Michael was the perfect image of a recruiter, clean-cut and confident with a warm, inviting face. In the field, he would wrap a blanket around a desperate young prostitute or a wild-eyed addict as if they were his own family. Maybe the recruiting team would be a better calling for Isaac, too. She’d have to talk to Mia about it later.
Layla’s first look into Vanessa’s face startled her. Beyond the noticeably purplish-black eye and slightly healed split lip, the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes and deep lines on her forehead suggested she was older than the Colony typically recruited. Layla couldn’t help glancing down at the file to check her age. Indeed, she was thirty-one. This was a new issue she’d have to talk with James about. They had an unspoken rule to limit recruits to twenty-five years old tops, but maybe the guideline needed to be made explicit.
She extended her hand, falling into her usual intake greeting. “Vanessa, I’m so thrilled to meet you. And thank you so much for enduring the long trip to visit our center.”
The woman’s eyes were wide with terror, so Layla got up to pour two cups of strawberry-infused ice water. She usually waited several minutes into the discussion to offer water, until she had a good idea of the recruit’s temperament. The cup was hard plastic, not glass, but still heavy enough to do some damage if thrown across the table. Nonetheless, Layla believed that this level of service built rapport.
She set one cup in front herself and one in front of Vanessa, slightly to the side. Vanessa didn’t speak or move toward the cup.
“I hope Brother Michael and his team made your trip comfortable.”
The woman still didn’t speak, and Layla found her stare to be unsettling.
“Vanessa?”
She waited several seconds before turning to Michael. “Is she still high?”
She knew she wasn’t. She had plenty of experience with recruits who were still coming down from the shoulder phase of a meth hit, the hours after the initial rush. Silent staring wasn’t typical behavior. Even if Vanessa didn’t want to speak, her eyes would’ve been darting all over the room and she’d likely have already been out of the chair. She certainly wasn’t showing any signs of tweaking.
Michael frowned. “No, I don’t think—”
“Allison,” Vanessa breathed.
“Sorry?”
“You’re Allison. Allison Stevens.” Vanessa’s eyes grew wider.
“No, my name is Layla”—she corrected herself—“er … Sister Layla. I’m in charge of intakes here at the Colony. And you’ve expressed an interest in joining us, isn’t that right?”
“I saw you all over the news. You were on TV—your picture, I mean. You were … You killed a police officer.” She whispered the last sentence as if she were afraid someone might overhear them.
Layla forced a chuckle. “You must have me confused with someone else. I’ve already told you my name.” She was losing control of this interview, and she struggled to regain the upper hand. “Let’s talk about you, not me. Tell me a little about yourself. Where do you live?” She fell back to simple, unchallenging questions.
“Don’t you recognize me?” Vanessa asked, her gaze still eerily set on Layla’s face. “We grew up together, in Madison. We were friends.” She put a hand over her chest. “Vanessa. Don’t you remember me?”
Layla rose and took a reflexive step backward. There was something deeply worrisome about the conviction in the woman’s voice.
Vanessa stood as well. “We were best friends. I used to stay at your house.” Her voice seemed to be pleading as she searched Layla’s face.
A muscle under Layla’s eye began to twitch. Why was this crazy woman’s misunderstanding upsetting her so much? She wouldn’t allow this to continue.
“This intake is over,” she said to Michael, as calmly as she could.
He shrugged questioningly, but she turned on her heels and stalked to the door.
“Come on, Vanessa,” he said behind her, “I’m sorry. You aren’t quite the right fit for this program.”
“Okay, Butch,” Vanessa called after Layla in a sarcastic tone. “I guess you really are the bitch everyone said you became after your dad died.”
Layla froze, her badge up to the scanner to open the door. Her father’s voice rang in her head: Hey, Butch! Come down ’ere!
A wave of nausea moved through her, and she put a hand against the wall to steady herself. Her eyes darted to the video camera in the corner of the room. Had they heard that? With a trembling hand, she pressed her badge against the scanner and marched out.
But Vanessa’s voice seemed to follow her out of the building. Allison Stevens. You killed a police officer.
4
March 2024, Arizona
“Breaking news! A UFO crashed out by Tonopah. Slater, you better go check it out.”
Nick Slater tossed his keys and the bagel bag onto his desk and flopped into the chair, spinning around to face his computer. He set his coffee next to the keyboard and rolled the mouse over the pad to wake up the screen. “Already did, first thing this morning. Turns out it was just your mother. She stumbled drunk out of her double-wide and fell off the porch. Sent up enough dust to cover the sun for a week.”
He didn’t bother to look, but he knew Osborne would be giving him the finger. Given Osborne’s size, it might have hit home a little too hard, but he didn’t care. The guy was an asshat. Even worse, he was a lousy reporter.
Vivian paraded over wearing a miniskirt and a low-cut shirt that left nothing to the imagination. She was apparently trying to pull off the Erin Brockovich look, but he found it a little pathetic at her age.
Osborne made an obscene gesture behind her, and Nick rolled his eyes and went back to his email.
Vivian popped her gum twice. “Hey, Nick.”
He despised gum. Especially noisy gum. “Yeah.”
“Boss Man wants to see you in the fishbowl.” She popped her gum three times in rapid succession.
Shit, that had happened a little sooner than he expected, and awfully early in the workday. The chief was a bully 24/7, but he was a downright raving lunatic before noon.
“What’s he want?” His eyes shot up to the fishbowl. The raving lunatic was pacing like a caged animal, waving his arms in frustration. Nick felt sorry for the poor bastard on the other end of the speakerphone.
Vivian popped her gum and tossed her head in the direction of the fishbowl. “Better get going.”
He exhaled a long, slow breath and shuffled toward the chief’s garish glass office, which sat on an elevated platform in the center of the expansive reporting floor, the better to separate his lordship from the minions. He hesitated at the bottom of the eight steps for a moment for the benefit of his group.
To be honest, he was a little surprised that the Harris piece merited a fishbowl show. He’d buried the story at the bottom of Investigations, certain it wouldn’t attract the chief’s attention. Or maybe this wasn’t about the
Harris piece at all. Maybe he was about to get a promotion. Sure, that was possible.
He glanced back at his group. As usual, they’d all turned their chairs to face the fishbowl, coffee and doughnuts at the ready for the big show. Osborne held up his iPhone and gave him a cheerful thumbs-up.
The glass door swung open. “Get in here.”
Probably not the promotion.
The chief stomped back to his desk and spun his fifty-five-inch screen back so that Nick could see it. “Tell me that sometime late Sunday night, someone hacked into your computer and ran this goddamn story with your goddamn byline. Because I sure as hell know that any reporter who works in my shop would never be so imbecilic as to post a story that I hadn’t approved.”
Imbecilic—nice one. “Listen—”
“And tell me how an investigative journalist thinks that running a folo four years after the story is of any interest to readers in the Greater Phoenix area.”
“It was really—”
“And then explain to me why the hell you work for a paper that delivers actual news when your investigative interests are obviously better suited for a tabloid.”
Nick tightened his jaw to repress a scowl. This wasn’t the first time the bastard had accused him of conspiracy chasing. In fact, he immediately discredited any story that scrutinized big money or questioned big power. “There are hundreds of government scandals uncovered by brilliant reporters every day. You have no reason to believe—”
“Your obsession with that Stevens girl is affecting my ratings.”
That wasn’t true at all. Every paper was a sinking ship these days. No one read the paper anymore. They were too busy tweeting about the best ways to kill the virus or watching PewDiePie play video games.
