The Rage Colony (The Colony Book 2)

by Shanon Hunt

  Nick glowered. Psychiatrists and therapists were quacks who fed on loneliness and depression and low self-worth, and Dr. Meyers had an air about her that made him even more distrustful. Even her benign story about tearooms felt like a test. A psychoanalysis.

  But he needed an ally. He tried to soften his tone, but the words still came out snippy. “Why am I here?”

  She seemed unfazed by his testiness. “You’re here because I’ve taken an interest in your profile, and I wanted to speak with you in person.” She set two teacups down on the coffee table along with a small tray of chocolate biscotti.

  His stomach rumbled. “Are you the one responsible for locking me in a room for twenty-six hours?” Again, his big mouth betrayed him. He was supposed to be building rapport.

  “Yes.” Her smile finally faded, but her expression held no apology. “I’m a strong believer in the cool-off period after a confrontation. One needs enough time to move through the emotional process: anger and blame for the injustice, denial of one’s own contributing behavior, understanding and validation of both subjective realities, and finally acceptance of responsibility.”

  She perched on the edge of an oversized armchair, crossed her ankles, and gestured for him to sit. He fisted as many biscotti as he could and fell into the cushiony sofa.

  “But then again, you didn’t need to cool off, did you, Mr. Beaumont? Your little stunt wasn’t an act of aggression, despite your long record of assault and battery.”

  He shoved an entire biscotti into his mouth, relishing the momentary euphoria caused by the surge of dopamine. His muscles went limp.

  “And that’s what I find interesting about you. Let me turn your question back to you. Why are you here?”

  Nick could practically see the life donut fly from the side of the boat. He could hear it splash into the ocean just within his grasp. This was his chance. She was allowing him—asking him, really—to do what he did best, talk his way inside the Colony.

  He’d been trained to hustle since he was ten. He could out-maneuver even the most experienced interviewees. He had perfected lying to the point that he could beat a polygraph.

  But as the shrink’s skeptical stare bore into him, his mind went blank.

  His eyes darted around the room, desperate to avoid hers. It had only been minutes, and already she was trying to manipulate him. Using uncomfortable silence to get him to confess something. He knew that trick. Mirroring his movements—we’re so much alike, you and me—just like a pro.

  His gut reminded him that his story, the story of a lifetime, was at stake. Just play along, tell her whatever she needs to hear. But his ego wanted to wriggle from her penetrating gaze and storm out with a fuck you, just like he had the chief’s office barely two weeks ago. This internal struggle sent his thoughts swirling like leaves in the wind until he forgot what question he’d been asked.

  “Mr. Beaumont?” She urged.

  Douchebag Victor. The swirling leaves in his brain lost their breeze and fluttered to the ground. His mind cleared.

  He could channel the douche.

  52

  October 2022, Mexico

  “Jonah?” Layla recognized nothing but the voice emanating from the corpse on the hospital bed. Muscular and handsome just a few months ago, Jonah had shrunken to a fraction of his size, judging by the outline of his body under the white sheet. His face, once tanned and chiseled with impossibly defined muscles and a perfect jawline, was now blotchy and bloated, like a body on an autopsy table.

  Oh, god. Jonah was sick. He is the plague.

  The contraction that had nearly crippled her just moments ago subsided, as if the monster that needed to be born was willing to allow her this moment.

  Her lower lip quivered. “What happened to you?”

  He chuckled softly. “I’m fine. Really, Lay. I’ve been undergoing treatment for bone cancer. I’m doing well, though. Getting better every day.”

  Jonah, the eternal optimist. Early on, Jonah had assumed the role of her big brother. You’re not shy and awkward, you’re quietly confident. You’re introspective, always assessing the world around you like a puma on a high rock, looking down on the rest of us baboons.

  But this time, his optimism was in vain. No, sweet Jonah, you’re not getting better.

  She turned her head as tears filled her eyes. “My father had spinal cancer.”

  She had no idea why she told him, and she immediately regretted it when he asked the obvious next question.

  “Did he recover?”

  “No.” The headline she’d read on James’s computer flashed before her eyes: Madison mourns the loss of patient rights activist who took his own life through assisted suicide. “He gave up.”

  “Oh.” Jonah’s freakishly swollen eyelids closed.

  Layla’s gaze traveled to the drip bag, releasing a single droplet every couple of seconds through an IV tube into a needle taped to the back of his hand.

  Those little droplets travel through my hand into the parts of my body that hurt and make the pain go away. But it makes me verrry sleepy.

  Daddy? she’d tentatively tested.

  Gotcha!

  Layla palmed her blurry eyes so she could read the computer screen. She cranked his dose of morphine to the maximum allowable without a physician password to override it. The pace of the drip increased, but only slightly.

  “Sorry, Lay, gonna have a nap,” Jonah murmured. “I miss you … work out … soon.”

  “I’m sorry too, Jonah.”

  She perched on the edge of the bed and took one of his hands in hers. It was soft and squishy, filled with fluid and gasses. The dry skin felt like it might tear if she squeezed too hard, and maybe maggots would pour out. Try as she might to push the thought out of her mind, her brain stem spoke.

  He is the plague.

  Her face crumpled in agony as she laid his hand back down and gently pulled the blanket over it.

  He must be purged.

  No. She wouldn’t. Jonah was the closest she ever had to a brother.

  Poison.

  “No!” The word came out more like a plea than an assertion.

  Her brain held a thousand wonderful memories of Jonah, and she tried to conjure them up, but her mind flooded instead with memories of her own poisoned life. It was as if her brain stem was turning against her, distracting her so that it could get on with the important work.

  Daddy, why do you have to go? Why do you have to die?

  Because my body is filled with poison, Butch, and the poison is spreading everywhere inside me.

  The fetus seemed to drop a bit lower, allowing her the pelvic flexibility she needed to step up onto the crossbar of the bed and straddle Jonah’s thin body. She wrapped her hands around his neck, her small fingers sinking into the soft flesh. She wanted to gag from the smell, but even though he was fast asleep, she felt any expression of disgust would be disrespectful.

  But the medicine, she’d protested.

  Sometimes medicine isn’t enough, sweetie.

  Her tears landed on Jonah’s cheek and rolled down the sides of his blotchy purple face. The increasing pressure against his throat forced his mouth open, and a grotesque, swollen black tongue protruded from between his cracked gray lips.

  Please, Daddy, I don’t want you to leave me.

  If I stay here with you, I’ll suffer in pain every day and the poison will fill my whole body. But if I go to heaven, all the poison will be washed away, and I’ll never suffer again. Remember the words I taught you?

  No. I can’t. She’d howled with grief.

  Come on, Butch.

  She hadn’t been able to say it back then, back in her poisoned life, when she was just a little girl. At that tender age, some words had such a dark, sinister connotation that they could never be associated with an act of compassion.

  Now she spoke those hateful words aloud. “It’s a mercy killing, Jonah. I’m sorry. It’s a mercy killing.” Her body shuddered with a powerful sob as she squeezed
Jonah’s throat as hard as she could, bearing down with all her weight. Mucus filled her mouth, turning her voice high-pitched and hollow. “I love you, Jonah.”

  The medical alarm was loud enough to yank her attention from Jonah’s face. When she lowered her gaze again, the illusion of a rotting plague corpse was gone. Jonah lay unbreathing beneath her, his skin as smooth and white as a porcelain doll.

  She kissed him softly on the forehead, wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve, and waddled out the door. She turned the corner down an empty corridor just as a nurse outside Jonah’s room yelped.

  “Code Blue! Get the crash cart!”

  Layla didn’t believe in heaven, even if her daddy had, but she was certain of one thing: Jonah’s suffering was over.

  And the poison was purged. The earth will be purified.

  53

  March 2024, Mexico

  “If you didn’t believe I needed to cool off, why was I held captive like a goddamn prisoner of war? No water. No toilet. No food. Do you get off on torturing your recruits?”

  Nick scooted forward to the edge of the comfy couch to take an appropriately aggressive stance. This discussion would be much more productive once she was softened up by a review of his barbaric treatment.

  Dr. Meyers smiled serenely. “Back in my past life—here, we call it our poisoned life—I owned a crisis center for teenagers. Anyone under the age of eighteen could show up on their own accord if they were feeling suicidal or having trouble with drugs or alcohol. It was a remarkably successful program, and I was proud of the work we did.”

  Oh boy, stories of the old days. This was going to take a while. Nick reached for another biscotti and eased into a more natural position.

  “But there was a subset of teenagers—girls, mostly—who were there for some other reason. They were looking for attention from their parents or their boyfriends, or they were simply bored with their routine. They’d cry, they’d show up with cuts on their wrists and arms, they had all the outward signs. But they couldn’t outsmart the battery of psychological tests. Their answers formed a pattern. They were trying too hard to sound suicidal. Naturally, we were able to talk it through and uncover what was truly bothering them, which certainly was a crisis in the mind of a sixteen-year-old. Sometimes when people can’t identify their feelings, they grab onto what’s convenient or what’s worked in the past.”

  The sofa had all but engulfed him again, and Dr. Meyers’s voice was hypnotic. He shifted a little straighter.

  “I found the same type of pattern in the answers to your psychological evaluation. You want to be perceived as aggressive, but I don’t see it. You say you’re running from your past, but I read you as looking for something.”

  He licked his fingers insouciantly. “If you already have all your answers, then why do we need to have this conversation?”

  She remained silent and watched him closely. He felt her eyes burning into him as if she were trying to read his mind. After a long minute, she finally spoke. “Tell me about your relationship with your father.”

  He snickered. “No. Nothing to say.” He shifted his body to the left.

  “Ah, I thought so. See that physical reaction? The flippant wave, the closing of your position, turning away from the conversation. It’s a purposeful underreaction—but you’re filled with negative emotions. I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess: You never measured up. Is that right?”

  He leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “Let me be clear. This is not about me or my relationship with my family. I don’t believe in psychiatrists or therapists. I think you’re all con artists. Your science isn’t real, and you don’t help people. You make them dependent on you.”

  He slammed his mouth shut, unsure what elicited such an inflammatory reaction. He couldn’t burn his one potential bridge to the next stage of the process, the one that would give him sufficient time to conduct a thorough investigation. But dammit, he was tired and hungry.

  “Can I get you some more tea?” she asked. “Green tea has many health benefits, and also a big dose of caffeine.” She didn’t wait for his answer and went to fetch the pot and several more biscotti.

  The tea burned the roof of his mouth, but he downed it as fast as he could.

  “You’d know a con artist if you met one, wouldn’t you?” she asked.

  He gnawed one of the new biscotti. Despite the sugar, his energy was flagging now. Badly.

  “I understand you successfully conned your way onto our bus.”

  Try as he might, he couldn’t hold his eyes open. The caffeine would hit him soon enough, but until then, perhaps he could just rest a little. The couch was just so damn soft.

  Her voice came in louder, as if she’d moved closer. “How do you know your father didn’t approve of you?”

  His brain felt cloudy. How did she know about his father?

  “What did he do that upset you? Tell me.”

  He huffed a little at the memory. “When I was in the tenth grade, I got a ninety-seven on my organic chemistry final exam. It was the highest grade ever received for that test, a full seventeen points higher than the next highest grade.” His fist, still gripping the biscotti, relaxed on the sofa next to him. He was melting into the cushions.

  “That’s impressive. Your father must’ve been incredibly proud.” Her voice had filled with a warmth that hadn’t been there before. “What did he say?”

  Nick swallowed, but his mouth was so dry. “He said, ‘What happened to the other three points?’ And then he laughed at me because I missed a carbon bond in question six, and he reminded me that carbon is the building block of life. As if I didn’t fucking know that.”

  Why was he blathering like this?

  “Interesting. So he took the time to review your chemistry test. Any other examples?”

  Yeah, fuck yeah. He had sixteen years of examples, and then a dozen more after he’d become one of his father’s minions at the Phoenix Sun. “He told me I throw a baseball like a flamer—that was his word for gay—even though I could hit the center of his mitt every time. He still said my form was too feminine. And he called me Sally.”

  Let’s go, Sally, that embarrassing pitch isn’t going to fix itself.

  “Hmm, so he played catch with you?”

  No, no, she was getting it all wrong. Wasn’t she supposed to be on his side? “He didn’t go to my high school graduation.”

  “Did you invite him?”

  I’m doing the speech! he’d screamed into the phone. Uncle Jay, will you help me write it?

  Nick snorted, jolting himself into alertness, but only for a second. “He made Mom leave us.” He couldn’t believe he was saying this aloud. “He didn’t even wake me up to say goodbye.”

  Some birds just aren’t meant to be caged, Nick. He hadn’t understood why his dad wanted to talk about birds instead of getting into the car to go find her.

  “Did she leave in the middle of the night?”

  He didn’t answer. He’d long since repressed this memory. But this lady was right. She had left in the middle of the night. Why hadn’t she left in the daytime?

  “And you blamed your father from that moment on, didn’t you? You pushed him away. You made him the villain because you couldn’t accept the fact that your mother didn’t love you enough to want to stay and be your mom.”

  “No.” His response lacked any conviction. He did blame his father. In fact, several years ago, he had performed an extensive search to find his mother and confront her. What he found was her gravesite. She’d died young of Huntington’s Disease, and for some reason, even though he knew she’d inherited the disease from her own parents, he’d blamed his father for her death, as well.

  “You were a child. Children create stories and memories and good guys and bad guys to deal with their anguish.” He felt her take his hand in hers. “But now you’re an adult. Maybe if you accepted him with all his flaws, he might accept you with all yours.”

  He didn’t have the strength
to argue.

  “But it’s a moot point now, isn’t it? Because he’s back home, in your poisoned life, and you’re here with us.” She slapped the top of his hand a couple of times. “Wake up now, Mr. Beaumont. I know you’ve had a hard couple of days, but I need to get on with my next appointment.”

  His eyes opened, and his head began to clear. The caffeine was finally kicking in. She handed him a box of tissues, then collected the teacups and platter. He wasn’t sure what the box was for until he realized the front of his shirt was wet. Did he spill his tea? Or…

  He reached up to his face. His cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Mr. Beaumont, I’d like to invite you to stay.” She set the dishes in a small sink and rinsed out the teapot. “I’ve taken an interest in adults who were abandoned by a parent and how they form relationships, particularly with authority figures. The literature is rife with theories about distrust, anger, commitment issues.” She waved her hand. “Rubbish. I have my own theories. I’m planning a phase one observational study, and I’d be grateful if you’d agree to join it.”

  He couldn’t process a word she said, he was too concerned with what the fuck just happened, but he nodded. “Okay.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll send my recommendation to the recruiting team. Welcome to the Colony, Mr. Beaumont.”

  As he fell in behind the security detail to return to the van, he surveyed her impressive credentials prominently displayed over a swanky antique desk. Her medical degree, her doctorate of psychiatry, and one other: President of the Milton H. Erickson Society of Clinical Hypnosis.

  54

  October 2022, Mexico

  She was a cold-blooded killer, one that could look a loved one right in the eye and viciously end his life. The sickest, cruelest of murderers.