Unremembered

by Jessica Brody

  I eye the window to my left, considering crashing right through it. Whatever it takes to get out of this place. Out of this booth. Away from him.

  The redheaded man shoots me a look. A look I can only interpret as ‘Don’t worry. You’re safe’. But it’s not until I see the balding man rise from his seat that the muscles in my legs start to relax.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, young lady,’ he says in that same sarcastic tone that Cody always uses. He slowly saunters back to his stool on the other side of the diner. I watch him sit down and pull a cellphone out of his pocket. ‘The boys from the lumberyard are gonna crap their pants when they hear about this.’

  The redheaded man slips back into his seat at the counter without another glance in my direction.

  It was a mistake to come here. I realize that now.

  I should go.

  I start to rise but the woman in the apron approaches with my grilled cheese sandwich on a yellow plastic plate. She sets it on the table and the smell sends my taste buds into a frenzy.

  I sit back down and gobble the whole thing in a matter of seconds. It’s just as delicious as Heather’s was. Maybe even more. I decide that whoever I was before I lost my memories, I definitely liked grilled cheese sandwiches.

  I wonder if that’s a useful clue.

  I pull a napkin from the metal dispenser on the table and hastily wipe my mouth. Then I crumple it up, toss it on the empty plate, and dash for the exit.

  ‘Hang on a minute!’ the woman calls, stopping me. ‘You may be just about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen come in here but it doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay like everyone else.’

  Pay?

  Vivid memories flash through my head. Cody handing a stack of cash to the man at the bus station in exchange for our tickets. Heather swiping her credit card at the supermarket and again at the mall. Scott throwing down several bills on the table of the restaurant.

  I stare back at the woman with panicked eyes.

  She sighs and releases my arm. ‘Let me guess. You don’t have any money?’

  ‘I—’ I start to say but my mind drifts. How am I going to get anywhere without being able to pay for things?

  She groans.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her tab,’ a male voice says.

  We both glance up to see the redheaded man standing next to us. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few of the same green bills that Cody and his father had.

  The woman in the apron shrugs and takes the money. ‘I don’t care who pays, as long as it’s done.’

  She presses a few buttons on the register. A ding chimes through the diner, followed by the slam of the drawer closing.

  I look perplexedly between her and the man, unable to fully comprehend what just happened. All I know is that the woman has already gone back to pouring coffee into mugs.

  I look the redheaded man in the eye and say, ‘Thank you.’

  He meets my gaze and I notice his lips curve into a broad grin underneath his stubbly beard. His smile reminds me of Heather’s. It’s the kind that reaches the eyes. I find myself smiling back.

  A sudden jolt of familiarity runs through me. It’s something about his eyes. They look so . . .

  Tired.

  ‘You should get some sleep,’ I hear myself say. Although I have no idea where the remark came from. My lips just opened spontaneously and the words tumbled out.

  I laugh to cover my embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  But the man’s smile never falters. In fact, it only grows bigger. ‘It’s OK, Sera. You’re right. I do need to get some sleep.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, feeling uncomfortable about the entire exchange, ‘thank you again.’ I turn and head for the exit, anxious to get out of there.

  It isn’t until I’m already out the door and halfway through the parking lot that his response finally catches up with me.

  ‘It’s OK, Sera.’

  Sera.

  That’s exactly what the boy called me.

  ‘It’s short for Seraphina.’

  I immediately spin around and head back towards the diner. But I’m stopped by a bright light that flashes over my left shoulder. It’s followed quickly by another. And another.

  ‘Violet! Violet!’ someone calls. ‘Over here!’

  I slowly turn to assess the damage. There are only a few press people here but more are arriving by the second. A white van with 9 NEWS on the side screeches to a halt and a man with a camera strapped to his shoulder hops out and scrambles towards me.

  ‘Have you gotten any of your memories back?’ a reporter asks.

  ‘Are you satisfied with the way the airline is handling the investigation?’

  ‘Do you plan on suing?’

  A giant light mounted to a large pole flickers on, illuminating the entire parking lot and blinding me.

  I blink, shielding my eyes until the tiny white stars clear from my vision.

  I search for an escape.

  The wall of press is growing in front of me and there’s a thick forest of trees to my left. My best choice is to go right and get back on the main road. I turn and ready myself to run but skid to a halt when I feel a strange tingling sensation on the inside of my left wrist. The skin is pulsating and it’s hot to the touch. Just like it was in the supermarket when I accidentally swiped my tattoo in front of the scanner.

  ‘It’s not a tattoo,’ I hear the boy’s voice say. ‘It’s a tracking device.’

  When I look up, I see a large muscular man standing on the sidewalk in front of me. His features are weathered and worn. Like the yellowed note that sits at the bottom of my trash. He’s dressed entirely in black – black turtleneck and loose black pants tucked into tall black leather lace-up boots. He almost blends completely into the night. His hair is cut very short, a layer of black fuzz. An unsettling scar runs down the entire left side of his face, beginning at his forehead, crossing his eye and dripping down his cheek. The sight of it sends a shiver along my spine.

  His dark, shallow eyes drift from my head to my feet. Assessing. Calculating.

  My wrist prickles again and a small contraption in his hand lets out a soft beep. He peers down at it briefly before returning his gaze to me and I watch the disfigured dark pink tissue of his scar contort as his lips curl into a triumphant smile.

  22

  DARKNESS

  I hear a voice. It’s telling me to run. Actually it’s screaming it. I don’t wait around to figure out who it belongs to. I just obey.

  With the swarm of people accumulating to my left, and the man in front me, I turn one hundred and eighty degrees and make a dash for the trees. My legs move faster than I’ve ever felt them move. They rejoice. As though this is what they were meant to do. As though someone has released them from lifelong bondage.

  I duck and weave through the trees easily. My body knows where they are before my mind does.

  I hear the footsteps behind me. I don’t have to look back to know who’s following me. I can sense him there. But his footsteps seem to be growing fainter with each passing second. As though he’s struggling to keep pace with me.

  I don’t feel tired, but I know I can’t keep running forever. I have to do something.

  I see a clearing up ahead. About a mile away. The forest is broken by the highway. I can hear the soft roar of car engines as they pass. I lower my head and try to pick up my speed.

  The wind whips my face. Branches scratch at my arms. Dried leaves crunch under my feet.

  Less than two minutes later, I reach a road. It’s wider than the street I walked to the diner. I think this is what Heather called the highway. My body urges me to keep going but my mind is telling me to stop and take a moment to assess the traffic. In the end, my body wins and I plough forward. My feet hit the concrete just as a giant eighteen-wheel truck appears over the top of the hill to my right. I dash in front of it, willing myself to run even faster. The front end of the truck misses me
by an inch. I can feel the whizz of air on my back as it barely skims past me.

  The driver reacts to my blur. Slamming on the brakes. There’s a horrible screeching sound as the wheels skid. I stop running and turn around in time to see the entire cargo area of the truck swing out. The torque is too much for the truck to handle. It tips on to its side and continues to skid along the road, sparks flying off the pavement, before finally coming to a rest horizontally across the two-lane highway.

  Another car approaches from the opposite direction but isn’t able to stop in time. It collides right into the bed of the truck. The drivers are able to scramble out right before both vehicles burst into flames. And soon three more cars have swerved around the wreck.

  I stumble up the small hill and stand petrified as I take in the scope of the accident. It looks horrific.

  Oh no. Please let this be another dream.

  Please let me wake up.

  But I don’t. Because I am already awake. It’s real.

  That guilty feeling starts to gurgle in my stomach. It’s much stronger than last time, when the only thing I did was sneak out of the house at five in the morning. The bitter sensation rises up, singeing my throat until I can’t hold back. I gag and bend over. An acidy liquid spews from my mouth on to the grassy ground.

  It tastes like grilled cheese sandwiches.

  After it’s over, I quickly look up and scan the horizon once again. I see my pursuer emerge from the forest on the other side of the highway. He stops abruptly at the sight of the accident and takes a moment to survey the damage.

  The tattoo on my wrist starts to tingle again. A faint buzzing sensation.

  I glance down at it and then back at him. His eyes slowly start to climb – up over the wreckage, ascending the hill – until they land on me. And even from this great distance, even in the moonlit night, our eyes lock.

  I watch his chilling grey eyes narrow ever so slightly as he zeroes in on his target.

  Me.

  He starts running again, manoeuvring around the rubble and debris. He disappears momentarily in the smoke, only to emerge a split second later on the other side. I watch him pause to cough before pushing himself forward and running up the hill in my direction.

  I let out a small whimper and then take off again.

  I can’t make sense of anything that’s happening. My speed. My dexterity.

  None of this is normal. Amnesia or not, this I know.

  I reach a large open field. Through the blackness I can see a structure at the other end of it. If I can make it there, perhaps I can hide. For at least long enough to gather my thoughts.

  I let my legs carry me as fast as they can go. The dark field passes by in a dizzying blur. I reach the building, which I can now see is an abandoned barn that looks partially burned down. I slip inside, ignoring the pungent odour of dead animals.

  The ceiling is half gone. Only a few charred rafters remain. There are several broken, rusty metal contraptions scattered throughout the large, dank space. I walk slowly, finding my footing on the uneven ground as my eyes search for somewhere to conceal myself.

  I hear a snap.

  I freeze, holding my breath. I turn back towards the doorway but see nothing.

  My adrenalin is pumping but I feel alarmingly calm. I just have to figure out my next move. I just have to—

  A shadowy figure suddenly drops from the large gap in the destroyed ceiling. It falls to the ground and lands deftly on its feet. This man is also dressed entirely in black. Although he has the same large, burly build as the other, his skin is darker. Rough. Like the walls of this dilapidated barn. He doesn’t have an eerie scar oozing down his face but it doesn’t make him any less terrifying.

  I should have known, I think, as he lunges towards me. There are more than one.

  I want to fight him. I want to stand my ground and protect myself. I feel the urge to lash out with my arms and legs and throw myself on top of him, but something is keeping me from taking action. As if there’s a strange force embedded inside of me. No matter what directive my brain tries to give my body, the only thing my body wants to do is flee.

  But I’m not even given the chance to do that.

  As soon as I turn to run, a thick arm clamps around my neck, tightening against my throat. I struggle but it doesn’t seem to be making any difference. Out of the corner of my eye I see someone enter the barn, strolling towards us.

  ‘Nice work,’ he says smoothly, giving a curt nod to the man behind me, whose hold is like a noose.

  I manage to rotate my head far enough to identify the newcomer. And when I do, my stomach lurches.

  It’s the redheaded man. The one from the diner. Who so graciously paid for my sandwich.

  I open my mouth to scream but no sound comes out. Something jabs against the back of my neck. Cold and smooth, like metal. I hear a low fizzing sound. My body starts to crumple and then everything goes dark.

  23

  HUMANITY

  I wake to the sound of clanking metal. I’m sitting upright on a chair. I feel drowsy. Like that morning in the hospital after Kiyana gave me drugs to help me sleep. My eyelids droop but finally I’m able to open them.

  There’s someone kneeling at my feet. I feel cold steel brushing against the skin of my ankles and wrists. I try to move but my left foot is attached to something – the chair perhaps? – and my hands are bound together.

  I’m too tired and confused to struggle. Plus, I have a feeling it’s not worth the fight. I’m not going anywhere.

  The man beside me stands up and I can see that it’s the redheaded man.

  Now I struggle. Pushing violently against my metal restraints. But I’m surprised to feel that my right leg is free. It swings so high as a result of my effort that I nearly kick him in the face. He ducks and lets out an amused chuckle before moving to my left side and kneeling again.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Taking these off,’ he says casually.

  I look down and see a thick metal cuff lying idly on the ground next to my feet.

  ‘But—’ I scan the room for signs of my attacker. Or attackers, rather.

  I see the two large men collapsed on the ground on the other side of the barn.

  ‘Are they –’ I swallow hard – ‘dead?’

  ‘Nah,’ the redheaded man responds as he releases the second shackle. I move my left ankle in a circle. ‘Just deactivated.’

  He holds up a small black gadget, cylindrical in shape, with a single silver prong protruding from the end. ‘It’s the same one they used on you, actually.’

  ‘Deactivated,’ I repeat, silently remarking on the peculiar word choice.

  The redheaded man rises to his feet. ‘The human brain is a complicated thing. We’ve learned a lot about it in the past hundred years. Mainly about how to manipulate it.’ He grips the device between his thumb and forefinger and brandishes it towards me. ‘This is called a Modifier. You see, the brain functions on electricity. The Modifier sends electrical currents to the centre of the nervous system, essentially putting the brain into sleep mode.’ He nods towards the unconscious bodies on the ground. One of them lies on his side, one leg twisted awkwardly around the other, his left arm sprawled perpendicular to his torso. ‘They’ll be awake and good as new in less than half an hour. They won’t even know what happened.’

  ‘But why?’ I ask him. ‘I thought – I mean, aren’t you with them?’

  He bobbles his head from side to side, returning the strange brain-scrambling device to his pocket. ‘Yes and no. It’s . . . complicated. I guess you could say we are here for the same reason.’

  ‘What reason is that?’

  He laughs as though it’s a ridiculous question. ‘You, of course.’

  Even though this is the very answer I was expecting, I still find myself wishing he had said something else. Anything else.

  I glance over at the bodies, focusing on the one with the darker skin. Who jumped down from the hole in the ceilin
g and grabbed me. ‘I wanted to fight him,’ I say pensively, almost to myself. ‘I really did. But I couldn’t. It was like . . . I didn’t know how or . . . I wouldn’t let myself.’

  He sighs. ‘I’m afraid that’s my fault.’

  I blink. ‘Your fault?’

  ‘Your DNA is imprinted with the instinct to run. Not fight.’

  I squint at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I wanted to give you both, so you could at least defend yourself, but my request was denied. It was believed that if you had any fighting impulses in you, given your strength, it might cause problems further down the road if you were ever to . . . well –’ he chuckles – ‘rebel.’

  I stare at him in complete disbelief, hardly able to process what he’s saying.

  ‘So,’ he goes on, seemingly oblivious to my reaction, ‘I decided, for your own protection, I would at least give you a flight instinct. So you could safely escape any danger. That’s why you probably feel a very strong desire to flee the moment you encounter any perceived threats.’

  Speech doesn’t come easy. My tongue feels as though it’s too big for my mouth, but finally, in a barely audible voice, I’m able to ask, ‘Who are you?’

  He bows his head, almost looking ashamed. Then he takes a deep breath. ‘I’m the person who made you what you are.’

  What I am.

  Not who I am.

  The grim disparity between those simple little words makes me shudder.

  ‘And what am I exactly?’ I immediately flash back on the conversation I overheard between Heather and Scott before I left.

  ‘It’s like she’s a . . . she’s a . . . a robot.’

  ‘Am I human?’ I add, the words barely managing to escape my rapidly contracting windpipe.

  He sighs, as though this, of all the questions in the world, was the one he dreaded the most. ‘The short answer is yes.’

  ‘The short answer?’ I repeat dubiously.

  He bends down and frees my hands, then leans back on one of the rusty metal contraptions that looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. ‘You see,’ he says reluctantly, ‘it’s not as straightforward a question as you might think.’