The Ridge

by John Rector

  From where she stood, the house looked empty, and she felt a low pain in the center of her chest. If Fiona wasn’t home, she didn’t know what she was going to do.

  She had no place else to go.

  Megan kept her head down and started toward the house. As she got close, she noticed a young couple sitting on folding lawn chairs in the driveway next door. They both had tall glasses with long twisty straws in their hands, and both were leaning back, staring up at the stars.

  Megan slipped behind a hedge and watched.

  Neither of them moved.

  She was starting to wonder if they were asleep, but then the man lifted his glass and sipped the drink through the straw before coughing and lowering the glass again.

  Then he leaned back, eyes to the sky.

  With them out front, and with her covered in blood, she knew she wouldn’t be able to walk up to the front door and ring the bell.

  She had to find a different way.

  Megan glanced at the house beside her and ducked close to the hedge. She ran through the yard to the next block and followed the sidewalk around to the street behind Fiona’s house. Then she counted down from the corner and cut through into Fiona’s backyard.

  She stopped behind a cypress tree and watched the neighboring houses for any sign that she’d been seen. When she thought it was safe, she ran up to the back door, knocked on one of the small square windows, and waited.

  When no one answered, she stepped back and looked up at the windows on the second floor.

  They were all dark.

  Silent.

  Megan went back to the door and tried the knob. It was locked. She bent down and lifted the doormat, hoping for a hidden key, but saw only a clean spot on the cement.

  Frustration swelled inside of her.

  By now, whoever Tyler had called had shown up at her house. They’d found him in the kitchen, and they were without a doubt searching the neighborhood for her.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Megan looked down at the square windows on the door and pressed on the one closest to the knob. It didn’t move, so she hit it with the palm of her hand.

  Nothing.

  She scanned the yard, searching for anything she could use. There was a hose coiled along the side of the house with a small metal sprinkler head attached to the end.

  Megan unscrewed it and went back to the door.

  For a second, she wondered if she really was losing her mind. The thought was so logical, and so late, that it almost made her laugh. And that made her want to cry.

  But she didn’t cry.

  Instead, she stepped back and struck the small window with the end of the metal sprinkler.

  The glass fell away, shattering easily.

  32

  Megan reached in through the broken window and unlocked the bolt. Then she pushed the door open and stepped over the broken glass into Fiona’s kitchen.

  The house was quiet.

  She stood at the edge of the kitchen and looked around. The shadows coming through the windows above the sink were sharp and black against the silver-blue light of the moon.

  “Fiona?”

  She walked out into the hallway, moving slowly past the living room toward the stairs and the door leading to the garage. Once again, she was struck by how strange it felt to be in a house that was the mirror image of her own.

  Megan stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up toward the dark second floor. She thought about turning on a light, but the last thing she wanted to do was draw attention.

  “Fiona?”

  She listened for a response and heard nothing. She started up the stairs, but then she remembered the blood on her hands and clothes and looked down. It was dry, but she didn’t want to take the chance of leaving a trail.

  Megan retraced her steps to the kitchen and crossed to the sink. She turned on the faucet and ran her hands under the water, scrubbing hard at the dark stains. There was a soap dispenser on the counter, but it was empty, so she checked the cabinet under the sink for more.

  There was nothing under the sink.

  Megan frowned, then stood up and shut off the water. She shook her hands dry, then opened the cabinet above the counter and looked inside.

  Empty.

  She moved down the line, opening drawers and cabinets, all of them empty. No dishes, no silverware, nothing.

  Then Megan opened the cabinet next to the stove.

  There was a wooden tray inside.

  On top of the tray were two spoons, two blue-and-white china teacups, a sugar bowl, and a teapot. On the shelf above the tray were two boxes of tea, one yellow, one a pale green.

  Megan thought back to the day Fiona found her outside Rachel’s house and brought her here, the day she’d made tea, the day they’d talked until the sun went down.

  Something inside her fell away.

  “No.”

  Megan backed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. She went into the living room and opened every drawer on every piece of furniture, searching every closet.

  All of them, empty.

  She ran upstairs to the bathroom.

  The medicine cabinet was empty, the towels clean and unused. She pulled the shower curtain back and grabbed the shampoo bottles off the ledge, each one hollow and light.

  Megan made a sharp sound in the back of her throat and ran into the bedroom. She opened the closet, then checked the dresser drawers. All of them were empty.

  Nothing is real.

  The thought seemed to suck all the air out of her lungs, and she ran out of the bedroom toward the top of the stairs, her head spinning.

  She wanted to get out of the house, but as she passed the doorway to Fiona’s office, something on the wall caught her eye, and she stopped.

  There was a map of Willow Ridge hanging beside her desk, framed in black and pressed flat behind glass.

  Megan stepped into the room, moving closer, but even from a distance she knew what she was seeing. The map was the same site plan she’d found in the shed, the same one she’d shown Tyler before she . . .

  Killed him . . .

  She felt her throat tighten.

  As she turned to leave, Megan noticed a stack of manila folders organized neatly on the top of the desk. She reached down and flipped through a few of the folders, then opened the top desk drawer. There were pens and clipboards inside along with several notepads. She took one out and thumbed through the pages. Every sheet was filled, top to bottom, with scribbled notes, times and addresses, and names.

  Familiar names.

  Megan dropped the notepad back in the drawer and glanced around the room. There were bookshelves along the far wall, stocked with books she didn’t recognize, and a scatter of photographs of people Fiona had never mentioned. There was a diploma from Stanford University on the top shelf surrounded by several glass awards etched with the Institute logo and Fiona’s name.

  None of it made sense.

  Once again, the urge to leave the house swept over her, but she pushed it away and ran out into the hallway and down the stairs. When she got to the kitchen, she crossed the room toward the phone mounted on the wall.

  She picked up the receiver and held it to her ear.

  Silence.

  She hung up and tried again. Then she put the receiver back on the cradle, grabbed the phone with both hands, and slid it off the wall.

  There was no cord attached.

  Megan dropped the phone and stepped back, her hands over her mouth. She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or cry or just . . .

  Run.

  She was halfway to the front door when she heard a voice coming from the living room.

  “Megan.”

  She jumped, spun around.

  Fiona was in the living room, standing in front of the large bay window, and she wasn’t alone. There were two men behind her on either side, both dressed in solid black.

  Megan couldn’t find her voice.

  Then Fiona smiled,
and that was all it took.

  The words came flooding out, rolling over themselves in a desperate rush to be heard. Megan asked her about the house, the tea. Then she told her about Mercer and the files in the shed and about Rachel.

  Fiona listened, patient and calm.

  Then Megan told her about Tyler.

  Tyler.

  All at once, the reality of the situation swarmed around her, and she slid down to her knees.

  The tears came hard, making it impossible to speak.

  Fiona stepped closer, knelt beside her, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Megan,” she said. “Everything is okay.”

  “No.” She shook her head, her voice choked. “I killed him. I didn’t mean to, but I did. The knife. He’s dead.”

  “No, honey,” she said. “Tyler is fine.”

  Megan looked up. “How can you say that?” She held out her hands, showing the blood on her clothes. “Look at this. Look at me.”

  Fiona reached down and took her hands, helping her to her feet. “You’re going to have to trust me,” she said. “You’re going to have to believe that what I’m telling you is the truth.”

  When Megan got to her feet, she looked over Fiona’s shoulder, past the two men standing in the living room and out the bay window toward the neighborhood.

  There was a white van parked along the street.

  “No.”

  Megan tried to pull away, but Fiona held her hands tight, gently shushing her.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You have to trust me.”

  “They’re going to kill me,” Megan said. “I know what’s happening around here, and they’re going to kill me.”

  Fiona frowned, but when she spoke, there was a kindness in her voice. “You don’t know what’s happening here, Megan. Not entirely. And I promise no one is going to kill you.”

  Megan barely heard her.

  She tried again to pull her hands free, and she almost succeeded, but then Megan saw the two men behind Fiona step closer, and she stopped struggling.

  Fiona held up a hand, and the men stepped back.

  “Please,” Megan said. “Help me.”

  “Of course I’ll help you.” Fiona took Megan’s hands, pressing them together in hers. “No one is going to hurt you. That’s the absolute last thing we’d want to do.”

  Megan stared at her, silent.

  She could feel herself starting to relax, and her thoughts were beginning to slow down.

  “I don’t understand,” Megan said. “What—”

  “I’m going to explain everything,” she said. “But first, I want to show you something.”

  Megan shook her head. “I don’t want to see anything. Just tell me what’s going on—”

  Fiona held out her hand, and Megan looked down.

  There was a small glass pyramid sitting in the middle of Fiona’s palm. Megan had seen one before, the night they took Rachel. She tried to look away, but something wouldn’t let her.

  Deep inside the glass, she saw a steady blue pulse.

  Growing brighter.

  And then there was nothing.

  33

  She feels small hands on her cheeks, and when she opens her eyes, she’s on her back in a gray room.

  No windows, no doors.

  The child is kneeling over her, touching her face. She’s saying something, repeating the same words again and again, but Megan can’t hear.

  She’s focused on the girl’s eyes, a deep, vivid blue.

  Megan wants to reach out, to touch her, but she’s afraid if she does, she’ll disappear.

  Instead, she says, “Hello.”

  The girl smiles at her.

  Joy.

  Megan feels it in her chest.

  She starts to say more, but then the girl leans over her, close, her breath a whisper against Megan’s skin.

  “Wake up.”

  When Megan opened her eyes, she was sitting on a soft white couch in a pale-blue room. There was a bamboo coffee table in front of her and a large mirror mounted on the far wall. To her right were two wooden bookshelves with a door between them, and to her left, a row of floor-to-ceiling windows stretching the length of the room. Behind the glass, she saw only blue skies and white clouds.

  She was wearing a hospital gown, and she was alone.

  Megan stayed on the couch, staring out the windows, watching soft white clouds drift slowly by from left to right.

  Time passed.

  Then there was a knock at the door, and the latch clicked open. Megan turned toward the sound and watched as Fiona entered the room. She had on a long white coat, and she was carrying two small blue-and-white teacups.

  “I thought you might like tea,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Green, right?”

  Fiona sat next to her on the couch and held out one of the cups. Megan stared at it for a moment before reaching out, slowly, and taking it.

  The tea inside was pale green and cold.

  “They’re almost ready for you,” Fiona said. “But I thought we could visit for a while first.” She set her cup on the coffee table. “How are you feeling?”

  Megan stared at the tea in her cup, silent.

  Fiona reached out and touched her arm.

  Megan looked up at her.

  “How are you feeling, honey?”

  Megan glanced back at the cup, then held it out to Fiona. She took it and set it on the table next to hers.

  “Where are we?”

  “This is my house,” Fiona said. “Where I live.”

  “Your house?”

  “Not the one by you,” she said. “That’s more of an office. This is where I live, at the Institute.”

  Megan’s thoughts kept slipping away from her, and she frowned. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “You’re being sedated,” Fiona said. “We’ve found that it helps. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Sedated?”

  “The blue light.” She motioned around the room. “Nanotechnology. The light sends our instructions along retinal pathways, allowing us to communicate with implanted nanites in your system. Those nanites target neurons in the VLPO of your hypothalamus. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Megan stared at her.

  Fiona smiled. “The light makes you sleepy.”

  “Oh,” Megan said. “Okay.”

  “Would you like to see the view?” Fiona asked. “I think you’ll like it.”

  They stood, and Fiona led her to the windows. As they stepped close, Megan saw Willow Ridge unfurl beneath them, stretching out all the way to the horizon. It made her think of Tyler, and how he’d been right when he’d said the neighborhood looked fake from on top of the ridge.

  Tyler.

  “There’s where you live.” Fiona pointed down toward the left. “Fifth row in, and about halfway up, right in the middle of my section.”

  “Your section?”

  “Five square blocks,” she said. “It’s my job to monitor all the units in that area, and that includes you.”

  “Where’s Tyler?”

  Fiona turned to her. “He’s actually in the next building as we speak. He’s doing well.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “Because of the experiment?”

  Fiona sighed and shook her head. “I really dislike that term. Experiment makes what we do sound so nefarious, and nothing could be further from the truth. I much prefer the term research and reintegration.”

  “But Mercer said—”

  “David Mercer was confused.” Fiona took her arm and led her back to the couch. “There’s no experiment, Megan. All we’re doing is developing a service, a life insurance policy if you will, that we hope to one day present to the public. We believe the demand for technology like ours will be overwhelming, but we’ll let the market decide.”

  “I don’t understand. What is this place?”

  “This is a level-one reintegration facility,” Fiona said. “After a clien
t expires, they are processed here at the Institute. Then they’re assigned to a section in Willow Ridge where they can be monitored in a safe and controlled environment. A few long-term employees who have agreed to take part in the program are allowed limited contact with family members, and we encourage everyone to interact with the community in Ashland.”

  “The renovation project.”

  “That’s right. Very good.” She squeezed Megan’s arm, gently. “The people in Ashland haven’t always been as welcoming as we’d have liked, but we feel it’s important for our clients to interact with a diverse group of people in a social setting before they’re transferred to a less isolated, level-two site and made aware.”

  “Aware of what?”

  “Of their new life.” Fiona reached down and picked up Megan’s teacup and handed it to her. “We delete all the memories associated with our client’s death during processing, so when they regain consciousness, they’re completely unaware of what has happened. In most cases, the hybrid transition is seamless, but we’ve found that if given time to acclimate in a safe, controlled environment, the psychological success rate during second-stage awareness is much higher.”

  “Hybrid?”

  “Hybrid bionics,” she said. “We restore function to the client’s brain and nervous system, and we integrate an artificially intelligent interface capable of communicating with new DNA-specific organs transplanted into the body. We use nanotechnology to restore and repair damage from illness, injury, even from the aging process.”

  “Robots?”

  Fiona laughed. “In a way, I suppose so. Although the body itself is organic, so no wires or circuits.”

  Megan watched as Fiona leaned forward, still laughing to herself, and picked up her teacup. She took a sip, frowned, and set the teacup down again.

  “Mercer told me he remembered.”

  Fiona nodded. “Memories and emotions can resurface, but it’s rare. In David Mercer’s case, due to the unusual way he expired, his emotional response hasn’t been ideal. We’ve had very little opportunity to work firsthand with suicides, for obvious reasons.”

  “The scars.” Megan held her arms out, palms up, fighting to remember. “He tried to—”

  “We’ve since altered our policy when it comes to unnatural deaths, but his case was early. There was no nullification clause in the event of a suicide, and his wife, Anna, was insistent. As a founder, her pull at the Institute was substantial. Although, the unpleasantness of Mercer’s experience influenced her decision to forgo the procedure herself.” Fiona paused. “Mercer has been a most challenging patient. I don’t believe he’ll ever be fully reintegrated.”