Escape to Eden

by Rachel McClellan

  I’m almost to the exit when the floor begins to shake underfoot. There are two closed doors ahead. One of them is huge and tall like the ceiling. I slow just as the door explodes open, spraying debris everywhere. I screech to a halt and stare at the massive figure before me, understanding now why the ceilings are so high. This man, this creature, wouldn’t fit otherwise. He is not only tall but wide, almost touching each side of the hallway. The black shirt he’s wearing barely contains his muscles. If he shivered, his shirt would tear. He has thick red hair like a doormat, and his black eyes are too close together. He laughs, staring down at me as if I’m about to be his new chew toy.

  “Where you go, Ugly?” His voice booms out each word deep and loud. He is definitely not one of the Techheads. And he’s rude.

  My thoughts race and spin as they try to figure out what to do next. I worry that my instincts seem to be hesitating.

  The massive man has a small head with a red face on top of boulder-like shoulders, and long arms that extend down to chubby fingers. The zipper on his pants is open and yellow beehives are printed on his black underwear. Then I notice his legs, which I expect to be like tree stumps, but they are much smaller than the rest of him.

  My thoughts come to an abrupt halt. I know his weakness.

  When he takes a step toward me, I race straight for him, holding the boy tighter to my chest. His arms swing to grab me, but I turn sideways and slide on the floor directly between the creature’s legs, coming up behind him.

  He can’t bend well—that’s his weakness. He glances over his shoulder, confused. A surge of triumph races through me, but then I remember I still don’t know who I am or why this is happening to me. I just know I need to run.

  I slam open the EXIT door. Stairs lead up or down. My instinct tells me to run up, so I do.

  The alarm blares loud enough that I can’t hear my own breathing. My chest heaves up and down, and I start to feel the weight of the boy. The further up I go, the heavier he becomes.

  There’s movement in the stairwell beneath me. Hurry. My legs burn, yet somehow I block the pain and keep going, as if I’ve done something like this before.

  I reach a door with a long sunlit window. I stop and set the boy down, my eyes searching all around the doorframe—for what, I don’t know yet. I open the door and look up. That’s when I find what I’ve been looking for. At the top of the doorframe is a small black box no bigger than the end of my thumb. In its center is a pin-sized glass circle.

  I remove the makeshift plastic pick from between my fingers and wedge it into what I now recognize as a sensor. Anyone who comes after us won’t be able to open the door because the covered sensor will think that something or someone is on the other side. The bad people coming after me will have to wait for security to turn off the alarms altogether, allowing them to manually open the door.

  I call them bad people, but I could be the bad one—I’m the one escaping. But I don’t feel like the bad one. I took no pleasure in hurting those two women.

  I pick up the boy. He wraps himself around me again as I close the door tight. Turning, I am accosted by the bright sun overhead. I raise my arm to shield my eyes. The rooftop resembles a city park. Groups of trees, many of them cherry trees with branches full of pink blossoms, and green grass give way to paved walking trails. Benches and wooden tables have been placed next to the trees providing shade to whoever might want it. No one’s wanting it right now. It’s about 2:00 in the afternoon by my quick calculations.

  I sprint across the grass to the ledge of the building and peer over a four-foot stone wall. We’re very high up, maybe eighty stories. A six-lane, black-as-night road weaves between buildings far below. Small, sleek automobiles glide across its smooth surface, barely making a sound. The structures nearby are the exact height of the building we’re standing on. They are full of windows, broken up by lines of silver metal, creating a large grid.

  Their roofs are similar to this one: landscaped parks with cherry blossoms and metal benches. The buildings are too far to jump to, however, and when I look to my left, I discover a metal walkway crossing to the nearest building. Beyond, similar walkways connect the entire city.

  The door I just came through rattles loudly, and the boy clings tighter to my neck.

  “It’s okay,” I say and take off running toward the metal path. The pounding grows louder on the door. They mean to break it and not wait for security. I have only moments.

  I stop before crossing the walkway. I realize they’ll expect me to go this way. Others will be waiting for me on the other side.

  “We’re going to have to hide,” I say to him. “Can you do that?” He doesn’t answer but he moves his head in agreement. This little boy is smarter than I think. Any other child in this situation would probably be frightened and cry for their mother, but he seems to know how much harder it would make our escape.

  A few trees are close by, but they are much too small to climb, let alone hide in. I keep looking. Dotted across the roof are rectangular aluminum boxes about my height. I sprint to the nearest one and set the boy down. The glass front displays food and drinks—not what I’m interested in at the moment. I run my fingers all around the back of it. At the bottom is a panel. I discover a metal button on each side and push it. The panel pops off, giving access to some kind of electrical box inside. The space isn’t big, maybe a foot deep and three feet high. Room for one small boy.

  I turn to the boy and place my hands on his shoulders. “I’m going to hide you inside here. Do you understand?”

  His blue eyes aren’t looking into mine; they are looking just above at my forehead. His expression is blank, giving me nothing to go on about how he might feel being stuffed in a small, dark space. Out of time, I simply pick him up and place him inside. He hugs his knees to his chest and rocks slowly.

  “I’ll come back for you.” I smooth his blond hair. “I promise.”

  As I slide the panel back into place, my heart lurches painfully. A child this young should not have to go through something like this. I hesitate by the box until an explosion and plume of smoke billows from the rooftop access door. I’m on the run again.

  I sprint to the suspended bridge, praying I’m not seen, but I don’t run across it. Instead I jump over the edge and flip beneath the long walkway. I resist the urge to scream, unsure of exactly what I’m doing, but underneath my hands grab onto two long cables running the length of the bridge. I wrap my arms around them, then my legs, my back to the ground.

  I tell myself not to look down. I fail. Hundreds of feet below me is the smooth black road, a steady stream of cars skimming across its surface.

  What a horrible way to die.

  A fierce wind twists between the buildings, swinging my body on the cables like a plastic sack caught on a wire. After sliding further down on the wires, I hold my breath and close my eyes. There is a commotion above me as people search for the boy and me.

  “She’s got to be here!” It’s a man’s authoritative voice. “Look everywhere.”

  “You four go next door,” someone else says. Their running footsteps echo on the bridge. The movement rattles the metal, shaking the wires I’m gripping.

  “Over here!” a man yells.

  I open my eyes. Metal scrapes on metal. Suddenly I’m more frightened at what I hear than I am of falling.

  “I found one!”

  Several voices talk at once, but all I hear is a child whimpering. The boy. I move to leave my hiding spot, but logic stops me. I don’t know who this boy is, and besides, what can I do? I was lucky before, but now I’m out of ideas. Later I will return for him. When I know more. When I know who I am.

  My heart aches when the boy cries louder. I shut out his voice and focus on the shrill sound of the wind. On the soft whirring of the vehicles below. On the sounds of footsteps slowly retreating back inside.

  Hours pass, and my muscles are burning hanging onto the cables. I’ve shifted positions dozens of times to keep them from se
izing up, but that is no longer effective.

  The sunset provides a temporary distraction, sinking in swirls of reds and oranges, then draining away until all that is left is black. I hang on in the darkness and the silence.

  Very slowly, I begin to inch my way back to the end of the bridge. My muscles won’t let me move any other way. The cables tear open blisters that have formed on my hands. I grit my teeth and continue forward. When I reach the end, I drop my feet, and dangle next to the side of the building, so high in the air. This time I don’t look down. My muscles tighten for a few seconds and relax. They shake as I step upon a narrow lip of the bridge attached to the skyscraper. Painfully, I climb back onto the rooftop, and crouch low, hiding in the shadows.

  No one is around. I’m tempted to return to where I hid the boy, just to be sure, but I spot a camera above the door pointed in that direction, like they expect me to come back for him. I purse my lips together. Later.

  Bending low, I scamper across the bridge to the next building. I’m sure there are cameras there too, but shadows are my friends, my only ones, and I keep to them.

  I stop next to the rooftop door and search all around. It doesn’t have the same security as the Institute’s. I open the door, careful not to leave blood from my palm on anything. No alarm goes off so I slip inside.

  This building smells different, like beef stew with carrots and potatoes. A rumbling creates a pit in my stomach. I follow the scent down two flights of stairs until I hear voices. Through a window in a door, I spot rows and rows of room dividers, sectioning a massive room into small offices. In each cubicle sits a person with a headset. I squint to see if maybe they are like me. Their foreheads are, but the only way I will know for sure is if I see their eyes. I’m struck by what my memory is choosing to remember. Why can’t I remember the important things? I look down at my thin blue gown, at the bruise on my arm, and touch it lightly. Whatever happened, whatever put me in that place, it was bad. My heart, the way it feels as if there’s a great hole directly in the center, is my witness.

  Just then the door opens. I stumble back, caught unaware. Just as surprised, a tall man with dark hair and eyes the color of gold meets my gaze. I wait for his reaction. He stares for what feels like forever. My nerves can’t stretch any tighter. Finally my shoulders slump. I am completely exhausted.

  “Help me?” My voice is small.

  He turns from me to look up and down the stairwell. When he looks at me again his amber eyes turn a soft caramel. He is not like me.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  I open my mouth, hoping my mushy brain will have dried out a bit, but a name never comes. I shake my head beginning to breathe heavily.

  “My name is Anthony.” His eyes flicker to the purple stain on my skin. “Your arm. May I see it?”

  I hesitate, waiting for my instincts to guide me. Anthony is older than me, mid-twenties, perhaps, tall and well built with thick brown hair.

  “You can trust me.” His eyes hold mine, his voice as smoothly modulated as music.

  When an instinct doesn’t come, I raise my arm. He carefully lifts the wide sleeve of the gown and studies the bruise. “We have to get you out of here,” he says looking up. “Now.”

  “Where?” I ask, but I’m too tired to care. Too tired to even think.

  Anthony says nothing. He frowns, the first real expression I’ve seen on his face. He opens the door a crack and peers inside the giant room with all the people. “My office,” he says. “It is along this back wall in the corner.” The frown is gone, his face again smooth. “I’m going to distract everyone. When I do, I want you to cross quietly to it. Do you understand?”

  I nod. For the first time since waking today, I take a deep, full breath. Someone is helping me.

  He searches my face. “You’re going to be okay,” he says, “but no matter what happens, don’t let anyone see your eyes.”

  I nod again. Eyes are important.

  Anthony walks into the room and crosses to the far side. “Everyone, I’d like to make an announcement. May I have your attention, please?”

  All heads swivel in his direction and when they do, I sneak in. I stay close to the wall and try to act invisible.

  “Our daily quota has been met for twenty days in a row. Because of this success, I am allowing you all to go home early.”

  There’s a buzz of voices and a few hands clap. I’m already inside his office, crouched on the floor. The room is gray, and a black desk takes up most of the space. Papers rest on top, neat and organized. A framed slogan on the wall reads: “MyTalk: Your Voice Matters.”

  Anthony speaks again, “It is Friday night. I would like you to all,” he pauses only briefly, “to go have fun.”

  The voices grow louder, but I don’t hear anyone moving.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “Leave or I’ll change my mind.”

  This time people move.

  Several minutes go by before I take a chance and peek between the crack in the door. Most everyone has left, but a few people are gathered around Anthony, talking and laughing. They are beautiful people, perfectly symmetrical faces, smooth, flawless skin, some dark and some light. The eyes of two of them are the same gold color as Anthony’s.

  I duck back when Anthony glances in my direction. “Go home. Have a good weekend,” he tells them.

  Soon there is only the sound of footsteps approaching the office. Anthony enters the room and closes the door.

  “Everyone’s gone,” he says. “You’re safe.”

  He studies me for a moment, and I wonder if he thinks the same thing about me that Ebony thought, that I am simpleminded and plain—ugly. I have the urge to shrink into the wall.

  “The Institute’s Security searched this building several hours ago,” he says. “They didn’t say for what, but it was for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where have you been hiding?”

  I open my palms and stare down at the raw blisters. “Under the bridge. Hanging on the cables.”

  A vertical line appears between his dark eyebrows. “You hung on this whole time?” He reaches into a lower drawer of the desk. “I only have a few,” he says as he removes something small and clear, then he comes over to me and bends down. “We’ll put them on the worst ones.”

  I hold out my hands, and he covers a translucent material over the wounds that have blood oozing from them.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles. It transforms his face into something bright and welcoming. “You must have many questions. I am wondering why you’re not asking them.”

  “I don’t know what to ask first,” I admit. “Everything is so confusing.”

  “Here, have a seat.” He gently helps me off the floor and into his chair. Every muscle in my body fights the movement, and I wish I could lie down, but instincts, or maybe just common sense, tell me there isn’t time for that, and won’t be for a long time.

  “Can you start by telling me what you remember?” he asks.

  I inhale deeply. On my exhale, I say, “I woke up in what looked like a hospital room. I couldn’t remember anything: not my own name, or how I got there, or where I’m from. There was a woman there who called herself a Techhead.”

  At this Anthony straightens, no longer leaning against the desk. “Did she tell you her name?”

  “Ebony. She was really smart and was monitoring me or something. She said it was to keep me safe.”

  The muscles in his jaw tighten, but a moment later his face is smooth again. “What happened then? How did you escape?”

  “I’m not sure.” I shake my head. “Something inside me, an instinct, told me to flatter her.” I search his eyes for a reaction, but they give nothing back. I speak faster, telling him about the words on my fingers, the plastic spoon, about knowing how to paralyze the woman with the purple eyes, how I ran into the hallway and knew how to stop the lady with the white eyes, and how I knew about the giant, deformed man.

  An
d I tell him about the boy.

  My throat feels swollen all of a sudden. I should’ve done more to help him. I finish by telling him the boy was taken while I hid under the bridge.

  He is back against the desk, studying me, his arms crossed to his chest. “An amazing story,” he finally says.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I do. It’s just remarkable that someone with no special abilities,” he pauses, then continues, “can do what you did.”

  “But how did I? And why do they want me if I’m as unremarkable as Ebony said? Why am I so different from you? From them? And where am I?”

  Anthony lifts his hand to silence me and smiles once more. “Let me answer what I can. First, you’re in Boston. You have just escaped from the headquarters of the Institute of Human Research and Development, a near-impossible feat, I might add. Obviously you have been well trained. You may not know who you are, but someone taught you the layout of the Institute, taught you about the different races, their weaknesses, their strengths. The training has been so ingrained into you that when you feel threatened, your instincts, as you call them, take over. As for why they want you, you’re different. An enigma they’d like to get rid of but can’t because they need you.”

  “What do you mean?” A cold breeze—at least I think it’s a breeze—chills me.

  Without saying anything, Anthony removes his suit jacket and wraps it around me. “Over a century ago, closer to two centuries, the world was a perfect place. No wars, no illnesses, prosperity for everyone.” He scoots more onto the desk, his legs dangling. “It was like this for a long time, but then man grew bored. You see, man by nature is a conqueror, so in a peaceful, illness-free world, what is man to do?”