Shaking his head, Mase closed the drawer of supply lists he’d been searching and knelt to open the bottom drawer. As soon as his flashlight illuminated the labels on the tabs of the folders, he knew what he’d found.
AJ-01. AJ-02. AS-01. BM-01. CA-01. CL-01.
Re-gen identifiers, just like the tattoos on the inside of his and Camille’s wrists. Each folder had to be devoted to an individual Re-gen. Mase pulled out the CL-01 folder, his hand shaking. CL-01 was Camille’s Re-gen identifier, what everyone besides Dr. Wesley, Dani, and Mase called her.
Setting it on the carpet nearby, Mase scanned the tabs in search of another identifier—his. About halfway back, MA-01, thicker than Camille’s folder, awaited him. He claimed it and shut the drawer, then turned to sit with his back against the file cabinet. He stretched out his legs in front of him just as Camille returned. When Mase handed her the other file—her file—she joined him on the floor.
Mase’s fingers itched to open his folder, but his stomach twisted into knots. He felt like he’d swallowed a bucket of rocks and they were churning around and around inside him. He had no idea what he would learn about himself, about who he’d been, once he opened it. He only knew what Camille had told him.
Father had found Mase and his men trying to help Camille when she’d become trapped in one of the warehouses. Because Mase had tried to hide her, Father realized Mase was no longer trustworthy and decided it was necessary to enroll him in the Re-gen program—to control him and his Ability—and killed the men with him.
Camille had relayed everything that Mase had told her in the warehouse: that he’d known her before she’d been made into a Re-gen, that he’d taken care of her when she was younger, that he would take care of her still, rescue her. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered, and Camille had been the one to rescue him. With truths about his past, Camille had freed Mase from the prison of control Father forced on his newly made Re-gens. But she hadn’t known much. Now he could learn more.
With a deep breath, Mase opened the folder, shone his flashlight on the top paper, and began to read.
His full name was Mason Kyle Atwell, and he’d been twenty-one years old. He was African-American, not that he understood what that meant, and was from Minneapolis, MN, which he also didn’t really understand. As far as Mase knew, there was only the Colony and outside the Colony. His Ability was described as “physical enhancement through the manipulation of hormones and neurotransmitters, namely epinephrine.” He frowned; instead of explaining his past, the information contained within the folder only generated more confusing questions.
Near the bottom of the first page, there was a short paragraph written in a hand Mase recognized—Father’s. The rest of the information had been typed. Curious, he read:
01/03/GT01—It has been brought to my attention that CPL Atwell shows resistance to mental manipulation. If his resistance leads to the beginning signs of disobedience, he should be seriously considered for the Re-gen program. Drs. Wesley and McLaughlin agree that his Ability is too important to warrant a simple execution, and they seem certain that the Re-gen process would bring him back under my control. It is worth noting that CPL Atwell has been with me on this base for over two years and has never displayed overt disobedience. I will talk with my advisors and explore possible assessment scenarios.
Mase glanced at Camille out of the corner of his eye. He was tempted to ask her if she could explain any of Father’s words, maybe tell him what he’d done to warrant Father’s suspicion, but Camille was equally immersed in learning about herself. Remotely, Mase heard Dani muttering something, but he turned his attention back to the folder containing pieces of his past life.
Beneath the first page was sheet after sheet of service records. Mase knew he’d been in the Army, but now he had proof. He scanned the information, paging through the stack until he reached something new: a handful of lined pages stapled together, each filled with handwriting—his own handwriting, it seemed. He started at the beginning.
Your name is Mase. Don’t let anyone call you Mason—that name was for Mom and Nana, and they’re both dead now. Fuck (that’s your favorite word, by the way), I don’t know how to do this. They told me to write down my life story, but I’ve never been much of a writer. Doc suggested that writing a letter to myself…my dead, future self…might make it easier. I don’t know why it matters. You’re probably never going to read this. Actually, I bet they’re just trying to get more information out of me before they give me the juice.
Ha. The Juice. Don’t drink the Kool-Aid. Dad used to say that. “Be your own man, Mase. Defend your country, your freedom, but for God’s sake, don’t drink the Kool-Aid.” That’s what he said when I told the family that I’d signed the Army recruitment papers instead of enrolling in college. We needed the money…Dad just took a pay cut and the school district let Mom go, and we were about to lose the house. Didn’t matter that Mom was one of the best goddamn teachers they had. Most of the teachers they laid off were the good ones…just hadn’t been there long enough or didn’t teach the right subjects. Maybe General Herodson’s right, and the world will be better after the “Great Transformation.”
Nah. I drank the Kool-Aid, and now I wish I hadn’t. It’s all turned to shit. I volunteered for some experimental trials a couple years back, right after basic training. The money was too good to pass up, especially with Mom’s cancer coming out of remission and General Herodson’s vision of a brighter future, a prosperous society filled with improved humans. His idea was visionary. At first the changes were great, like my shit had been turned into money and my piss into beer, but then I started to notice things. Sure, I was super fucking strong and fast—stronger and faster than anyone I’d ever met—but there were odd things happening around the base. Secrets being kept from superiors off-base and people disappearing.
About two months ago, I was given a yellow band to wear around my left arm and given orders to prevent any person from leaving the base, with force if necessary. People could enter, they just couldn’t leave. And just like that, this place turned into Hotel fucking California. I was tempted to disobey, to inform someone off-base of the coup, but I’d been ordered not to, and I’d seen what Herodson does to people who disobey him. He likes to use family members when his freaky ability to convince people to follow his orders doesn’t work. Now I know it’s his Ability, but I didn’t understand it then.
His mind control doesn’t work on me as well as it does on other people. I pretended to go along with everything he said, not questioning when innocents were hurt or killed, first because I feared for my family’s safety, and later, after I knew they were dead, for the simple sake of survival. And for my men…my poor, ignorant, mind-controlled men.
But then Camille showed up and the shit hit the fan. I tried to help her, to save her from the punishment General Herodson doled out to unidentified intruders, but the girl I’d once known was gone. She’d been replaced by a deceitful, dead woman. Maybe I won’t care once I’m dead too. Or undead. I don’t fucking know how it works, other than I die and they bring me back like a fucking zombie.
Maybe she couldn’t help it because of what she’s become, but her betrayal…fuck, it hurts. She was working with Herodson. It was planned, all of it, like some sort of a sick test. Somehow, Herodson figured out that we grew up together. For all I know, she flat-out told him. He used that connection to prove that I was disloyal, that I was a traitor. If I am a traitor, it’s not for this. If I’m a traitor, I’m a traitor against humanity and I have been since I first signed up for the trials, since I first let them inject me with that gene therapy crap, since I first drank the fucking Kool-Aid.
I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad, that I could accept my fate as what I deserve for looking the other way for so long, but my men are dead. I forced them to agree to keep quiet about Camille, and because they listened to me, because my command momentarily overrode Herodson’s or his lackeys’ commands, and because they didn’t have useful enough Abiliti
es to warrant bringing them back as Re-gens, they were killed. They’re dead. He made me watch while they were executed…shot in the head. Punishment for my disobedience, he claimed. Apparently I needed to be punished, since becoming a Re-gen is supposedly a reward. Yeah, like being turned into a walking dead man is so fucking great.
Maybe I shouldn’t be mad at Camille for what she did. I know she’s not the same person she once was, that the Re-gen process wipes the memory slate clean or whatever, but it’s hard not to blame her. Oh, I blame her, but I mean, it’s hard not to blame MY Camille—the tiny, sensitive girl I watched over all of my life. That’s where the feeling of betrayal comes from. But I have to remember that MY Camille is dead, no matter how much this thing reminds me of her. She’s just…gone.
Good luck, man. Avoid the Kool-Aid and don’t fucking trust Camille or whatever the fuck they call her…it.
Mase refused to look at Camille as he processed what he’d read. About her. She’d lied to him.
Dani was standing in front of them, asking Camille something, but all Mase could think about was Camille. She’d lied to him. She hadn’t been trapped in the warehouse when he’d tried to help her, but had been intending to trap him. She’d been a part of the plan to make him into a Re-gen and to kill his men. He wondered if she took care of him afterward because she felt guilty, and then he wondered if it even mattered.
…don’t fucking trust Camille…
Mase flipped through the rest of the papers, but his mind was too numb to make sense of any of it. With a quick glance at his watch, he realized he’d wasted enough time—they only had fifteen minutes left, and what he’d just read jump-started his determination to get out of the Colony. He needed out.
Rising, Mase felt off-balance. The world had rearranged itself around him with the reading of a single self-addressed letter. He snatched Camille’s folder from her grasp, ignoring her protests, and carried both to Dani. Flashlight in hand, she was continuing the Re-gens’ search of the file cabinets where Camille and Mase had left off.
“Dani?” Mase whispered, startling her.
He felt instantly guilty for scaring her, she who’d done nothing to harm him, and felt even worse when she looked up at him. Her face was filled with fear. Why? Because Mase was scowling, and his scowl has always been scary and cruel. It took an effort, but he managed to lose the expression.
“Can you take pictures of the papers in these?” Mase asked, holding the two folders out. “They’re about me and Camille, and we don’t have time to read everything right now.”
Dani smiled and took the folders back to the desk. “Were there files on all the Re-gens?” she asked.
“Looked like it,” Mase told her. Before he could turn away, Dani’s face blanked. She was completely still, like she’d fallen asleep standing up and with her eyes open. “Dani? Is something wrong?” Mase reached across the desk and squeezed her shoulder.
For the briefest moment, she came to. She patted his hand and said, “Hang on for a minute…I’m asking someone a quick question,” before returning to her waking sleep. That time, she closed her eyes.
Mase waited, wondering if he should be concerned. He was.
Suddenly, her eyes popped open, and her mouth curved into a victorious grin. “I’m looking for the file on Becca Vaughn, or maybe Rebecca Vaughn. She’s supposedly a Re-gen. Can you look for it?”
“Yeah. C’mon, Camille.” Mase could hear the other Re-gen sniffling on the floor and knew she was crying. It was a sound Mase would recognize anywhere, and hearing it nearly broke through his anger and resentment, through the echo of a betrayal felt by a dead man. It was a struggle not to go to her. His arms wanted to wrap around her, his nose wanted to inhale her scent, and his lips wanted to touch hers, but there was no way he would let himself comfort her, not after everything he’d learned.
Slowly, Camille stood and turned back to the file cabinet without wiping her eyes. Mase wondered what she’d read in her folder. But curiosity would have to wait. They had work to do.
25
DANI
MARCH 22, 1AE
I was sitting on one of the stools at the island in my kitchen, taking frequent sips from an oversized, brown-glazed mug. The steaming chamomile tea calmed me as I organized my thoughts. My priceless bounty—the camera containing all the illicit photos I’d taken in General Herodson’s office—sat on the countertop in front of me. With Camille and Mase’s help, I’d gathered far more information than I’d expected, and all that was left to do was to pass it on to Jason, Zoe, and the others. Thus the organizing of my thoughts.
Distractedly, I smiled. Camille and Mase were upstairs in the larger of my two guest rooms. At least they can be with the person they love. I forced the smile to stay in place when jealousy threatened to erode it. I was determined to be happy for them, even if what they had was denied to me. Only for one more day, I reminded myself.
I’d once told Jason that hope was the one thing that could keep us going when all else seemed lost. He’d just learned his father was dead, and had started unraveling right in front of me. I’d never seen him so distraught. But together, we’d worked through it. Now, hope was the one thing keeping me going—hope that I would see my friends again soon, hope that I would finally escape the mind-controlled hell I’d been dragged into, and hope that I would be brave enough to express the extent of my feelings for Jason…to his face. I loved him, more than I’d ever loved anyone, and I needed to tell him. He needed to know. But what if he doesn’t…
No! Not now! It was minutes until the eleventh hour, the worst possible time for doubts. Of course, knowing that didn’t stop me from having them; the very heated, very real argument that started overhead did.
Muffled by the floorboards, insulation, and drywall, Camille and Mase had just erupted into an epic shouting match. I couldn’t tell exactly what they were saying, but I could hear the tone, a heated mixture of accusation, hurt, and anger. It definitely wasn’t the sounds I’d expected to need to ignore.
Not too slowly, I crept toward the stairs and up to the second floor. As I headed down the hallway, the guest room door at the end opened and Camille burst out. She thundered past me, sobbing.
“Camille! Wait!” I chased down the stairs after her, barely managing to catch her wrist before she reached the front door. “What’s wrong? Did something…did he hurt you?” I asked softly. Concern was washed away by a sudden rush of anger. If he hurt her…
Camille faced me, her cheeks tear-streaked and her eyes red, swollen, and filled with fear. “I thought I could at least have…” Closing her eyes for a moment, she shook her head. “You won’t understand. You can’t understand.” She jerked her wrist from my grasp and choked out, “Just let me go.”
She rushed out of the house, accentuating her exit by slamming the front door. She was gone, and I was still standing in the entryway, baffled. What happened? What did he do to her?
Simmering with accusation, I stalked up the stairs and toward the guest room. When I reached the doorway, fists on hips, I froze. Mase was sitting on the carpeted floor facing me, his hunched back against the side of the bed and his head lowered into his hands. His shoulders were shaking. Is he…crying? The biggest and strongest man I’d ever met was crying in my guest room.
My fists dropped from my hips of their own accord. “Mase? What happened?” I asked softly. When he said nothing, made no move to respond, I repeated, “Mase?”
He didn’t raise his head, but he did speak. “She killed me.”
“What?” I blurted, before I could stop myself. “I mean, you look pretty alive to me.”
Mase dropped his hands and glanced up at me, then shook his head. With dull eyes, he looked ahead, staring at nothing. “Before, when I was a normal. She helped Father kill me and make me into this.”
My heart seemed to drop into my stomach, leaden and chilled. I sat down beside him, cross-legged and facing him, and gently touched my fingertips to the fatigues covering his knee. “Wha
t are you talking about?”
He told me. Everything. After he relayed everything he’d learned from his file, he asked, “How could she do that? How could she lie to me?” The angst filling his eyes, the tears of betrayal spilling from them, broke my heart. His hurt was that of a small boy who’d just learned that the world wasn’t fair and that bad things happened to good people all the time, or that of a man who’d been misled by the woman he loved.
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to help him. I’d experienced a hell of a lot of pain in the form of death and loss, but never such a personal betrayal, not even from Gabe. That must be how Zo and Jason feel about their parents, I realized.
“You said that whatever Camille found in her folder upset her, right? But that you didn’t read it?” I asked.
He nodded, still staring ahead. His eyes seemed to have lost some of their life.
“Hold on,” I said, jumping up and rushing out of the room. I ran downstairs, grabbed the camera, and hurried back up to the guest room.
“Okay,” I said, a little breathless as I reclaimed my spot on the floor beside Mase.
He watched me, curiosity lending some spark to his deadened eyes.
“Let’s see what she read that upset her so much. Maybe it’ll help us understand why she did what she did.” Mase’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally, and I added, “I’m not saying there’s anything that could excuse her actions, but…let’s not judge her too harshly until we know the whole story. Grams, my grandma, used to say”—I adopted my best Irish accent—“‘Every story has as many sides as it does people.’”
Into The Fire (The Ending Series) Page 29
