by Allen Zadoff
It’s followed by a stinging sensation in my neck: the sharp prick of a needle and the poisonous warmth of a chemical being injected into my carotid artery.
I try to hang on to the mission, the plan, the intent of my being here. I try to locate Miranda’s face through shadowy hallway in front of me.
But the combination of the electricity and the drug take all of it away, spinning me down into a dark so pure it’s almost peaceful.
I WAKE UP IN A CONCRETE ROOM LINED IN SHADOWS.
I try to move, and I cannot. My hands are tied behind me. I’m sitting in a chair, my body aching everywhere.
A stinging slap snaps my head back.
It’s Lee. He paces in front of me. I try to stand but find my legs are tied as well.
“Where am I?” I say.
“No matter,” Lee says. “Nobody can get in, and you can’t get out.”
His voice has a hard edge to it. He paces back and forth, agitated.
“Where is Francisco?” Lee asks.
“How should I know?” I say.
Lee stands across from me now. His eyes have changed. There is something dark in them, an intensity and anger that is unsettling.
“You were the last one to see him,” Lee says.
Lee knows I was with Francisco, but he doesn’t know what happened or he wouldn’t be asking the question.
And if he doesn’t know what happened, he has no way of knowing the timeline. Maybe I can use this against him.
“So Francisco hasn’t turned up?” I say as if I’m surprised.
“Obviously not,” Lee says.
“Doesn’t that make you wonder?” I say.
“Wonder what?”
“He disappeared right after your father died,” I say.
“After?” Lee says, confused.
“Who cares about Francisco?” Miranda says to her brother. “Would you drop it already?”
Miranda is somewhere in the room outside my sight line. She brought me here, which means she set me up.
“We need Francisco!” Lee says to her. “We need his help.”
“We’re fine without him,” she says.
“Listen,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know what’s going on exactly, but I know you’re making a mistake.”
“It’s no mistake,” Lee says. “You left the compound after my father died. Only someone guilty would do that.”
“I’m not the only one who left,” I say.
Lee slaps me hard across the face again.
“Lee,” Miranda says, attempting to calm him.
“He’s trying to confuse us,” Lee says.
He whirls around and steps behind me, confronting Miranda.
“We have to kill this bastard now,” he says.
“No, we don’t,” Miranda says.
“Dad said there could be an assassin sent into camp,” Lee says.
“He’s not the one,” she says, which surprises me, because she found me in the woods, found me making a call. She has more evidence than anyone that I might not be who I say I am. Why is she lying for me?
“We can’t trust him,” Lee says. “Not now, not when we have important work to do.”
“Our father trusted him.”
“And you see what happened to him.”
Moore said he’d warned Lee about me, but Lee was easily swayed. That means he liked me. I can play on that.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but maybe I can help you,” I say.
“Maybe he can,” Miranda says. “You saw him during The Hunt. He did fine.”
“Fine won’t cut it,” Lee says.
He comes around where he can see my face.
“Where did you go when you left camp?” he says.
“I panicked,” I say. “I drove home to talk to my parents, but they were out. I drove around in circles, then I went to the mall. I didn’t know what to do.”
“He’s right that he’s not the only one who left camp,” Miranda says.
“That’s true,” Lee says, thinking about it.
She walks over and joins her brother, puts an arm on his shoulder.
“Maybe we’re asking the wrong question,” Miranda says. “Instead of asking why he left, maybe we should be asking why he came back.”
Lee looks at her. “You think he had a change of heart?”
“Maybe he’s one of us,” Miranda says.
Lee considers it for a moment, then shakes his head, determined.
“We can’t take that risk,” Lee says. “Not now. Not when we’re so close.”
So close to what? What is Lee planning?
Miranda lowers her head.
“We can’t kill him.” That’s all she says.
“That’s not your decision to make,” Lee says.
He’s holding the Taser-like device in his hands. When did he pick it up again?
“Your father invited me here,” I say.
“I won’t make the same mistake my father did,” Lee says. “I don’t know who you are for real, but I know I can’t trust you anymore. You were kind to me and to my sister, so I’m going to spare your life.”
Lee’s presence is dominating now. He’s changed quickly, taking on the demeanor of a military commander.
Lee says, “By the time you wake up, it will be over.”
I search for Miranda, but I can’t see her now.
“They will find you here,” Lee says. “You can be sure of that. And you will bear witness for us.”
He comes toward me. I test the rope on my wrists, hoping to find a loose bond. If I can get a hand out—
Lee grabs me under my chin, pulling my face forward. His eyes are wild, his breath fetid.
“You will tell them that I was the one. Not my father. Not anyone else.”
His nails dig into the flesh of my chin.
“Tell them I was the one,” he says. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” I say.
In killing Moore, I’ve given Lee the chance to step up and be the man his father wanted him to be. Unwittingly, I’ve set this all in motion.
Lee backs up quickly and aims the device at my chest.
“We all have our roles to play, Daniel. You will be the messenger. And I will be the message.”
Before I can argue with him, he depresses the trigger, and the surge hits me, arcing my body with wave after wave of electricity, so intense that I lose all control and the world goes black for the second time.
MY FATHER IS IN A CHAIR IN OUR LIVING ROOM.
Mike brings me in to see him, one arm wrapped tightly across my back and under my armpit to hold me up. Mike had drugged me a moment before. By the time I get to the living room, I can barely walk.
I was twelve years old and Mike was my new best friend. Or so I thought.
Then Mike brings me into the living room to see what he has done to my father. To let my father see me.
This is the memory that recurs, the one that my brain clings to even when I will it to let go. It is the last time I saw my father alive, over five years ago.
Everything is forgotten sooner or later. Life moves on. Even terrible things grow old over time. The psychological term is habituation. People who live near airports no longer hear the jets. People with mansions stop feeling wealthy.
And people who lose someone eventually stop grieving.
Our minds are designed to habituate. The past is forgotten, put in its proper place. Intense stimuli become second nature. And terrible things become commonplace.
We can’t hold on even if we wanted to.
And yet there are things that stick to you. Not things you choose, but things that choose you.
This memory for example.
Mike at my side, holding me up. The feel of his arm around me. The sight of my father in front of me.
I’ve always thought this was a memory of Mike’s betrayal, the great betrayal of a friend who is not a friend, a brother who is not a brother.
But in my unconscious
state, I have a new perspective.
There are reasons I am sent on an assignment. So there must have been reasons Mike was sent on an assignment that brought him to me.
My father.
Something he did brought Mike into our lives.
This is the new understanding I have. My memory is not a memory of Mike’s betrayal of my father.
It’s a memory of my father’s betrayal of me.
“DANIEL.”
A voice calls through the haze of unconsciousness. A hand shakes me.
“Daniel,” the voice says.
Water on my forehead, pulling me up toward consciousness.
“Wake up, Daniel.”
That is not my name, but it sounds familiar to me. As does the person who is saying it.
Howard.
“Wake up,” he says.
I stir in my chair, moving my arms and legs. They’re free. When did they get free?
Howard shakes me again.
“Easy,” I say. “I’m awake.”
I open my eyes. Howard stands over me, his face heavy with concern.
“Do you need mouth-to-mouth?” he says.
“Why would I need that?”
“You were passed out.”
“Did I stop breathing?”
“No.”
“Then keep your mouth away from my mouth. No offense.”
“None taken.”
I look around the room, taking it in for the first time, the bunker where they brought me, the interrogation that ensued, and the incongruity of seeing Howard in the room.
“How did you find me?” I say.
“You didn’t come back by nightfall, so I hiked down into the camp.”
“You got past the roadblock?”
“I went into the woods.”
“You’ve got some skills,” I say.
“Just because I’m a geek doesn’t mean I can’t throw down from time to time.”
“Can you really throw down?”
“I don’t even know what throwing down is. But it sounds cool when I say it.”
I try to laugh, but it hurts too much.
“Can you help me up?” I say.
He puts an arm around me and supports me while I stand. The feeling of his arm across my back dislodges the memory of a moment ago.
My father. Something he did brought Mike into our lives for the first time.
My father betrayed me, followed by Mike.
Samara, the girl I loved, betrayed me.
Even The Program has betrayed me.
I look at Howard, suddenly unsure about him, about the faith I’ve placed in him.
“Can I trust you, Howard?”
“That’s a crazy question to ask while I’m in the middle of saving you.”
“I have to ask it.”
He thinks about it for a moment.
“Let me put it this way: I should be at home in Manhattan relaxing, eating Cheetos, and doing AP Calculus homework. Instead I’m on a mountain in New Hampshire risking my life to free you from some kind of torture chair.”
“That’s a good point,” I say.
“Do you still have doubts?”
“None. Let’s go, buddy.”
He walks me toward the door, letting me lean on him as my muscles slowly come back online.
“You really love those Cheetos, don’t you?” I say.
“I like the spicy ones best,” he says. “But the cheese messes up the keyboard, so I’m trying to quit.”
ABOVE GROUND, LIBERTY IS A GHOST TOWN.
The entire population of the camp is gone. We walk past quiet buildings, windows half open, garbage bins waiting to be emptied.
The structures are here, but the people are gone. Wherever they went, they left in a hurry.
At first I’m careful, walking ahead of Howard while searching the ground for trip wires, laser triggers, anything that might indicate a booby trap.
But there are none.
By the time we get to the main square, my muscles have come back online and I can walk normally again. The backhoe is still in the middle of the square, but Burch’s body is gone, moved to who knows where.
I lead Howard toward the main house. I open the door slowly, checking for trigger devices but finding the way clear.
I pause in the front alcove.
“Wait for me here for a couple minutes,” I tell Howard.
“Where are you going?” he says, afraid.
“I have to find out where they’ve gone,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I SLIP INTO FRANCISCO’S ROOM.
I’m looking for evidence of the plan that Lee was talking about.
The room is bare, hardly lived in. There’s a single paperback facedown on the night table. A glass of water. A pillow with an indentation in it.
I look at the book. Neuromancer by William Gibson. I open it and flip through the pages. It’s an old copy, and some of the pages are stuck together.
I search the room, the closet, the drawers.
I check every hiding place, looking for notebooks, drawings, any clues that might help, but I find only clothes and toiletries. A tool kit in a box by the door.
There’s nothing here.
I take one last look around the room. Just before I go, something occurs to me.
The pages of the Gibson novel. Something didn’t feel right when I flipped through it.
I reach into my pocket and remove the knife I’ve been carrying.
I open the book again, use the edge of the blade to separate the stuck pages. I don’t find anything. But then I look at the inside of the back cover.
It has been reglued, a bit of excess glue spilling onto the pages. I carefully slice it open.
Something flutters to the floor.
A photograph.
I pick it up.
A Hispanic man is sitting outside on a folded lawn chair. Next to him stands a pretty woman with her hand on his shoulder. On the man’s knee is a young boy.
The man has his arm around the boy’s stomach, holding him in place there. Keeping him from falling.
I recognize the boy’s eyes.
It’s Francisco, sitting with who I imagine are his real parents.
Francisco before any of this happened. Before he was recruited by The Program. Before he came here and betrayed everything he had been taught.
I turn and catch sight of myself in the mirror in Francisco’s room. I look half crazed in my dirty hoodie.
I open Francisco’s closet and find some long-sleeved flannel shirts.
I take off my shirt and ball it up. I take out one of Francisco’s shirts, slide it on over my bare skin covered in the cuts I’ve taped up. I’m instantly hot, but my arms and torso are hidden from view.
I look in the mirror. For a second I think Francisco has come back and he’s here in the room with me.
But it’s not him.
It’s me.
I turn away from my reflection in the mirror. I close the knife and put it back in my pocket.
As I glance down, the photo of the young Francisco catches my eye.
I should burn it then scatter it outside, let the wind carry the ashes away. This would keep The Program safe and erase the last vestige of Francisco in the world.
But I don’t do that.
I reach down and pick it up. I carefully button it into the pocket of the flannel shirt I’m wearing.
I don’t know why I take the picture with me. It’s a danger to me, a piece of evidence that I should not have on my person. By all counts, it’s a piece of evidence that should not exist in the world.
Still, I want to save it. It’s important to me. I don’t know why.
I jog back to the front of the house, where I left Howard. He’s taken the initiative by going into the commissary and grabbing water bottles and some snacks to refuel us.
He’s zipping them into a backpack when I get there.
“Just in case,” he says.
“Skills,” I say, tappin
g his forehead.
He smiles.
“Did you find any clues?” he says.
“Not yet. But I have another idea,” I say.
I grab Howard, and we run together through the camp.
FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE DOORS TO THE WORKSHOP ARE OPEN WIDE.
The workshop itself is empty. No vehicles, no people.
Long workbenches have been cleared in haste, tools pushed onto the ground, huge wire spools speared on rods along the wall, now empty of their contents. The ground is littered with sections of colored wire insulation like the red curlicue I found on the ground the first night here.
What look like large empty metal barrels are stacked throughout the workshop building. I can see these have been fabricated from scratch, welded, and hammered into what look like sections of giant pipes that are open on both ends.
“What are these things?” Howard says.
“Not sure.”
I look down at the cement floor and see remnants of white beads, almost like poly foam.
“Packing material,” Howard says.
I bend down, pick up some of the particles, and examine them. I sniff. They have only the faintest odor, but I have experience with this material from my training.
“It’s ammonium nitrate,” I say.
“What is that?”
“It’s a main component of fertilizer. And fuel explosives.”
I look at the metal barrels, then think back to the line of panel vans waiting outside the workshop. I imagine them loaded with something like giant pipe bombs.
“Explosives?” Howard says. “What are they planning to blow up?”
My mind runs through locations in the Northeast that could be the focus of the attack, the kinds of places we went to on The Hunt earlier this week. National Guard bases, company headquarters, municipal facilities for water or power. A cadre of teen terrorists spreading out through the area, poised to strike.
Multiple targets is a terrifying scenario, but that was Moore’s plan. And Moore is dead.
Lee is in charge now.
