The Gathering

by K. E. Ganshert

  Felix pushes a button. “Copy that.”

  Movement in the periphery of my vision grabs my attention. Luka walks inside the room, the tension around his eyes not as intense as it was after his training session with Connal. Afterward, he met with Dr. Sheng again. Either the session helped, or he’s getting better at hiding his frustration.

  Luka stops beside Connal and nods at the monitors. “Any trace of Bledsoe?”

  “Not yet,” Cap says.

  I look at the clock on the wall. Ten to three.

  A monitor showing newsfeed from a local station cuts to commercial. B-Trix fills the screen, her pearly white smile undoubtedly dazzling millions of viewers as she starts talking about an amazing new breakthrough in pregnancy screenings.

  “Not only is this new screening less invasive,” she says, “it’s five times as accurate, virtually eliminating the risk of false negatives.”

  “What a load of bollocks,” Connal mutters under his breath.

  I couldn’t agree more. Is B-Trix even aware of what she’s saying? What she’s supporting? Those screenings are nothing more than a ploy to eradicate The Gifting.

  Pregnant women aren’t the only ones being screened.

  The thought comes out of nowhere, bringing about the shape of an epiphany that has my heartbeat picking up speed. I step closer to the three screens, my eyes darting back and forth, taking in all the people. Immigrants and refugees crammed together.

  From all over the world.

  It doesn’t make sense. Why invite these people in when up until very recently, we were struggling to take care of our own citizens? Why continue to invite them in when we’re still trying to get our feet under us as a country? It’s a question Jillian had in the hub. A question I’ve had before, too. One that’s never made sense. A disconnect in President Cormack’s manifesto. The singular odd duck that doesn’t fit with the rest of her philosophy—we’re only as strong as our weakest links. My mother made a flippant comment once—that we were only letting in the strongest and the smartest. That’s what the screenings were for. But the people I see now, foraging for food, don’t look strong at all.

  “Hey Connal, when you went through your immigration screening process, did you undergo a body scan?”

  “Sure. Is there a reason yer asking?”

  Goose bumps march across my skin. “We are gathered like sheep to the slaughter.”

  “What are ye going on about?” Connal says.

  “Our president. Our chief of press. Our secretary of security and defense.” The missing puzzle piece falls into place with astounding clarity. I point at the screens. “This is why.”

  Everybody stares. Even Non from across the room.

  “We’re being herded. The United States is like a giant pen.” I stare from Isabelle, waiting by the statue, to B-Trix, flashing her smile. I see it, right there on her neck. “And I think I just found our idol.”

  *

  The investigation room hums with palpable energy. All of us—me, Luka, Link, Ronie, Lexi, Connal, Felix, and Cap—have come alive with my latest discovery. Our uncertainty, our sense of something missing, has turned into confidence.

  Felix erases the board and rewrites everything we know in bold strokes.

  King – President Cormack, neck

  Eye – Secretary Young, wrist

  Censor – Chief Fredrick, neck

  Idol – B-Trix, neck

  Physician – Director of Shady Wood/Detroit Rehab Facility?

  Luka stops biting his thumbnail. “Why the neck and the wrist?”

  It’s a question I’m mulling over, too. Surely there’s a reason for the different locations.

  I prop my foot on the seat of my chair and twist my grandmother’s leather strap around my ankle, thinking about the other times I’ve seen the mark. It was on my grandmother’s wrist. Barking-Wren’s, too. It was on the neck of the teenager who tried opening fire on innocent shoppers in the mall on Black Friday. My brother Pete almost had it on his forearm, which is close enough to the wrist. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason. No pattern. At least none that I can see.

  At quarter past five, Felix’s walkie-talkie crackles to life.

  “Isabelle arrived.” It’s Joanna’s voice. “Do you copy?”

  “Copy that. Please have her bring our new guest to the conference room.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Felix lets go of the button on his walkie-talkie. “Shall we, Teresa?”

  I blink, looking around—at Cap, Lexi, Connal—waiting for Felix to invite them, too. But he doesn’t. “Just me?”

  “You are the one who got him here, aren’t you?”

  “Me and Link.”

  “That’s nice, but we don’t want to overwhelm the man. We also don’t want to keep him waiting. Ronie, do you have the pictures?”

  “I put them in an envelope in the conference room.”

  “Very good.” With that, Felix straightens his suit coat and leads the way out of the investigation room.

  When we arrive, they’re already inside. Agent Bledsoe is blindfolded. According to Felix, Isabelle’s been driving him around all this time to ensure our location remains secure. Felix shuts the door and pulls out a chair for me. The legs scratch against the cement floor. Bledsoe turns his ear toward the sound, as if trying to make sense of his surroundings as Felix unclasps the button of his coat and sits at the head of the table. “You may remove his blindfold, Isabelle.”

  She does.

  Bledsoe squints against the fluorescent lighting.

  This entire thing has to be incredibly disorienting. Visited in dreams by two alleged criminals, traveling to a decimated city that’s supposed to be off limits, discovering a refugee community straight out of a third world country, then being blindfolded for over two hours while riding in the back seat of a car. As one who knows what it’s like to take a tumble down Alice’s rabbit hole, I feel bad for the guy.

  “Where am I?” he asks.

  “I’m afraid we can’t tell you that.” Felix picks up a white envelope off the table—the one Ronie must have been talking about. He pulls out a thin stack of photographs and slides them over to our new guest. “What we can tell you, is that everything you’ve been led to believe is false.”

  Bledsoe looks from Felix to Isabelle to me, all wariness and uncertainty, then picks up the photographs and thumbs through them. The further he gets, the chalkier his face becomes. “What are these?”

  “We’re not the bad guys, Agent Bledsoe.”

  He sets the stack of pictures aside, like if he looks at them any longer, he’ll be sick. As soon as I glance at them, I understand why. I have no idea how Ronie got ahold of them—but there, in glossy finish, are pictures of the horror my grandmother described. Bodies—so many bodies—lying on top of each other inside man-made ditches.

  The sight of it turns my bones cold.

  “I don’t understand,” Bledsoe says.

  “Courtesy of your employer—the United States government. They’re killing off patients in mental rehabilitation centers across the country.”

  “Why?”

  “To get rid of us.” Felix folds his hands on the table, and tells Agent Bledsoe everything. It’s interesting, hearing him explain The Gifting, our purpose, the reason we’re being targeted. I’m not sure why, but it doesn’t sound as crazy coming from him. “The enemy has infiltrated our government. It’s time we do the same. Which means we need more Believers like you, people on the inside who know what’s really happening, and who are willing to help us fight. That’s where you come in.”

  Even though the suspicion in Bledsoe’s eyes has morphed into equal parts determination and outrage, he shakes his head. “Nobody will believe this. The second I open my mouth, I’ll be admitted into a rehab facility myself.”

  “Exactly. Which is why I don’t want you to try to convince anyone. We’re asking you to feed us information about your cohorts. Bios. Pictures.” Felix’s dark eyes flash to mine. And I f
ind myself smiling. Because it’s brilliant. With pictures and bios, I can convince them just like I convinced our newest Believer.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  House of Cards

  While everyone else heads to the mess hall for dinner, a group of us in Headquarters gather in the investigation room around the table—me, Luka, Link, Cap, Lexi, Connal, Ronie, Joe the Sniper, and surprisingly, Glenda the interview lady, who brought in a plate of donuts left over from this morning, an assortment of random mugs, and a large thermos of coffee.

  A naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminates the board of influential Believers. Felix scrawls a new name at the bottom of the list—Agent Michael Bledsoe.

  Shaking his head, Connal pulls a glazed donut in half. “That’s a fret. You, snaggin’ an FBI agent on yer first recruit.”

  “I can’t believe you snagged anyone, period.” Ronie pours a cup of coffee into a mug that says Keep Calm and Surfs Up. It reminds me of all the times I watched Luka surf while I sat on my back deck, journaling my descent into insanity. It feels like a thousand lifetimes ago.

  Ronie mixes in some creamer. “When it comes to recruitment, we’re only successful about one out of every ten attempts. Your method is a lot more effective.”

  “What’s your method?” Joe asks me.

  “I visited him in his sleep.”

  His eyebrows shoot upward. “You’re a dream hopper?”

  “So is Link.” And it’s not the first time I’ve recruited someone. I essentially did the same thing with Leela, only instead of leaving her a note like I did with Bledsoe, I called her on the phone. The memory of shouting jelly donut into the receiver makes me smile. That’s all it took for her to believe. A ridiculous code word.

  “It’s also a lot less risky,” Ronie says, bringing the mug beneath her chin. “Every time we send a message, we risk someone tracing that message back to our location. With your method, that step is eliminated from the process. By the time we contact anyone, they’re already Believers.”

  Felix crosses his ankle over his knee and leans back in his seat. “I think it’s safe to say that we’re in need of some numbers. Agent Bledsoe has agreed to procure a list of coworkers. People we can start recruiting.”

  “By we, you mean Tess.” The statement belongs to Luka.

  “And your roommate.” Felix inclines his head toward Link. “The two seem to make a good team.”

  “Of course we do.” Link flashes me the kind of smile that says he’s ready for an adventure. The kind of smile Luka can’t stand.

  I glance at him. He doesn’t look amused. Or comforted. He looks exactly what Link called him earlier—tense. I can tell he wants to say more, but he keeps whatever thoughts he’s having to himself.

  Next to him, Cap runs his hand over his short, bristly hair. “I’m not sure it’s wise to rest the entire recruitment process on the shoulders of two people.”

  “Three, actually.” Glenda sneezes and her bifocals slide down her nose. She grabs a Kleenex. “One of our teachers is a dream-hopper. His name’s Kwahu.”

  “Are you kidding?” Link says. “Three’s plenty. Especially when we don’t have to be the ones who do the actual convincing. All Tess and I and Kwahu have to do is bring someone to the dreamer and let them do the work.”

  I can’t help myself. Link’s excitement is contagious. After everything the enemy has stolen, I’m ready to take action. To fight back. To choose victory. So Luka can surf again. So I can see Leela in more than just dreams. So my dad can be free and my mom and Pete, safe. “We can organize a team. Infiltrate on every level. Police force. Border control. Government officials. The staff at rehab facilities and fetal modification clinics.”

  “The media,” Ronie adds.

  The room grows quiet. We look around at one another, the potential we have at our fingertips slowly sinking in. The media shapes everything. Our thoughts. Our opinions. Our outlook. Infiltrating it would be like infiltrating the mind of the public. We’d be unstoppable.

  “Everything’s filtered from the top down, though,” Link says. “And we already know whose side the Chief of Press is on. Xena and I could convert a hundred people who work in the media and the chances of anything reaching the airwaves are slim to none. It would take an entire uprising.”

  Felix turns a toothpick over in his fingers. “I don’t think we need a takeover as much as we need access.”

  “But unless there’s a takeover, I can’t see us getting access.”

  “From Josiah’s account, I’m talking to the most skilled hacker in the country. Sitting right beside the other.” Felix’s dark eyes glitter as he looks from Link to Ronie. “Surely between the two of you, we can find access into some media streams.”

  Ronie sits up straighter, color rising in her cheeks. “We can form another team.”

  “The hackers and the evangelists.” Connal licks glazed sugar from his thumb. “Has a nice ring to it.”

  Felix continues his toothpick twirling. “We don’t need long broadcasts. I’m envisioning smaller-scale raids. Surprise attacks. Hit-and-run tactics. A little bit here and there to stir up doubt. Cause questions.”

  “Like guerilla warfare.” Link’s grin has become uncontainable. “Only in cyberspace.”

  “And if they trace it back to our location?” Luka asks the question, his sarcasm obvious. They must not be too concerned about that particular danger.

  “This is wartime, Mr. Williams. Calculated risk comes with the territory. And since there isn’t another way to get this particular job done, we do what’s necessary.” Felix flicks his toothpick into the trash and strolls to another board. The board. The one we worked on earlier after my revelation. “Now what shall we do about this?”

  A hush falls across the room.

  Everyone stares at the list. The key.

  It’s like the linchpin. If we can find a way to remove it, then the enemy’s plans will come tumbling down like a house of cards.

  *

  Never in a million years did I think I’d be involved in a serious conversation about assassinating the president. But there it is—one more thing to add to the list of things I never thought I’d do. It’s getting impressively long. Breaking into a high-security mental facility. Running away from home. Making out with the hottest boy in school. Becoming America’s Most Wanted criminal. Killing my grandmother.

  I shake that last thought away and the anxiety that comes with it. It’s a new day down here in Headquarters and despite another fitful night of sleep, I’m not tired. I’m ramped up. Glad the night is over and determined to tackle the morning. I grab a bagel from the mess hall, head to the private wing, and slip inside the small room where the records are kept.

  At the end of last night’s meeting, we decided that assassination was off the table. According to Joe the Sniper—retired Navy SEAL officer—it would be virtually impossible to take out the president. And as Cap reminded us, Cormack might not even be a willing participant. For all we know, she’s been hijacked. Unlike our enemy, we aren’t going to kill innocent civilians. So we decided to organize a third team. A special ops team. A team that consists of the most highly skilled individuals in Headquarters. Our mission? Figure out who, if anyone on the list has been hijacked and set them free.

  When it comes to organizing such a team, looking through the intake forms seems like a logical first step. At the end of the meeting, Glenda gave me permission to do a little researching and reorganizing. Right now, she’s busy interviewing a newbie who arrived late last night. Currently, the files are organized according to admittance date. I get to work pulling them out and organizing them into eight piles.

  Of the 140, three are Sleepers; six are kids who aren’t part of The Gifting, but children of parents who are part of The Gifting; fifteen are Cloaks; thirty-one are Fighters; eighty are Shields; two are Linkers; two are Keepers; and then there’s me—the oddity. A Linker and a Fighter in one. I’ve finished off my bagel and sorted the last form into a pile
when someone knocks on the opened door.

  It’s Link. At eight-fifteen in the morning.

  “I didn’t think you functioned at this hour.”

  “I figured sleeping is lame when there’s a war to win.” He joins me on the floor and rubs his eyes. “Plus, your boy Luka isn’t the easiest roommate when it comes to sleep.”

  I frown. “Did he have another nightmare?”

  Link gives me a sad smile. A comforting smile. A half-smile. “Want some help?”

  I toss him a pen and explain what I’m doing, a fresh bout of determination stretching its way through my muscles. On the front of each manila file, we write the person’s gifting, along with territory size and any special skills. Like computer hacking for Link. Pickpocketing for Bass. If Jillian were alive, we’d write gun-handling. Turns out, the information we have is sparse. Apparently, asking about territory and skill sets isn’t part of Glenda’s admittance interview.

  I click the end of my pen. “We’ll have to re-interview everyone.”

  “We should ask about connections, too.” Link scrawls Fighter on the top of a folder labeled Benton, Emmett and skims the intake form inside. “Joe’s a former Navy SEAL. I’m sure he knows other Navy SEALs. He can’t be the only one with helpful connections.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “I have them every now and then.” Link sets Emmett’s file aside and grabs the next one off the stack. “Hey, look. It’s your favorite person.”

  Bedicelle, Claire.

  My scowl is immediate.

  Link laughs.

  I don’t understand how he can. “You know what she did. You saw. And yet you joke.”

  “You’ve heard the saying, right? If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Well, Xena. I’d rather laugh.” He pokes me in the ribs.

  I jump.

  His expression turns playful. “Ticklish much?”

  I bite back a smile, because this is serious stuff. Claire is scum. “Don’t you dare.”