Goodhouse

by Peyton Marshall

  I grabbed the reader, and when my hand closed around it, the screen glowed in my palm. The last print—the doctor’s thumbprint—was illuminated with a greenish light, a tiny hurricane seen from above. I heard the man groaning and then the scuffle of him moving on the floor. I ran my hands over the wall, following it until I found the doorframe, hoping to locate the familiar shape of a reader embedded there. I was trying to hurry without losing control. The roles were reversed—he could see me now, he had all the information.

  I found what I was looking for. I pressed the doctor’s thumbprint to the screen and the door opened. I was braced for the fight, ready for it—crouched low—but the hallway had emptied; the tumult was farther down. The inmates were being driven toward the room with the guards. I heard the sounds of their struggles: the growling, the cursing, the occasional higher-pitched cries of those in trouble. And then I was back in the hallways at La Pine and the smoke was overhead, a lowering ceiling, and my friends were alive, but they were also dead and they were following me and I knew where to go. I felt the building stepping out of my way, the hallway peeling back its walls. I held the thumbprint aloft. It made a star in the darkness.

  “Follow me,” I called. “We’re supposed to go this way,” I shouted. “This way.” And though I couldn’t see individuals, I sensed a shift in the atmosphere, a drawing closer, the instinctive moving toward the light. I felt as if the men were one man, as if they were all joined, and I sensed their pursuit as I ran. I stumbled over people on the ground. I careened off walls and slid into a still-locked door, the first of many that secured the passageway.

  This is how they had corralled us, I realized. They’d sealed these doors sequentially, ensuring our one-way progress. Now I was blowing them open. And though I got faster, more practiced at unlocking them—at knowing, in the dark, exactly where the print reader would be—the men, the one man that was behind me, drew closer and closer, and the margin between us shrank away until I felt him almost on me, reaching, disturbing the air at the back of my neck. I opened one last door and found myself in a brightly lit room—the place where Davis had turned me over to the Mule Creek guards, a little lobby of sorts, a staging area.

  Two uniformed guards were on their feet immediately. A third was frantically tapping at a wallscreen.

  “I don’t know,” he was shouting and then: “Dear God.”

  One of the guards rushed me. He had a baton in his hand, and I thought that I’d have to fight him alone. But then all the men boiled through the doorway and I seemed to ride forward on their wave—it pushed me toward and through the outer door. We poured into the night, scattering into the strip of land that divided the two institutions. Immediately, the Mule Creek guardhouses clicked on their lights. A siren started to throb, but the sound was quickly cut short. No one wanted to acknowledge the escape. I was aware of the men around me. Some had stopped just outside the entrance, but most had kept moving, kept traveling. And I felt only exhilaration as I ran hard for the perimeter fence. I had rescued us from each other. I had pulled us from chaos into more chaos, but still—I hadn’t left anyone behind. I hadn’t left them there in the dark to die.

  SIXTEEN

  I slipped back onto campus—dodging through the two inactive fence posts, my hands still tied. I smelled the electricity in the air. It put a metallic taste in my mouth, and it tugged at the little hairs on the backs of my arms. I glanced over my shoulder and was surprised to see several Goodhouse boys crossing the boundary behind me. I hadn’t been the only one. “Wait,” a voice called. It was a student. “Wait!” But I kept going. I was headed east, toward the infirmary. I didn’t know for sure that Dr. Cleveland was waiting there, but I assumed he’d be watching the results in his office. I picked up my pace. My lungs ached with the effort.

  To the north, on the slope in front of Vargas, I saw numerous T-4s streaming down the pathways. Running lights outlined their domed roofs, and from a distance, the cluster of vehicles looked like the glowing spores of some dandelion head, drifting apart, dissipating in the wind. The sudden beauty of the school distracted me—the lights, the cool night air, the way I seemed to be floating inside myself, flying forward.

  Without warning, a car pulled around a corner and stopped directly in front of me, bisecting my path. It was a sleek silver sedan with wide wheels and graceful curving fenders. I tried to reverse my course, but I couldn’t. I stumbled and then collided with the car’s hood. The driver’s-side door popped open and there—there was Bethany.

  “Oh my God,” she said, “they tied your hands.” I was heaving, unable to catch my breath. “Get in,” she said. “Hurry.”

  I just stood there, saying nothing. The T-4s drifted closer. Someone nearby was shouting, not the authoritative rhythm of a proctor, but a more agitated staccato. It was almost painful to stop moving; there was some mechanism inside me that was still sprinting, still struggling.

  “James,” Bethany said, “get in.”

  I skirted the hood and opened the passenger door. The car lurched forward before I was fully inside. The motion sent me sliding across the leather seat.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Are you hurt?”

  I had no idea. I looked down at myself. Everything seemed intact.

  “Is this your car?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “It’s Tanner’s. I stole it. Well, not yet. We’re still on campus, so I should say that I’m thinking of stealing it.” She was wearing black pants with red polka dots on them and a matching tank top. It took me a moment to realize that these were girl’s pajamas.

  “You stole Tanner’s car,” I repeated. It occurred to me that maybe I’d passed out somewhere and that this was a vivid dream.

  “Okay, focus,” Bethany said. “What happened? Tell me relevant things.” The engine was nearly silent and the headlights were turned off, but a screen on the dash displayed a clear picture of the road ahead. Below the screen, several components had been ripped out of the dashboard and were lying on the floor—black boxes with sprays of wires jutting from their backs.

  “I don’t know what’s relevant anymore,” I said. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re leaving,” she said. We drove past the last building in the infirmary complex, and then we turned down a small access road that was marked STAFF ONLY. The path was edged with little solar lights, and I had the sense that Bethany was going way too fast. “How do you feel about Canada?” she asked.

  “Sounds good,” I said. I thought she was joking. “But you aren’t wearing any shoes.”

  “We weren’t supposed to leave tonight,” she said. “I mean, you were in Confinement and so I was thinking Friday at the earliest.” She shook her head. “Didn’t I tell you to take it easy? To not get into trouble?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “You didn’t say that.” The car bucked slightly as one wheel drifted off the path. I gripped the armrest.

  “Is anything broken?” she continued. “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m having a small crisis.”

  “You?” I said. “You’re having a crisis.”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I programmed everything so that you’d be alone and your door would remain closed, and then, at the last minute, Dad reassigned you. I think he knew I’d hacked his system.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You programmed the door?”

  “And he gave you a roommate,” she said. “A real asshole from the looks of his record, and I wasn’t sure if it was worse to lock you in or let you out, and I was totally panicking, and then suddenly you were outside, I mean, really outside.” Her long hair was snarled in the back, as if she hadn’t had time to brush it.

  “You know about the Exclusion Zone,” I said.

  “Can you forgive me?” she asked. “I locked you in a room with a psychopath.”

  And I must have been in shock, because I almost laughed. “He wasn’t so bad,” I said.

  We passed a restricted area, some warehouse-style buildin
g encircled with concertina wire. A T-4 was coming toward us and Bethany slowed way down. I ducked low in the seat. “They can’t see through the windshield,” she said, and the other vehicle actually pulled off the road to let us pass. “And that,” she said, “is why it pays to be the headmaster.”

  I didn’t know where she thought we were going, but we must have been approaching the edge of campus. Our time was almost up. I stared at her, trying to memorize every detail. She wasn’t wearing a bra. A panel of black lace ran along the edge of her pajama top. Silver hoop earrings tangled with her hair. She had the driver’s seat scooted all the way forward, and despite this, she had to sit up straight to see out the windshield.

  “Even though we won’t make it to Canada,” I said, “I think this was a great idea.”

  * * *

  Bethany swung the car left and we pulled into a parking lot with a dozen T-4s in various states of disrepair. There were also a number of actual cars. Three of them looked beyond help—one was missing an engine, another lacked a front end. Behind the cars was a three-bay garage, but the bays were closed and the lights were out. We eased into a parking space and stopped. Bethany turned toward me.

  “I looked into everything,” she said, “everything you told me about, and well, it’s bad news.” She leaned forward to grab something off the floor and sat up with a small kitchen knife in one hand. It had a serrated blade and a wicked, tapering point. I must have looked surprised, because she said, “Here. I was pressed for time.” She handed it to me. “Cut yourself free. I’ll be right back.”

  I’d never held a real knife. I could see my reflection in the blade, just a blurry smear, but still, it was me—and this was an extension of my arm, some forbidden and ancient symbol of power. I felt arrested just having it in my hand. Before I could start cutting, though, Bethany had returned. She was carrying two gray backpacks. She tossed one onto the seat behind me.

  “I’ve had those packed for a week,” she said. “Okay, get in the back and lie on the floor.” But her command only made me feel more confused. She stood beside the open door, shaking out a pair of green coveralls. “I’m going to pretend that I’m fixing Tanner’s car,” she said. “Working on some software, testing it out. There’s a service exit just ahead. They might buy it.”

  “Have you worked on Tanner’s car before?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  I cut the wire binding my hands—funny how easy it was with the right tool, the right blade. “But they’ve let you take out other cars?”

  “Once,” she said. “Sort of.”

  “During a security breach?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” she said.

  She attempted to zip her coveralls, and the edge of her pajama top snagged in the metal teeth of the zipper. She yanked at the fabric, only jamming it further.

  “And won’t Tanner notice,” I asked, “that his car is gone?”

  “You mean his limited edition Maybach Excelsior Roadster?” she said. “Fully solar-powered? Only twenty-three in the United States?”

  I looked at the console. I could see the marks where she’d hacked out whole sections of electronics.

  “They actually aren’t great vehicles.” She gave up on the zipper, got in the front seat, and closed the door. The engine started as she touched the wheel. “Hard to repair,” she said. “Lots of nonstandard parts. I wouldn’t buy one myself.”

  “This isn’t going to work,” I said.

  “Let’s just say, it’s not optimal.”

  “I have a chip,” I said. “It’s not going to work.”

  “I have a displacement program,” she said. “It’s already running. We just have to get past the gate. If we subdue the guards, we might have enough time.”

  “For what?” I asked. “And who’s going to subdue the guards?”

  “You know, I don’t like to feel out of control,” she said, her voice rising. “I’m more of a planner. I’m into schedules and itineraries—diagrams and lists.” She paused. “Schematics.”

  “Listen to me,” I said. I grabbed her arm and turned her to face me. She was trembling. Her hands had left sweaty prints on the leather steering wheel. “I don’t know that you should do this.”

  “They’re going to kill you,” she said. “I’m not just being dramatic. I’m not exaggerating. Dad needs to push you until—how did he put it—the organism exceeds its capacity for endurance.”

  As soon as she spoke these words, I knew they were true. I’d felt this outcome, felt it circling me, even as I’d been unable to name it. Still, it was jarring to hear it aloud. “Your lips are sort of turning blue,” I said. “Maybe you should take one of your pills.”

  “Did you hear me?” she said, her voice rising. “Did you hear what I just said? My father is going to kill you and put slices of your brain in a refrigerated drawer.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” I said. “I believe you.”

  “And do you want to know why? Because of me.” She thumped her hand against her chest and I flinched. “It was me. It was my idea, the drug—all of it. Not the testing and the nastiness. But everything else.”

  “You need to calm down,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I was just trying to reach her with the tone of my voice, with the slow steady pressure of my hands on her shoulders. “Really,” I said, “you need to calm down.”

  “How?” she said. “And now you have to get in the back and lie on the floor. We can’t stay here. We don’t have any time. Oh fuck.” She rubbed at her face as if trying to wake up. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

  I heard an alarm bell ringing in the distance, its sound muffled and remote. And then we saw headlights approaching. A T-4 drove past, traveling in the direction of the guardhouse. It didn’t stop. Tanner’s car seemed just like another in a long row of vehicles.

  Bethany leaned forward and I thought she was going to kiss me, but she just pressed her cheek to my own and took a long, shuddering breath. “If I drop dead,” she whispered, “just know that I’m really, really sorry.”

  I didn’t know what to say to this. So I got in the backseat and lay on the floor. She put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking lot, onto another access road. We were driving slowly now, at a casual pace. It felt as if the wool carpeting under my cheek was growing—it was a moss invading my mouth, my nose, and my throat.

  “I’m going to make this right,” Bethany whispered. “I’m going to take care of you.” But I was thinking of the recent breakout—and how the guards had simply opened fire on the truck. They hadn’t hesitated.

  “When we’re out in the real world,” I said, “you can’t treat me like a pet. It can’t be like it was in here.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re right about that. Nothing’s going to be the same.”

  PART FOUR

  AMONG THE TRUE BELIEVERS

  SEVENTEEN

  Bethany drove slowly down the winding access road to the guardhouse. We didn’t want to seem as if we were in a hurry. I lay on the floor, staring at the little window in the roof. The full moon flicked past overhead, and it appeared amber in color—a leaf in autumn—the product of some tint in the glass. The quiet in the car was disconcerting and deceptive. “How many men are usually at the gate?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not more than we have to.”

  “You mean me,” I said. “You don’t want me to hurt anyone.”

  The light from the guardhouse spilled onto the floor and the car slowed down. I tried to wedge myself lower. I heard the trunk release as we stopped. The raised lid acted like a shield, blocking the glare, keeping the backseat dark. Bethany rolled down her window.

  “Sir,” the guard said, “we weren’t expecting you.” And then he must have realized that Tanner wasn’t in the car. He clicked on his flashlight and I saw its beam skim over the backseat.

  “Robert should have
called this in,” Bethany said. “I’m a resident here and I’m fixing his NAV system. I’m just going to do a test drive.”

  “Please step out of the vehicle,” the guard said. “And present identification.”

  “Robert’s a family friend,” she said. “Can you call him? Tell him I’m here?”

  The guard’s handheld chimed, and a voice said, “Checkpoint 5, please respond.”

  “Five here,” the guard said. “It’s a negative. Just a resident.” And then he tapped the side of the car. “Please step out.”

  “Is there some kind of problem?” Bethany asked—and she had just the right note of civilian entitlement. “You can call my dad, too. He’s the Director of Student Medicine. Maybe you’ve heard of him? A. J. Cleveland?”

  “Ma’am, we’re on lockdown tonight,” the guard said. “This exit is closed. Nobody’s getting out.”

  “Not even me?” she said.

  “I’m not going to ask again,” he said. I heard the rigidity in his voice, the adherence to policy. He was summoning enough official force to compel her. What struck me in that instant was not that he would do so but how long it had taken him—how civilians were allowed to haggle over compliance, to discuss and withhold it.

  The guard reached down to open Bethany’s door, but I was out of the car and on top of him, almost without thinking about it. He tried to grab his weapon, but I slammed into him with enough force to drive him to the ground. It was almost too effective. He was older than I’d expected, older than the proctors in the school. He had grizzled hair and a thick waist.

  “Face down,” I said. “Hands apart.” I was mimicking the tone I’d heard my whole life—that cadence of detached authority—and I found that, surprisingly, it was right there, accessible to me. “Who else is here?” I didn’t see the T-4, the one that had passed us.