Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)

by RJ Crayton

  I bit my lower lip, forced back the bile rising in my throat, and whispered: “He wouldn’t do it?”

  “He said he trusted Dr. Rice, but that he would fly back and judge for himself. He didn’t make it back in time. She was gone before his plane landed.”

  I stood up. I’d had enough. Coming had been a mistake. This man was a liar. He had to be. He just had to be. I had to get out. What he said couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. I needed to breathe. I needed to get out. I stood and bolted toward the door.

  “Wait!” he called out, following me.

  “No,” I yelled, refusing to look back. “You’re a liar, Dr. Grant.”

  I was pulling the door open when he spoke. “I have something to give you, from your mother.”

  I stopped, stared at the door a moment. Finally, I turned back toward him, the doorknob still in my hand. “What did you say?”

  He was standing a few feet from me now, his eyes locked on me like a tractor beam, as if he could will me to stay put simply by keeping me rapt in his gaze. “I have something your mother wanted to give you.”

  I pushed the door shut, but did not move from my spot. “I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “How could you have something from my mother?”

  He went to the laptop computer sitting on the desk in the corner, carried it over to the table and set it down. “The mobile phone I had with me that day recorded videos. Toward the end, your mother was feeling awful. She said she didn’t think she’d make it. She wanted to record a message for you.”

  I still couldn’t move. My limbs felt too heavy, but my brain still tried to process his words. “For me?”

  He nodded.

  That sounded wrong. “Not a message for my father?”

  “Given his failure to push things forward, I think she was not really that happy with him at that moment. She wanted to record a message to you.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I’m gonna let you watch it,” he said, turning the laptop screen so I could see it fully. I walked toward the table, so I was standing next to him. He ran his cursor over a small icon, clicked it, and then a window appeared. On the screen was my mother, hair wet with sweat, wearing a hospital gown, frozen in time.

  Chapter 12: Failure

  Present

  We need more gas. It is 6 a.m., and they must be looking for me by now. Luke wants to go in and pay while I stay in the car. In theory, I agree. In reality, I have to pee.

  The blonde wig seems good enough, and if I avoid eye contact, no one will notice me. Luke doesn’t like the idea, and even suggests we pull over by the side of the road and I go in the woods. I counter that a car pulled over to the side of the road looks strange and might draw the attention of the police or a good Samaritan. It’s best just to go now, before my face is everywhere. I can be in and out in a minute. I’ll look at no one.

  Luke grimaces, but finally assents. I slip on the wig while he drives. When he pulls into the station, I check in the mirror to make sure I look un-Kelsey enough. It’ll do. While Luke pumps gas, I get out of the car and go inside. It’s a typical gas station convenience store. Aisles of granola, vacuum sealed yogurt, trail mix, medicines for headaches and tummy aches, and car supplies. I walk past them, toward the back of the store, where a sign with a black silhouette of a woman in a dress marks the ladies room. I pull the door handle. It doesn’t budge. Locked. Someone’s inside. I lean on the opposite wall and wait.

  I keep my head down, looking at the putrid brown tiles on the floor. In addition to the color being hideous, they’re filthy. I hear the toilet flush, a sign the woman is almost done. This should make me feel better. It doesn’t. I can’t put my finger on why. I keep my eyes pointed toward the floor and hear the sink as the woman washes her hands. Next, the hum of the automatic dryer.

  As she opens the door, I realize what I’m feeling: the sensation of being watched. I look at the bathroom door, then back into the main portion of the store. The man behind the counter, at the cash register, is staring at me. He looks intently at my face and I feel the color draining from my face as I panic beneath the wig.

  The woman who’s been inside the bathroom walks past. I hurry inside, pee, wash my hands, hold them under the automatic dryer for a few seconds, rub the wet hands on my pants, then leave. I don’t look up, but I feel the man’s gaze on my back as I cross the store and exit.

  When I get to the car, Luke is just finishing pumping the gas. He takes one look at me and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  I have a split second to make a decision. So I do.

  I walk closer to him, but not too close. “My stomach hurts,” I say softly, touching my stomach with the palm of my hand, and scrunching up my face as if I’m in pain. “I don’t want to go back in and take the chance of being spotted. Would you mind getting me some antacid?”

  A look of relief washes across his face, and he smiles at me, that perfect Luke smile. “Of course,” he says. “Get in the car, honey. You look really sick.”

  Well, I haven’t lied, exactly. I do feel sick to my stomach. But not because of anything an antacid can cure. I am going to be caught, and they are going to take Luke, too, if he is with me. I can’t stop my capture. I’ve blown that altogether. But I can stop Luke’s.

  I climb into the passenger side of Susan’s car, mentally preparing to go as soon as Luke is out of sight. I glance at the starter and see the key fob is gone. Shit. I need it to start the car. I open the door and step out again. “Wait,” I call, trying not to draw attention to myself. Luke is halfway across the parking lot.

  He walks back toward me, concerned.

  “I want to listen to the radio,” I say.

  He looks confused, then it dawns on him what I need. He reaches into his pocket, then tosses me the fob. I catch it with two hands cupped together and smile back at him. “Thanks,” I say, as I duck back into the passenger seat.

  I watch as Luke crosses the parking lot and enters the convenience store. As soon as the door shuts, I crawl over the gear shifter, slide into the driver’s seat, and start the engine. I give one last look at the store, then drive away. Not too fast, nice and easy, so no one thinks it suspicious. However, fast enough that if Luke notices me leaving, he won’t come out and try to stop me.

  I know he’ll be upset when he realizes I’ve left him and why. But, having a discussion with him at the gas station, convincing him that I have to go it alone, to be caught alone, is not something I’m capable of. He would want to stay with me, to come, to make sure everything goes OK.

  He can’t make this OK. I chose this risk when I decided to flee. It’s not something I want for Luke. I want him free. I can’t bear him facing the same fate as me: the wrong end of a holding facility.

  I follow the interstate south, and wait. It is nerve-racking, and I sort of wish I actually had some type of stomach-calming serum. My nerves always rip apart my insides, making me feel queasy. It’s one reason I hate being anxious.

  I just have to ignore it and keep driving. There is nothing I can do. They’re either going to find me or not. I have a map to Georgia, but not the specific place I’m going. That’s all in my head. I memorized it, so that if I were caught, I wouldn’t expose my route.

  I’ve been driving almost an hour, and my stomach is beginning to calm. Just as I’m wondering if ditching Luke was a mistake, I hear the chopping of helicopter blades above me. They’re looking for the car the man at the gas station must have clearly described.

  I keep driving, at the speed limit, 65 m.p.h. The helicopter follows overhead, and finally, I hear a voice crackle from the helicopter’s speaker system. “Driver in the red coupe, license plate 8BX TRC, please pull over.”

  I follow the instructions and pull to the side of the road. Several cars pass and nothing happens. Like a vulture before the feast, the helicopter flies in lazy circles above me for five minutes. It is a slow and unpleasant wait. In the rearview mirror, I see police cars, lights flashing, roll up. Two cruiser
s park behind me, and then another voice rings out over a speaker. This voice hails from one of the cruisers, rather than the air.

  “Please exit the vehicle with your hands raised,” the speaker voice says.

  I do as I’m told. I stand there, on the side of a South Carolina highway, hands raised, looking and feeling like a criminal.

  “Are you Kelsey Reed?” the voice over the speaker booms.

  I nod.

  An officer, clad in a black uniform, approaches me, and gently, professionally, says. “Ms. Reed, you’re under arrest for fleeing a donation. Please come with me.”

  I follow the man back to the cruiser. He holds open the door, and I lower myself into the backseat. It is just as I expected. But this is the easy part. The hard part is the holding facility. That has yet to come.

  Chapter 13: Last Words

  Three Years Ago

  “Go ahead, Maya,” I could hear Dr. Grant saying from off camera. “It’s recording.”

  My mother was propped up in a hospital bed, wearing a white gown. Sweat beaded on her forehead, plastering stray auburn hairs to her face. Dark circles were under her eyes. Her breathing was shallow, as if she could barely draw in air, and her eyes were slits, lids struggling to stay open.

  She closed her eyes momentarily, then strained to open them, winced and forced a smile.

  “Kelsey, this is Mom. I want to talk to you, but I can’t right now. Your father will be here soon. And that’s good. He’ll be able to help. But, in case he doesn’t get here in time, I want you to know that I love you.”

  Her words were spaced out unevenly as she tried to breathe, which seemed increasingly harder for her.

  “I also want you to know that you can believe in Life First, Kelsey. But, I want you to remember to always put your own life first. Putting someone else’s life before your own, or the family you love isn’t fair to you or your family,” she gasped, then leaned back on her pillow, closing her eyes.

  Dr. Grant, off camera, asked if she was alright. “Yeah,” she said. “Just give me a minute.” She took a few seconds, inhaling her shallow mishmash of breaths, then weakly lifted her hand and wiped sweat from her brow.

  “This baby, I don’t think can survive, Kelsey. And that’s an unfortunate part of life. Not everyone can live. I wish everyone could, but they can’t. Right now, this baby is killing me, and I don’t want that, especially if it can’t live. And even if there was a small chance he could live, I don’t give as much weight to the could-be, as to the do-have. What I do have is you. I have you and your father, and I love you very much. I want to be with you, and see you grow up and get married and have your own children. I want to be there for your first date, see you graduate from college and get your first job. All those wonderful things; I want them all. Right now, I’ve been told no, because they think my chances are 85 percent. I don’t feel 85 percent, Kelsey. And even if my chances were 90 percent, I can tell it’s just heading downhill. I want my life weighed first, and that’s not happening.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I know you won’t see this now. Hopefully, your father will wait until you’re older to show it to you. But, Kelsey, please remember, that you should put your life and your family first. I love you, and I tried to do that. When you get older, Kelsey, leave this place. No one should have their choices about life taken away. I love you.”

  Then, she looked beyond the recorder and said, “That’s it, Dr. Grant. Has Lewis’ plane taken off?” And that was it. It was over. The video was finished.

  I waited for Dr. Grant to speak. To say something. Maybe sorry. Sorry for changing my view of my mother. Sorry for letting me know how hard her last moments were. Sorry for shattering the fantasy I had that it had been quick and painless, unexpected, even unpreventable. I looked down at the computer keys. I did not wish to see her like that anymore. Finally, Dr. Grant spoke. “I tried to give it to your father at the time, but he wouldn’t take my calls or e-mails or letters. I was afraid if I sent just the chip, he would destroy it or throw it away unopened.”

  I had to leave. I stood. Dr. Grant watched me curiously, then hit a button on the computer. A small chip ejected. He put it into a plastic sleeve and handed it to me. “This is yours,” he said.

  Instinctively I curled my fingers around it, turned away from Dr. Grant and walked out of his hotel room. Despite what he’d given me, or maybe because of it, at that moment in time, I hoped I never saw Dr. Stephen Grant again.

  Chapter 14: Held

  (Present: Holding Facility 2:Short-Term Unit, Evaluation Ward, District Heights, MD )

  Being the senator’s daughter means one thing today: I get sent back to Maryland. Most people would be sent to a local holding facility with one or two cells. My father must want me home. I have not spoken to him, but it seems obvious he has pulled strings to get me moved, today, via helicopter, to Maryland’s Holding Facility 2.

  There isn’t that much crime, so Holding Facility 2 serves Maryland, Virginia, the District of Columbia and Pennsylvania. Most of the facility holds long-term inmates, but the section I am taken to, the Evaluation Ward, is short-term.

  When I arrive, my stomach begins to toss and turn again. I am queasy and fear I might vomit. Despite what I told Luke, despite my decision to run, both from the authorities, and later from Luke, I am not ready for this.

  No one is mean or overly forceful. The guards simply state demands and expect compliance. No yelling, screaming, or obvious shows of force. No need with someone cooperating as I am, I suppose.

  First, I am taken to a large empty room with a single chair perched in the center. A man enters carrying men’s hair shears. “Sit,” he says in a low, raspy voice, pointing to the chair. I follow instructions, even though I dread what is coming.

  I sit, then the barber speaks in an oddly giddy tone. “I’m going to use the clippers to cut your hair,” he says. “So, hold very still. It’ll feel like a light tickle across your head.” I hear the buzzing of the electric clippers as he turns them on. It is exactly as he said, a slight prickle over my scalp. I watch as long brown strands of my wavy hair fall in clumps around my feet. Part of me wants to cry, but there are worse things you can lose than hair, especially here.

  While I knew they did this to long-term inmates, I now realize they do it to people who have yet to be convicted, people who might get sent home. Holding facilities shave heads to prevent suicides. In the early days, when facilities were just transitioning from prisons to the new system, holders didn’t allow inmates to have anything they could use to hurt themselves, such as eating utensils or shoe strings. But, they didn’t realize just how determined the condemned were. Inmates would pull strands of hair out, and weave them together into a noose. Now all inmates lose their hair, first thing. Though I do hope I won’t be here long enough that I have time to weave my hair into a noose, let alone have the desire to do so.

  Once I am sufficiently bald, a guard gives me a clear plastic cup and sends me to a restroom, instructing me to pee in the cup and leave it on the toilet lid. I do as I am told and wonder if all prisoners have to give a urine sample, or if I must do this because they are concerned about my kidney. Concerned I have somehow damaged it in my escape attempt and now it won’t be usable for the transplant. There isn’t much time to mull this over. The guard knocks on the door just as I finish filling my cup. Thankfully, my cup does not runneth over. I exit, leaving my sample behind for the holding facility pee fairies who apparently will whisk it away.

  My clothes are next. I follow the guard to a plain space reminiscent of a gym locker room. It is completely empty except for two benches protruding from the floor and lockers without doors on the wall closest to the door. I walk to the bench and await instructions.

  “Undress,” the guard says, as he sets a plastic box on the floor and shoves it in my direction. “Put your clothes in here.” I take the box from the floor and wait for him to leave. He just stands there. Apparently, privacy is not allowed, so I turn my back to h
im and undress as he watches. It feels as if his eyes never leave my body. Once I am naked, I turn back to the guard and give him the plastic box. In return he hands me a stack of neatly folded garments: standard issue prison clothing. A long-sleeved shirt and pants, as well as a pair of shoes with no laces, and thin soles.

  The clothes are a tight-fitting material that stretches. It reminds me of spandex, only I know it isn’t. Luke told me about this fabric once, but to see it in person is a little startling. I set the rest of the garments on the bench, and lift the shirt to the light to look at it better. I grab the sleeve and start to pull it slightly, watching as it stretches thinner.

  “Stop,” the guard says sternly. “It’s HLFM.”

  I’d managed to forget he was there for a second. I turn to see what else he wants to say, but remember I’m naked as a jaybird. More importantly, I notice the guard enjoys seeing me like this, so I turn away again and begin dressing. As I pull on the shirt, the guard speaks. “HLFM stands for high-latency flexible material. It’s made just for inmates. It’s stretchy enough to fit most people, but it disintegrates if you put too much pressure on it. Pull too hard and you’ll end up with a pile of dust. So, don’t think about trying to hurt yourself or anyone else with your clothes.”

  I certainly wouldn’t want to hurt myself. But the guard, that’s another story.

  Once fully dressed, I turn back to him. He smiles and adds, “Actually, I wouldn’t mind if you kept pulling at your clothes. I think what the Lord blessed you with is much nicer than the HLFM anyway.”