Rescue (The Alliance Chronicles Book 2)

by SF Benson

  “No, but I’m smart enough to listen to my sister. It’s not nice to cross her.” He extends his hand. “Name’s Griffin.”

  “Zared.” I cautiously shake it.. “What’s she gonna do to me? Stare at me until I turn into a block of ice?”

  Griffin’s lips curl at my comment, and he leans toward me. “No. She’ll tell me, and I’m not a pleasant person to cross.”

  A flicker of irritation shines in his eyes. I’ll bet any amount of money Griffin’s former military, probably a specialist. Too damned cocky.

  “Yeah. Right,” I say, equally annoyed.

  “Take a seat. Time to talk.”

  I follow Griffin back to the sofa. “What do we have to talk about?”

  Griffin relaxes on a dark green leather recliner. “Gliese didn’t tell you about us, huh?”

  “No.” I rub the back of my neck. I’m here for Tru, my girl, not some drawn-out conversation.

  “Long story, short. We’re both from the AR. Gliese and I help survivors.”

  “Survivors of what?”

  “The New Order’s vaccine,” he says.

  I tilt my head to one side. He has my attention. “Go on.”

  “The vaccines given after the end of the pandemic were untested. No one knew how bad the side effects would be. The formula was unstable but the New Order didn’t care. They just pressed forward with the agenda. Gliese received her inoculation and was sick for days. My stepdad and I weren’t sure how to help her. No precedent dictating treatment.”

  “She doesn’t seem sick now.” Only drugged, I speculate.

  “It took about two weeks for her to recover, but she’s not the same.”

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “What did it do to her?”

  “She doesn’t feel emotion.” His pensive expression says far more than words could ever convey.

  “Want to try a better story?” I jiggle my foot, questioning his words. After reading my father’s journals, however, I’m ready to believe almost anything. “There’s no way a vaccine did that to her.”

  “Trust me. It did along with an unexpected side effect.”

  “What?”

  “Well, before the inoculation, Gliese was in a relationship with a girl named Angela. After the vaccine, she lost interest in girls and guys. Angela couldn’t handle it and she walked.”

  Doubt and guilt tangle in my stomach. My father’s research couldn’t have done that kind of damage. Gliese probably just wanted out of the relationship.

  “And you?”

  “Never vaccinated.” He shrugs. “I joined Riza and got an exemption.”

  Nice to know my theory is correct. “How do you help survivors?”

  “We have an underground community here in Windsor. We provide food, shelter… If you’re trying to avoid the vaccine, we’ll give you whatever you need. We also help those who’ve been inoculated.”

  I freeze. “Wait. What happens with those inoculated?”

  “Somehow, the vaccine’s side effects are worse for Creatives. They act like they’re brain damaged. We help them get to a safe place. Find people who can care for them. The damage can last anywhere from weeks to months to years.”

  All the more reason to find Tru. Fast. “How do you get past border patrol?”

  “Ain’t easy. It’s been harder sneaking past them with the crackdown.”

  “You’re talking about the runners?” Every night, some poor fool attempts to cross the International Bridge to Canada. And each night, the New Detroit Police stops them. Shot on sight. Going to Canada without permission is an act of treason.

  “Yeah. The patrols have gotten tighter, hampering efforts,” he says staidly.

  Gliese enters the room. “Hey, Griffin, are you telling Zared what we do?”

  “Yeah, sis.” Griffin sniffs the air. “Spaghetti again?”

  “You don’t have to eat it,” she says and returns to the kitchen.

  “Is there a problem with her cooking?” The pungent, savory scent of oregano fills the air. My stomach growls its approval.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. All the girl cooks is spaghetti. Her memory’s random. Boiling water and dumping crap in a pot is easy for her. Fortunately, I cook. Keeps me out of a pasta coma.”

  Maybe Griffin overlooks the fact Gliese’s drug arsenal prevents her from doing much of anything. A smile tugs at my lips. Cooking isn’t one of my skills either. I wonder if Tru can cook.

  “How can you help me?” I demand. Nothing he’s saying proves why I should wait. As far as I’m concerned, Tru hasn’t been inoculated. She needs my help now.

  “You need help getting your girl back. You can’t do it alone.”

  “Why would you help me?” I ask. Nerves swirl in my belly, reminding me I don’t know this guy from Jack.

  “Just being a good Samaritan,” he offers casually.

  Not buying it, but I’ll play along for a minute. I rub the back of my neck. “Where is she?”

  “Possibly in a holding facility until they transport her.”

  “Transport?”

  “Piss off the AR and you’ll find yourself exiled. It’s a common practice, but the New Order won’t admit to it.”

  My face tightens. The Riza grunt, spoon feeding me information like I’m a toddler, pisses me off. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a well-orchestrated operation by our illustrious leaders. First, a public announcement about your death. If people think you’re dead, they stop looking for you. Then, all evidence you ever existed is destroyed. When it’s all over, you live the remainder of your days locked up in a facility praying for the torture to end.”

  Damn. I take a deep breath. “You think that’s what happened to Tru?”

  “Yup. We’ll listen to news streams today. Her death has to be reported within twenty-four hours.”

  “Why twenty-four hours?”

  “Family can file a missing person claim after that. We act as soon as the report is released. She’ll be in transit right after the announcement,” he says.

  “Where will they take her?”

  “Former military base in the Upper Peninsula. It’s the prison for exiles.”

  Not possible. The UP is a wasteland. No one lives up there but a few backcountry diehards. “How would you know?”

  “I’m the only one to ever escape,” he announces with a cynical smile twisting his lips.

  “Would you stand by and watch your neighbors die around you? Get inoculated. Prevent Ebola.”

  —An announcement from the Centers for Human Advancement

  Tru

  “Finally. We have you.” Eden inserted the syringe into my neck.

  My neck hurts, and I can still feel the sting.

  Slowly, I force my eyes open. It takes a moment for my vision to adjust to the bright lights. I lie on a lumpy, thin pallet shoved against a plain cinder block wall. The concrete floor reminds me of a sidewalk. Only thing missing is a cardboard box.

  Waves of pain radiate through my head. A wicked blast of air chills me. I push myself into the corner and pull a ratty brown blanket around my shoulders. The last thing I remember is uploading the SIM card at the café, typing the memorized message, and… Eden.

  I hold my throbbing head in my hands, rubbing my temples. Panic pulsates along my edges. Why can’t I recall anything else? It feels like someone reached inside my brain and uprooted my memories.

  My stomach lurches. A wave of nausea ripples through me. I roll over and puke onto the floor. The last thing I ate was that terrible MRE sandwich. Although it went down like a brick, I don’t believe that upset my stomach.

  Fear shivers down my spine. Oh no! The vaccine! My creativity! Is it possible I’ve lost it. For years, I’ve sketched in seclusion, hiding my talent from the world. Mom and Dad discouraged sharing my gift with others. They said it was safer if no one knew.

  But no one sees the world the way I do—pictures, colors, shapes, beauty where it no longer exists. I see possibilitie
s while others only find hopelessness.

  Did someone inoculate me? How could I be sure? My stomach roils at the prospect.

  I lie back on the crude bed. Not once did I imagine what I’d be like without my creativity. Losing my ability to see the world my way… it’s like cutting off my oxygen supply. Killing me without completing the act.

  The door swings open, and a man in a tailored gray suit enters. The lanky geek with curly ginger hair and freckles crouches beside the pallet.

  Recognition dawns, and a clutch of panic grips my intestines. Holden. Holden Pratt, my almost-fiancé.

  Holden smirks, glancing at the mess I made. His icy, smooth hands push the hair away from my face, brushing my cheek. A noxious chemical odor, akin to formaldehyde, hits me in the face.

  “Something not agree with you, Truly Shara Shepard?”

  I can’t think straight to respond. The words lodge in my brain unable to escape. Syllables, thoughts, and feelings all caged together.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. My little cocktail will wear off soon. We’ll talk when it does.”

  I glare up at him. What the hell is he jabbering about? Why is he here? My body tenses. Out of nowhere my thoughts turn to executing my tormentor.

  I lunge for him, but he shifts away from me, and I crash to the floor. Sharp pain tears through my body, leaving me gasping and groaning. All I can do is curl into a ball.

  “All of this could’ve been avoided if you were a good little girl”—he taunts—“and followed instructions. We would’ve been married by now. I could’ve provided a good life for you. Now look at you, laying there like some... Never mind. I’ll return in an hour or so. Get some sleep.”

  Holden, his footsteps hammering across the floor, backpedals from the room. The sound echoes in my head.

  He should be thankful the pain paralyzes me. Otherwise, I would have torn his heart out and crushed it beneath my foot. The arrogant, pompous ass! Holden would not tell me what to do. I sink back onto the pallet. My thoughts freeze and darkness takes over.

  I wake with a start. My head no longer aches, but my limbs quiver uncontrollably. Something hard touches my lips. My vision clears, revealing Holden pressing a plastic cup to my mouth. I push it away and back up.

  “It’s water,” he tries to assure me.

  Something says not to trust him, but my dry throat craves what he offers. I reach for the cup and sniff it. Odorless. Eyeing Holden over the cup’s rim, I proceed to chug it down. The cool liquid soothes my parched throat.

  I glance sideways. Someone cleaned the floor. How long did I sleep?

  Holden sits by my side. “Let’s talk.”

  I clear my throat. “A-about…” The words return. “About what?”

  “Lots of things. Let’s talk about the whereabouts of the SIM card for starters.”

  “Don’t know where it is,” I say.

  “Of course, you don’t. We suspect you passed it on to someone. We need to know who helped you. But you can tell me later.”

  I put the cup down. “Where am I?”

  “A safe place where we won’t have to worry about anyone interrupting us.”

  My vision blurs. I blink twice. Whatever Holden gave me has lingering effects. “Where’s… Zared? I… I n-need to see him.”

  “Impossible.” He smirks.

  “Then I guess… I can’t be helpful.” I struggle to cross my arms, but my limbs refuse to cooperate.

  Holden reaches out and strokes my cheek. I flinch and jerk my head away. He moves to the end of the pallet. “You’ll soon change your mind, love. It’s a shame about your friend.”

  The shaking in my limbs grows worse.

  Heat burns across my flesh. “What have you done to him?”

  He smirks and looks down his nose at me. “Nothing… yet. His future depends upon you, my dear.”

  My anger spreads through me like a horrendous, dark stain and propels me like an infant learning to crawl. I stop in front of him. Holden, licking his lips, steps back just out of my reach.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re aware there are eyes and ears all over. We can track every move Aoki makes.”

  I clench my teeth, grinding out the word, “Meaning?”

  He smiles. “Meaning you cooperate, and the boy stays alive. Fail to help us, and we can’t assure his safety.”

  I fall back onto my heels and ask defeated, “What do you want?”

  “The same thing I’ve always wanted, the SIM card. Tell me who you gave it to, and maybe I’ll spare him.”

  I swallow hard. “Maybe?”

  “Maybe his death will be adequate punishment for you breaking your word.” Holden walks to the door. “I’ll let you think about your predicament for a minute. I’ll return later. Maybe you’ll be ready to cooperate.”

  Holden plays a sick and twisted game. Would the man be so callous to separate me from Zared permanently? My eyes droop, and weariness takes over. This time, I don’t fight the darkness.

  I wake to a debilitating pounding in my head and teeth-chattering cold. The bright lights greet me, and immediately, I slam my eyes shut. Slowly, I crawl from the floor to the pallet.

  My decision hovers over my head like a dark cloud. If I tell Holden the whereabouts of the SIM card, I’ll act as Zared’s executioner. No matter what I do, this man wants me to pay for breaking my promise.

  I need to learn how Holden tracks Zared. Whether I cooperate or not, I don’t doubt for a minute Holden won’t be lenient.

  Reality reminds me I’m alone. Everything I hold, or should have held, dear in my life—my brother, my parents, even my freedom—has been wrenched from me. The memory breaks the dam with the intensity of a hurricane. I roll onto my side, put my hand over my mouth, and sob.

  The horror flick entitled “The Day My Mother Died” replays in my head. I recall all the gruesome details. Eden, my sister-in-law, presses a gun barrel to my mother’s head… The sound of the gun blast followed by blood splattering on the recruits standing near… And then, Mom’s body collapsing in a pool of her own blood. It all plays nonstop in my mind.

  I didn’t get to tell her I understood why she lied to us. She lost her life believing I’m selfish and judgmental. Since that day, I’ve learned sometimes lies are necessary to protect the innocent. Never shedding a tear for her cuts like a knife to my core.

  In a world where insanity masquerades as normalcy, Zared anchors me. I can’t allow Holden to rip away my past, my present, and my future. I’ll find a way to save myself and spare Zared.

  The door creaks open. A tall, breathtaking woman with waist-length, dark hair steps in the room. The royal blue pants and blouse she wears accent her olive skin. She places a tray of food with a pitcher beside me. I sit up and wipe my eyes, backing up onto the pallet.

  She stares at me with dark eyes reminiscent of the ones I love. “I’m sorry for your pain.”

  She pours a clear liquid into a beige plastic cup and offers it to me. I glower at her.

  “You should eat and drink.”

  Like a child, I clamp my lips together.

  “It’s not poisoned. You’re safe here.” Her voice comforts me like a fluffy blanket on a cold winter’s day.

  I take the cup and sniff it, before sloshing it down. The water tastes sweet and cool. When was the last time I had water so good, so refreshing? I drain the cup and hold it out for a refill. She obliges, and I drink it, a little slower this time.

  “If you’re worried about Dr. Pratt, he won’t be in again today.”

  “I thought…” I stammer.

  “I convinced him you might need more time to think over your situation.” She jerks her head toward the tray. “Aren’t you hungry? The food isn’t great, but it’s nourishing.”

  I scan the tray—a simple sandwich, made with indescribable meat and cheese on white bread, lies on a plate. I reach for it and take a whiff. A toxic, chemical smell like lemon polish mixed with burnt rubber crinkles my nose. Synt
hetic meat. My parents never served it. They sacrificed and procured for us meager portions of the real stuff. When they couldn’t afford it, we did without.

  The woman frowns, disrupting her model-perfect features. “Not a fan of synthetics? Neither am I, but you’ll get used to it. I’ll try to find you some vegetables and some other protein sources. I can’t promise anything.”

  I place the cup beside me. “Who… are you?”

  The woman sits cross-legged. She clasps her hands together and leans forward. “A friend who understands your pain.”

  “Your name, friend?”

  “Not important here. Just know you’re not alone.”

  “Where are we?” I want a real answer, an actual location not some frivolous details.

  She rises, taking the tray with her. “You’re safe. It’s all that’s important. I’ll come back later with something else for you to eat. You should rest.”

  No. This woman won’t keep me in the dark. I toss the empty cup toward the door.

  She halts and faces me. “Was that necessary?”

  “Yes.” I push myself up from the floor. My legs wobble and threaten to slip from under me. I manage a slow, painful shuffle across the room. “Answer me,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “It doesn’t matter where you are, Truly Shepard. You can’t leave. What matters is you’re alive. You’ll be cared for and protected.”

  This woman is arrogant. She reminds me of… Noooo… Not possible. I push the thought from my mind.

  “Why? Why am I being protected? Why am I here?”

  “Because the alternative is death.” Her response seems benevolent.

  I give a half-hearted shrug. “Does it matter? If Zared is killed, I have nothing to live for.”

  She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “You want death? Refuse to cooperate, and Dr. Pratt will grant your wish.”

  The woman exits the room, leaving me with my thoughts. This place is anything but safe, and I won’t stay here. Zared would expect… How will I escape without him?

  Resolve settles. I draw a deep breath. I can do this. What other choice do I have? I return to the pallet, pull up the blanket, and roll onto my side.