by SF Benson
The door to the room opens, and Shara enters. I didn’t expect to see her so soon. She wears my clothes topped with my favorite red leather jacket.
“Hi, Shara,” I say.
“Have you forgotten? I’m Tru,” she replies, with a mutinous look on her face.
I tilt my head. My replica speaks more like I do. Even her gait emulates mine. She opens the wardrobe and withdraws a small metal box. A makeup kit is inside.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” she snorts.
“If you’re going to pull this off, you can’t use those things.” I point out.
Her eyes narrow. “And why not?”
“I haven’t worn makeup since I came here.” Not entirely true. I did wear it that one night… “And you need to pull your hair back. I’ve only worn my hair down once.”
She crosses her arms and leans a hip against the wardrobe door. “Well, maybe I want to look my best.”
Did I detect a tinge of nastiness coating her words?
“Fine.” She chucks the bag inside the wardrobe and slams the door.
I toss my discarded hair band to her. Reluctantly, she tugs her hair back.
“Better. Come sit for a minute.” I pat the bed next to me. Perhaps if I speak with her, I’ll learn whether I have reason for concern.
Shara forces a smile and saunters over to the bed. “What is it?”
“I just want to talk for a minute. You seem upset.”
She exhales. “Not upset. Frustrated.”
“Why?”
“Do you know what it’s like to live with high expectations?” she spits out.
Actually I did, My parents expected me to be more than a wannabe artist. It was part of the reason for my match to Holden. They expected me to be more, to have more than what they had. “What’s going on?”
Her smile fades, and she says, “I’m expected to have dinner with Holden and be you. It’s always been about you. No one’s ever considered what I might want in life.”
Wow. My heart breaks listening to her. Although we never met before today, Shara lived the life of a sibling residing in my shadow. Unfair expectations were placed on her based on my life.
Life as an imitation is an albatross around my replica’s neck. Did the AR realize how they were screwing with people, cloned or not? It wasn’t fair. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? It’s not like you asked to be part of this idiocy.”
Truth. “Look, about Holden…”
“Don’t worry. I won’t play his twisted games,” Shara says.
I recoil. What the hell did Taa tell her? “If he mentions my mother—”
Shara stands. “I’ve been prepped. Everything will be fine.”
“Are you sure? Holden can be an arrogant—”
“Holden’s not the reason I’m here. I wanted to get some makeup, but I also wanted to see you one more time. It’s like looking in a mirror,” she says with astonishment in her voice. “Wanted to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.”
“Same here.”
Shara places her hand on the doorknob. “Well, take care of yourself.”
“You, too.” I feel guilty letting her take my place, knowing what type of man Holden is. “Shara, thank you for what you’re doing.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m coming back for you. Somehow, I’ll make sure you get out of this hellhole.”
“We shall see,” she whispers and opens the door.
“The New Order…Restoring our competitive edge.”
—A communiqué from the Bureau of Homeland Protection
Tru
I jolt awake, sitting straight up in bed. Sweat covers my body and I shiver at what’s before me. Today, I escape from hell. The prospect excites and scares me shitless. Either I’ll end up back in Zared’s arms, or someone will throw dirt in my face.
I drag myself over to Shara’s wardrobe. Tucked behind another set of scrubs, I find articles of black clothing—leather pants, a turtleneck sweater, and a Sherpa-lined leather jacket. Shara has my favorite pair of boots, a fact that saddens me, but I need to dress for walking on foot, not fashion. I reach for the pair of combat boots. A note flutters to the ground:
Good luck on your journey! I’ll miss you.
—Taa
My vision blurs. She won’t have the opportunity to miss me, nor I, her. I’ll do whatever I need to rescue her and Shara. What’s the saying? No man left behind. Well, no woman left behind on my watch.
Time shrinks and stretches. Two specimens from a steroid freak show, dressed in combat gear, arrive at my door. Without a word, they push me into the hall and toward the disposal room, a frigid, sterile place reminiscent of a surgical suite.
My eyes dart around the chamber. A table, covered by a white sheet, is in the middle of the floor. Machines with tubes and wires hang on either side. Taa told me what to expect, but it doesn’t stop my muscles from twitching, tying themselves into knots.
The goons strap me to the table, tightening the restraints until my limbs grow numb. They don’t care. To them, I’m just a Dead Girl Walking.
I stare at the ceiling, squinting against the bright fluorescent lights. Something says stay alert, but what can I do if things go south? I can’t fight drugged. Would I even know things were going awry? My heart twists in my chest. I shouldn’t have agreed to this.
A heavy set, blonde nurse at my side complains about my choice of clothing.
“Use a neck vein,” Holden barks. Fear claws through me.
What the hell is he doing here? Where’s Taa?
“Dr. Pratt, I have this. Tru is waiting for you in my room.” Oh, thank God Taa is here. Relax.
Owww… Something sharp pricks my neck. A warm, calming sensation flows through my body. My fear dissipates like the morning fog. I want to languish in the peace surrounding me.
Fight it! Stay alert!
Holden claps his hands. “Excellent. I know this was your pet project, Taa. Stay as long as you need. My bride-to-be awaits me.”
Pet project? Asshole!
I want to say something, but someone’s stuffed my head full of cotton, blocking my thoughts. My stomach churns. When was my last meal? Just one more thing escaping my memory. Suddenly, my skin tingles. It’s way too hot in here.
A shadow blocks the bright light. A muffled yet familiar voice speaks to me. I open my eyes wide, focusing on the undulating figure near my side.
“Shara, it’s Dr. Aoki. I’ll stay with you until the end. Remember what we talked about.”
“Hol…den.” Why did I say his name?
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be fine.”
“Not him…” Help Shara. My head moves like one of those hideous bobblehead figurines before darkness surrounds me.
My body drifts in a sea of nothingness. Relaxing…
Wait. The afterlife would not be piping in banned heavy metal.
Holy shit! I’m back in the White Room!
My eyes pop open. Darkness envelopes me. My heart jackhammers. The air weighs down on me like foul breath. I push my hands up against a heavy rubberized fabric—a body bag.
Breathe. Stay calm.
Something hard presses against my spine. I lift my hip as much as the confining bag will allow and reach beneath me. My hand traces the outline of a sheath. A knife? Carefully, I scoot the item from my back to my side. The textured hilt reminds me of the knife my brother Cris gave me. It takes some time, but I manage to slice through the bag.
Daylight washes over me as I climb out and explore my surroundings. A solid metal partition divides the rear of the commercial van from the driver’s seat shielding me. Thanks to the ruckus from up front, the driver won’t hear me either. I fall against the side of the vehicle as the van speeds over a pothole. The sickening smell of stale cigarettes mixed with motor oil and gasoline penetrates the air.
The rocking of the vehicle makes standing difficult. I drop to my knees and crawl over to the bag. Inside
it are a gun and a burner phone. I find a note beneath the phone:
If you’re reading this, you made it out. Your next challenge is reaching the safe house. The transport van stops at the crematorium about seven miles from the compound. Travel another six miles on foot, heading south. Stay off the main road as much as possible. Cross through a residential area. Make your way to Johnson Lake. The property, 144 E. Johnson Lake Road, is off the water. Good luck!
I pocket the note and eye the knife. It is my knife. How did Taa get my trusty blade? No time for speculation. I tuck it into my boot.
The driver hits another pothole, makes a sharp turn, and comes to an abrupt stop. The motor shuts off and a door creaks open. I check my gun for ammo.
A gush of cold air hits me as the back door swings wide.
“What the hell?” A short, heavy-set man with a scruffy beard and thinning blond hair stops in midstride. He takes a step backward. His faded, torn coveralls and work boots scream lowly-paid resident.
I aim the gun at his head, and he slowly raises his hands. His voice grows louder. “Are you kiddin’ me?”
“Trust me, I’m not kidding. We either do this the hard way or the easy way. I’d prefer the latter.” I step down, keeping the gun aimed at him, and gesture toward the back of the van. “Get in.”
“I don’t think so.” He gives me a once-over, smiles, and lowers his hands.
I don’t want to shoot this man, but he’s taking advantage of my benevolence. I cock my weapon and exhale. My arms tense.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” I warn.
The man chuckles. “A pretty little thing like you wouldn’t want to hurt anybody.”
He reaches for the gun, and I squeeze the trigger. The loud crack of the pistol cuts through the silence, and the slug tears a hole in his throat. Choking on his own blood, the man staggers back in disbelief. Crimson jets between his fingers. His eyes widen before his body slumps to the pavement.
The stink of copper fills the air. Something akin to sticky rain is on my face. Instinctively, I wipe it away. Regret and disgust swirl in my stomach when I see his blood covering my hand. I scrub it against the vehicle trying to get the grime off. What have I done?
I clutch my stomach and stagger to the side of the road. My legs quake so hard I crumble to my knees, puking my guts out. I finish wiping my hands in the grass.
Stumbling to my feet, I sneak a peek at the man’s body. Death’s angel claims another soul. I am responsible.
You didn’t have a choice.
“I didn’t have a choice,” I choke out. My voice is foreign to me.
My heart hurts. I took a life. It wasn’t my intention to kill anyone. Say it again… “I didn’t have a choice.”
Again, this time stronger. “I didn’t have a choice.”
I wipe away the tears. I. Am. Not. A. Murderer. I’m not. Bottom line. I did what I had to do.
Focus, Tru. If I stand here too long, I’ll join him on the ground.
A flash of silver catches my eye. The man’s smartphone. I shuffle over and pick the phone up, keeping a distance from his body. Scrolling through its screens, I locate a map service and type in the address for the safe house. Directions pop up and tell me to head east.
Keeping the phone isn’t possible. Holden will trace it when the guy doesn’t return to the compound. My hands shake as I pop off the phone’s back, remove its SIM card, and pocket it. I stare at the device for a moment. It has to be done. I take a deep, steadying breath and then crush the phone under my heel. Time to leave.
“The Alliance is another way of saying Liberal Do-Gooder Looking for a handout.”
—Karla Marx-Hamilton, AR economist & philosopher
Zared
“What safe house and who’s the contact?” I demand. If there’s somebody helping Tru, what the hell am I doing?
He steers the truck onto the highway and averts his eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. My contact didn’t have a way to get Tru out. Circumstances changed. By the time we get to Gwinn, Tru will be at the safe house.”
“Not good enough, Ash. I want a name,” I bark.
“And I told you that I don’t know it,” he snaps.
Arguing with Asher will get us nowhere. I concede and drop the subject for now. “Okay, what about border patrol? How do we cross the bridge?”
“We’ll stop at a transit station and put on our disguises,” he says and continues staring ahead.
I glance over my shoulder. Ko is asleep. “Ash, fill me in. Other than the reward money, why would Leon and Griffin want the SIM card?”
Asher runs a hand over his face. “Jolly St. Nick created Intrepid. According to my intel he knows everything that’s on the card. It’s in his best interest to get his hands on it. If he’s got any issues with the New Order, it’s his bargaining chip.”
Shit! “This just keeps getting complicated. How many people created the tech?”
He grimaces. “I’m not sure what your intel said, but there were three developers and a witness. The witness made the SIM card.”
“Names, Ash.”
“Your mother, Leon, and Aya Abdullah,” he says quietly.
My mother? Not possible. She died during the Virus. But… it’s always been my belief that she learned too much and that info got her killed.
“What about Tru’s mom?” A lump lodges in my throat. Something tells me I don’t want to hear the answer.
“Gabriela was the witness. She had nothing to do with creating Intrepid.”
Damn. I acted on faulty intel. Gabriela’s death is on my hands, too. A heartfelt apology won’t clear up this maelstrom. How will I explain it to Tru? Do I even tell her?
Asher finally glances at me. “I know what you’re thinking. Her death wasn’t your fault. You didn’t tell her to create or hide the card. All you did was locate the thing. She caused her own death.”
“Maybe. But I still feel guilty.”
“Get over it,” Asher grunts.
An hour later, Asher pulls into a gas station outside of Nairn and Hyman Township. The teenager behind a counter keeps his gaze fixed on a handheld device.
Asher and I duck into a restroom that has seen better days. The noxious fumes punch me in the face as soon as the door opens. We sidestep the urine-soaked toilet paper on the floor and make our way over to a tilted metal counter attached to the wall. I glance inside a stall, thinking I’ll take a quick piss. The toilet is full of fresh excrement. I gag.
“Ash, let’s make this fast.”
He wrinkles his nose and nods his agreement.
Minutes later, we emerge. Asher sports a horseshoe mustache, a bandana covering his hair, an earring, and a biker jacket. Once again, I’m in Emo gear—mustache, gelled hair, fake piercings, and neck tatts. The phone continues to engross the teen.
Asher purchases a few snacks and we return to the truck. Ko managed her own transformation with a waist-length blonde wig, a bright pink miniskirt, combat boots, and a jean jacket.
I keep my eyes focused on our surroundings. The last thing we need is authorities questioning us.
Something on Asher’s phone has his full attention. He swipes the screen and tosses the device on the seat. “We’ve got nearly three hours before we get to the bridge. You wanna drive?”
“Sure.” Keeping an eye on the road will take my mind off of Tru’s escape.
Asher’s phone buzzes. “It’s my contact. Tru is out of North Woods. She should be on her way to the safe house. I’ll text Mark.”
Warmth radiates throughout my body. Tru makes me proud, but I expect nothing less from her. She isn’t the type to accept the status quo. I love that about her. Something rubs me wrong, however, regarding her escape. Nothing tangible. Just a sneaking sensation.
“Asher, how did she get out?” Ko asks the question I’m dying to know.
“I have a contact on the inside,” he tells her.
“And you trust this person?” she inquires. Her skepticism mirrors my own
.
“Yes.” He shifts in his seat, taking a too-long pause. “We should get some rest. Z, wake me up when you see the signs pointing to the border. We’ll switch up.”
I glance over at him. “You don’t think I can drive through a patrol.”
“I’d rather nobody get a good look at you. If Riza is guarding the border, a sharp eye might see through the disguise.”
My eyes narrow. “What about you?”
Asher pulls at his collar. “I sort of got a promotion before I met up with you on New Belle Isle. I’m Special Ops. I have an excuse for the disguise.”
My hand clenches the steering wheel. “What’s the excuse?”
He breathes deeply. “Riza wanted me to infiltrate the Alliance. Be a double agent.”
I slam my hand on the wheel. “Please tell me you’re not doing that shit!”
He holds his hands up. “I promise you I’m not. I told them I’d think about it. No commitment made. Besides, I’m already working both sides of the fence. I don’t even know what you’d call being a double agent for both sides.”
Traitor.
To hell with all of this. My concern is Tru. Asher can do whatever suits him. I won’t get this close to getting Tru back and fail. Riza will have to kill me before I concede.
We reach the International Bridge without any problem. Still nearly three hours away from North Woods. Asher pulls up to the toll booth. The portly attendant holds out his hand without making eye contact.
“Toll’s ten dollars. Passports for everyone in the vehicle,” he drawls. Most likely he utters the same words all day long.
Ko and I give our passports to Asher, and he digs into his pocket for money. The attendant places the cash in a drawer and performs a cursory inspection of our papers. He studies our faces with a furrowed brow and passes them back to us.
