This Strange and Familiar Place

by Rachel Carter

  I climb out of the bed and lean into him, my cheek pressed against his shirt, his chest. I can feel the blood, sticky and cold, but I don’t care. Wes, who not too long ago could barely smile at me, is too emotional to finish telling me what happened. His arms close around me and we stay there for a while, holding each other.

  “I’m so sorry, Wes.” I whisper the words into his chest.

  “I keep thinking that it could be you. That I’ll be washing your blood off me.” He says it so quietly I almost don’t hear him.

  “It won’t.”

  “This is what they do. They kill everyone around them. And when we survive, it’s not really living. She’s not the first recruit to take her own life, and I doubt she’ll be the last.”

  I pull back to look up into his face. “Who was she?”

  “They called her Seventeen. I don’t know what her real name was. Maybe she didn’t even remember anymore.”

  Wes is known in the Facility as Eleven. Now that Seventeen is dead, a newly trained recruit will take her place. And on and on the cycle goes. I don’t know how many Elevens there have been before Wes. I’m too scared to ask.

  “Was she a new recruit?”

  Wes is in shadow, his expression hidden from me. “No. She wasn’t. She was almost nineteen.”

  “Isn’t that when you get too old to travel through the machine?”

  “Sometimes.” He abruptly lets go of me and walks to the window. He peers out at the night sky. The stars are tiny dots of light above the black, hunched shapes of the trees.

  “She killed herself during a patrol of the woods around Hero. I was with her. They told me to keep an eye on her, to make sure she wasn’t lying about the election. After she . . . I hid her body. And I walked here. I had to see you, to warn you . . . I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I’m glad you came,” I say softly.

  He shifts slightly and I look at his profile in the moonlight—his sharp chin, the slight bump on his straight nose. The moon is behind him, the light gliding through his hair like some misplaced halo. “I have to go bury her.”

  “Will you tell them what she did?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want them to find her. They . . . do experiments on us.”

  Horror uncurls in my chest. I feel my mouth fall open. “They experiment on your bodies after you die?”

  Wes keeps his face turned away from mine. “They want to study the effects of the TM on a deceased recruit. I didn’t know Seventeen, not really, but I wouldn’t let that happen to anyone. Not if I can help it.” He is quiet for a moment. “I should go.”

  No.

  He twists his head until our eyes meet.

  I feel my whole body shudder as I see the blank resolve on his face. “Wes . . . don’t.”

  “Good-bye, Lydia.”

  I rush forward, but I can’t move quickly enough. He ducks down and out of the window. By the time I reach where he stood, he has already disappeared into the deep shadows near the side of the house.

  “Come back,” I whisper into the night.

  But there’s no answer.

  I sink down on my bed in the dark. Wes is gone, this time for good. There will be no more shells on my windowsill. This is my life now—a mother and father I don’t know, a boyfriend I didn’t choose. No Grandfather. No Wes.

  I can’t lose him. I won’t.

  The thought forces me up. As if moving through deep water, I step toward the closet and pull out black sweats. I get dressed slowly, wondering if I’m dreaming, if Wes being here was just a figment of my imagination. But I can still feel the traces of blood on my hands.

  It was real. I have a chance.

  My house is silent this late at night. I wash my hands in the upstairs bathroom, and then tiptoe down the long hallway. The door to my parents’ room is firmly shut, and I press my cheek to the cool wood. I think I hear them breathing inside, but it’s probably just the sound of my heartbeat pulsing in my ears. “Good-bye,” I whisper, not knowing when I’ll see them again. If I ever will.

  There is only a half moon tonight, but I don’t need the light. I know where I’m going. I walk down the driveway, feet crunching on the loose gravel. I don’t bother to be quiet, not yet.

  It is a long walk in the darkness, and my sneakers make a steady, constant rhythm on the pavement. After a while, time starts to lose meaning and I can’t tell if I’ve been out here for minutes or hours. It reminds me of hiding in the back of Lucas’s truck as he drove us to Camp Hero. I was so afraid of what I was walking into, but there was something lulling, calming, about crouching in total blackness in a place that seemed to exist outside of time.

  That was the night Mary caught me sneaking back into the Bentleys’ house and I told her I was meeting Wes because I was in love with him. I wasn’t, not then, but I’m glad that I didn’t completely lie to her. Because here I am, running away to be with him.

  I walk through downtown Montauk. Only when I reach the highway do I veer to the right, up over the dunes and out of sight of any passing cars. I’m the only person on the long stretch of beach, and all I can hear is the shuffling of my feet on the wet sand and the waves breaking hard against the shore. The whole world has been reduced to black and white—the dark spread of the water and the moon shining silver and gray above it all.

  It is late and getting later. I move more quickly.

  Before the forest starts, I climb off of the beach and into the trees. I’m on the west side of the park, and though I don’t know exactly where Wes is, I have a pretty good idea. He said he needed to take care of the body and there are only so many places that are far enough away from the Montauk Project’s Facility.

  I scan the woods as I walk, listening for unfamiliar sounds. The smell of the ocean fades, overwhelmed by the scent of fresh dirt and green, growing things. There is a fence up ahead, but long ago someone ripped a hole in the chain link, probably a conspiracy theorist out looking for clues. I duck through the small space, wincing as the metal bites into my skin.

  The southwestern side of Camp Hero is the most deserted part. I walk slowly through the woods, remembering the countless times I came here with my grandfather. The memories leave me feeling empty. I was never receptive to Grandpa’s theories, but at least in this time line he had me to confide in. How lonely it must be to quietly lose yourself in your own mind.

  It is darker in the dense forest, with almost no moonlight shining through the heavy canopy of leaves overhead. Knotted branches of trees reach out for me as I pass. The last time I visited Camp Hero at night, I was sneaking into the Facility, praying that I could warn Dean before he disappeared. But I failed then.

  I can’t fail now.

  Wes and Seventeen were on patrol, so there probably aren’t any other recruits out here—but I can’t be too careful. I know what happens in these woods. I move more cautiously through the trees and underbrush. But it’s too dark to see the ground clearly, and I keep tripping over roots and large rocks.

  My toe collides with a sharp stick and I stumble. I hiss under my breath and then freeze as I hear something rustle the leaves.

  I wait, perfectly still, but there’s no other sound. I straighten and take another step.

  “You’re making too much noise.”

  The whisper comes from my left and I spin toward it to see Wes standing there, silhouetted in the trees.

  “I’m trying to be quiet.”

  He comes closer. The night creates hard planes on his face, and even in the dark I can tell that he’s scowling. “What are you doing here, Lydia?”

  “Looking for you.”

  “Why would you do that?” His voice is low and suspicious.

  I rise to my full height. Even though I barely come up to Wes’s shoulder, I feel better. Stronger. I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Lydia.” He practically growls my name. “I’m not delivering you to the Montauk Project. I won’t let them
kill you.”

  “They won’t. I have a plan.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “You’re going to nineteen eighty-nine, right? To investigate the election. Take me with you.”

  “Are you joking?” His tone is incredulous, almost angry. But I won’t let that faze me.

  “No. I want to go with you on your mission.”

  “How would that ever work?”

  I pause, a little horrified at the words I’m about to say. “You haven’t told them Seventeen is dead. I can take her place. I’ll pose as a recruit.”

  “Lydia.” His hand curls around my upper arm. “Why would you want to become a recruit? Why would you ever want this life?”

  The wind is picking up. I hear it whip the leaves before it reaches me, sending my hair in a thousand different directions. A few red strands fall across Wes’s fingers; it is oddly intimate, like I can feel where it touches his skin. “It’s not about becoming a recruit, it’s about getting away from this place, and . . .” I waver, but if there was ever a time to lay my cards on the table, it’s now. “If we go to 1989, it will buy us time to figure out a way we can be together. A way for us to have a future.”

  It is not lost on me that 1989 is the year my grandfather disappeared from Bellevue Hospital. But I push that thought away. I already tried to change time once and look what happened. I don’t want to risk the butterfly effect again. I just want to be with Wes.

  I hear him sigh. “There is no way for that to happen. I’m trapped in this world. And you will be too if you do this.”

  “We just need time.” I lean in closer to him. “We can figure out how to get you away from them. The important thing is that we’ll be together.” His expression doesn’t change, but I feel his body relax slightly.

  “If we can’t break you away from the Project, then I’ll come back here to this time line, and you can tell them Seventeen is dead. We’ll be exactly where we started. But we have to try.”

  He is quiet.

  I feel myself tense, wondering what he’s about to say.

  “I won’t do this to you. I can’t.” He lets go of my arm and steps back.

  Why won’t he at least try?

  He doesn’t want to be with you. The thought is a twisting coil in the pit of my stomach. “You’re not doing anything to me. You’re doing something for me. I can’t be here anymore, Wes. I don’t have a life here. I can’t start over. I just . . . want to be with someone who knows me. Who remembers me as I really am.” My voice is raw and I feel completely exposed. I shift away, staring down at the ground near our feet. “I want to be where you are. Even if we can’t figure out how to get away and it’s just for this one mission. I need more time with you.”

  “Lydia.” His voice is softer. “Look at me.”

  I turn back to him. He searches my face, but I don’t know what he’s looking for.

  “We can’t let them win.” I push my hands forward, as though the idea is a physical thing I’m holding out to him. “You know that better than anyone, especially after what you saw tonight. I refuse to let this be our fate—apart no matter what we do. I don’t know how we’re going to find a way out of this, but we can do something right now. We can choose each other.”

  He shuts his eyes as if in pain. When he opens them, there’s a look I’ve never seen in his gaze before—something bright and wild.

  He moves closer. “You might be giving up everything. Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “Yes.” No hesitation.

  I hold my breath, waiting for him to send me away again. But then he slips his hand into mine. “I want to be where you are, too.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Wes holds up a thin piece of metal, about half an inch in diameter. “I took this from Seventeen’s body before I buried her. It’s a tracking chip, and I didn’t want them to find her yet.”

  I take it from his hand. The metal is warm to the touch and there’s something slippery covering it. Blood. “This was inside of her, wasn’t it?”

  Wes nods, his jaw tight.

  “Arm?”

  “Just under the skin.”

  I shove it back at him, ignoring how my hand shakes. “Maybe you should put it on the inside of my arm. That will keep them from noticing the fresh wound.” I hold out my left arm and squeeze my eyes shut. “Do it fast.”

  There is no answer, and I open my eyes again. Wes is staring at me in horror.

  “You have to do it. We have no choice.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t. I can’t cut into you.”

  “You did it to Seventeen.”

  “That was different. She was . . . and you are . . .”

  “Wes, if you don’t do it, they’ll know I’m not one of you. Then we’ll both be dead.”

  “You can keep it in your pocket or something.” He visibly swallows.

  I take the chip from him again. “I’ll do it, okay? Do you have a knife?”

  “Lydia . . .”

  “Wes.” My voice is firm. “Do you have a knife?”

  He slowly reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a Swiss army knife. I take it from him and flip open one of the blades.

  I lift my arm and press the tip of the blade to my skin. It’s an awkward angle, and I wince as my hand spasms, jerking the knife into my upper arm. Suddenly I feel warm, strong fingers covering my own. I look up at Wes. He guides our hands in a quick, neat movement. Before I have time to react, there is a thin incision on my arm.

  I don’t watch as Wes slides the chip under my skin. The cut didn’t hurt much, but this does. I grit my teeth against the burning pain.

  “There,” Wes says softly. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, round roll of surgical tape. I hold the two sides of my skin together as he tapes it closed.

  I wipe the blood off my arm. There’s surprisingly little of it. “So you carry around surgical tape,” I say lightly.

  Wes cleans the knife off on his pant leg and then puts it back into his pocket. “I need it a lot.” His voice is just as light. We are both trying to pretend the past few minutes didn’t happen. “You’ll need this, too.” He reaches into his shirt and pulls out an ID badge. It looks like an electronic hotel key.

  “It belonged to Seventeen. This will open a bunker on the northwest side. It will also get you through a few of the lower-level doors, but anything beyond that requires DNA and voice recognition. As long as you stay close to me, you’ll be fine. I’ll try to get us to the TM as soon as we get down there. Seventeen and I were supposed to leave this morning anyway.” He looks up. The sky is still black, but the moon hangs low and heavy on the horizon. “We need to get moving. Our patrol is almost over. If we’re not back soon, they’ll come looking.”

  I take the badge from him and slip it over my head. It hangs halfway down my chest, almost the same length as Wes’s watch.

  “We need to hurry,” he says.

  “Wait.” I reach up to touch his sleeve. My arm is starting to throb, a low, dull ache. “I need to know that I can pass as a recruit.”

  His eyes travel up and down my body and I try not to blush under his direct gaze. “The black sweats aren’t perfect, but they’ll do. It helps that Seventeen had reddish hair too, though it doesn’t matter much—she spent most of her time at the Center in this time period. No one should recognize her in the Facility in 2012.” He frowns. “Besides, it’s not like anyone pays much attention to us. Keep your eyes down, follow my lead, and you’ll be fine.”

  “What’s the Center?” I’ve never heard him mention anything other than the Facility in Montauk.

  “A training base in New York City.”

  I hold my hands up. “Wait. I thought the Facility was the headquarters of the Montauk Project. Are you telling me there are more places like this?”

  He must hear the dismay in my voice because he tilts his head down toward me. “Not exactly. The Center is where the recruits are trained. After the . . . reconditioning takes place, recruit
s are sent to New York for the other stages of training. The Facility here isn’t big enough to house everyone, though this is where the paranormal experiments take place. And where the time machine is.”

  “The other stages of training . . . you mean tutoring, survival, and combat.” I say the words like a student reciting a lesson, and Wes smiles a little. I know we’re both remembering that moment in 1944 when he first told me about the Recruitment Initiative—the branch of the Montauk Project that kidnaps and brainwashes children into their puppets.

  “So the kids are initially brought to the Facility here, then after they’re . . .” Like Wes, I hesitate. The only word that comes to mind is broken, but I can’t say that out loud. “. . . brainwashed, they’re brought to the Center for the rest of training.”

  Wes nods.

  “Why would Seventeen spend so much time there then? She had to have been trained years ago.”

  Wes starts walking again, and I move with him, struggling to navigate the dark forest. “The Center is also an outpost for recruits when we’re in the city. There are sleeping quarters and weapon rooms. It’s usually where we stop off before we go on any mission.”

  “But you must travel all over the country. Why just New York?”

  “It’s close to Montauk. We’re less noticeable in a city, and we can travel in and out more easily.” His voice changes as he says, “And it’s where many of the recruits were found. There are a lot of homeless kids in New York who no one will miss.”

  Kids like him. “Wes . . .”

  “We shouldn’t talk anymore. We’re almost there.”

  I bite my lip to keep from saying anything else.

  Sometimes I feel like Wes is changing—opening up and letting me in. And other times—like now—he just shuts down. He has been living with this life for so long that I’m afraid it’s like when a broken bone heals the wrong way. The only way to fix it is to rebreak it and start over from the beginning.