CHAPTER SEVEN
My screams echo through the empty halls of my house. Dad will be down at the back of the farm. Can he hear me? Panicking, I try to break free from the arms that hold me down. I’m pushed to the ground, and I have a mouth full of carpet, with someone’s foot in between my shoulder blades holding me there. Trying to struggle free is futile.
Someone says, “Target secured,” and I’m lifted to my feet and dragged outside. They throw me into a van, but before I can see any faces, a black cloth bag is placed over my head.
I think of Dad and wonder if they’ve found him. Did he get away? The van door makes a loud noise as it slides shut. I can’t tell how many people are in here with me, but we’ve started moving. I want to ask if Dad is in here, but I don’t want to alert them to him if they haven’t caught him yet.
I have no idea where I’m being taken. There’s been complete silence since I got thrown in here. I’ve heard shuffling around, and I can feel the presence of people around me, but I can’t tell how many there are.
I sit in silence because I don’t know how much trouble I’m in, and I don’t want to dig a deeper hole for myself or my family. The road is bumpy, and I’m finding it hard to keep my balance. Having my arms bound behind my back doesn’t make it easy on me. I thought they’d take me to the local police station to have me charged for harbouring a fugitive, but I don’t think being blindfolded is really needed to do that. I want to ask if the bag is totally necessary. So what if we’ve been hiding my brother? It’s not as if I can do them any harm. Do they really need to bind my hands and blindfold me?
Am I in a lot more trouble than I first thought? What will my punishment be? We knew jail time was probably inevitable if we ever got caught, but now I’m scared they may want to make an example of us for others on the run. I’m trying my hardest to keep quiet and not let them know how scared I am, but whimpers are echoing through the van, and I’m assuming it’s not coming from one of my captors. I need to calm down.
Using all of my energy to try to get the tears to stop, I close my eyes, focus on my breathing, and try to think of nothing else. My eyes start to dry out, and my heart rate slows. Distracting myself is clearly working well … better than I thought it would actually.
There’s a commotion in the van. “What did you do that for?” a man says. His voice is deep and authoritative.
A voice cuts through from the other side of me, not as deep a voice, but it has to be another man. “I didn’t do anything, I swear.” This man sounds shaky and unconfident.
“Quiet down, both of you, we still have a long way to go,” says a woman, commanding but calm. I wonder if she’s in charge of this arrest. They called it an arrest, but it feels more like a kidnapping. I’m not even wearing shoes. I’m also wearing a tank top, and I’m already getting cold. I didn’t exactly have a chance to grab a jacket on my way out. I guess it’s lucky I’m wearing jeans and not a skirt or shorts.
I don’t like how she said “we still have a long way to go.” Disoriented, I have no idea how long I’ve been in here for. Every time the van slows, my heart jumps a beat. On one hand, I want to hurry up and get to wherever they’re taking me, but on the other hand, when I think about the reality of the situation, I hope this van ride continues forever. My back and shoulders are cramping, and I want to stretch my legs, but I don’t want to face what’s coming.
I’m starting to get really sore sitting in the same spot for this agonisingly long trip. But when the van finally rolls to a stop and the engine is killed, I panic—this is it.
I have to remind myself to breathe. I’m picked up again by both my arms and dragged out of the van. The grip on my left arm is excruciatingly tight. Again, I wonder if it’s really necessary. Whoever’s holding my right arm has a firm hold, but at least I’m not getting searing pain shooting up to my shoulder.
We continue walking, and I can hear the echo of footsteps. We must be inside now. I hear a series of quick buzzing noises, but I have no idea what they are or where they’re coming from. Finally, the death grip on my arm releases. The bag over my head is removed, and the zip ties binding my hands together are cut. That’s when I hear a door click closed behind me.
I’m in a tiny, square room. There’s a mirror to my left and a table with two chairs in front of me. That’s it. There isn’t anything else.
Where am I? The first thing I want to do is stretch out my arms and back. My shoulders feel like they weigh a ton, and I have a burning pain in the middle of my back. I don’t sit down. I feel like I’ve been sitting for hours, so I just pace back and forth trying to get the aches out of my body. I wonder how long they will keep me waiting in here. I wonder where I am.
Two men come through the door, and I know I should be frightened, but I’m not. I’m actually feeling quite calm. I’d expect my heart to be racing, but it’s not.
“Now, Miss Daniels, where would you like to start?” one of the men says, as he gestures for me to sit.
I really want to reply that I want to start by plucking his monobrow. It’s hard to concentrate while staring at such an impressive receding hairline matched with very bushy eyebrows. I blame Ebbodine for me even thinking about this during such a serious moment.
They obviously know we’re aware of Shilah’s ability, but how much do they know? I think I should continue to play the denial card, as we had planned for when they were going to come and question us. I take a seat, acting nonchalant, and I hope that I’m pulling it off.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“Going to play that game, are we?” the same man replies while he takes the other seat across from me.
The guy in the doorway still hasn’t said anything. What is he even doing here? It seems to me he’s just here to watch. He looks like he has done this a thousand times, and his eyes look heavy behind his thick glasses.
“What game is that?” I reply.
“Trust me when I say, Miss Daniels, I can play at this longer and better than you can.”
What does he want me to say? There’s no way I’m going to give any information without knowing how much they know first—something my father always told me to do if we ever got caught.
“What do you want to know?”
“How about you tell me when you first found out you’re Defective?”
This pulls me right out of my act. Me? Defective? They’ve got their information wrong.
My heart starts racing and I can feel it skipping beats. It feels like my chest is going in two different directions. I’m suddenly not so calm anymore.
“What are you talking about? I’m not Defective.” I can hear myself yelling the words while gasping for air.
They have it all wrong. My heart rate slows again and then gets faster. Is this what a heart attack feels like?
For the first time, the man standing at the door speaks. “It’s not working anymore, she’s too strong. Pull back, pull back!” And just like that, I’m in the room alone again.
I stay sitting at the table, gobsmacked. I have this all wrong. They haven’t arrested me because I’ve been hiding Shilah. They’ve arrested me because they think I am Defective. I must be at the Institute. I’ve been arrested for not turning myself in. But I’m not Defective. I put my head down on the table and try to catch my breath.
The Institute Page 19
