by Angie Morel
Water came first, and it was the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. A feeding frenzy came next. I stuffed my mouth and chewed with glazed eyes, not stopping until my stomach was packed tight. Done, we leaned against the cash register counter half-wall, the food spread out around us and cracker crumbs clinging to our chests. Groaning, I patted my stomach, shooting Mickey a contented smile. He returned the look and the smile.
After a few minutes of being lazy, we gathered the remaining food and placed it inside the box and then returned the box to the shelf in the back room. Mickey didn’t follow me out. Peering into the darkness, I saw the flashlight beam move again and then he came out, carrying something in his hand. He held it out tentatively, a solemn look in his eyes. It appeared to be a wallet and a pouch of some sort. Letting a silent promise show in my eyes, I reached for it. The way he was acting indicated the items were of great importance. Needing light, I slowly made my way out of the murkiness of the store and into a patch of sunlight near the railing of the mall’s second level.
In my hand was a brown leather men’s tri-fold wallet as well as a dark blue zippered pouch that was roughly the size of a thin hardcover book. I paused, heart aching, knowing what I’d find inside. It would be the answer to one of my questions: his identity—or the identity of a family member at least, because he certainly hadn’t come to the mall by himself. Tossing a quick glance his way, I proceeded to open the worn leather folds.
Mickey was beside me but looking over the railing, making a huge effort to be nonchalant. Shifting my eyes from him to the open wallet in my hands, I saw what would appear to be a picture ID under a clear plastic slot on the right side. I pulled it out.
The reason behind his silence clicked into place.
The ID was from a foreign country. It didn’t state which one. There was an N contained in an oval in the upper left corner and NORGE with NOREG beneath in in the upper right. It did say Driving License under that, so I was glad to understand at least one thing. A line number one and line number two held a person’s name. Johan Nansen. I slid the driver’s license back into the slot, already knowing what was in the pouch. Folding the wallet, I stuck it between my arm and the good side of ribs as I unzipped the pouch.
Inside were three passports.
The first one was for Johan, the wallet owner. Mickey definitely had his father’s icy blue eyes. That trait was much clearer in this photo than the one on the driver’s license. Another item that was much clearer was the country of origin. Norway.
The second passport I opened was for Mickey’s mom. There was no mistaking that fact. He had the same angelic face and striking blonde hair as the woman in the photo. That much I could tell even with all the dirt and grime covering his head. Her name was Ingerid Asta Jarlsberg Nansen. Quite a mouthful. After looking at the date of birth I did some quick math. Mickey’s mom would’ve been twenty-seven.
And now for the third passport. Mickey’s eyes were on me, I could feel the intensity of his gaze as he watched. When I opened the cover flap and turned the first page, my breath got trapped in my lungs. The picture of the beautiful, smiling boy held me hostage. He looked so innocent and carefree. But there was also a sparkle of mischief in his eyes.
I could only imagine how excited he’d been to be going on an adventure to another country with his parents. Comparing what was in the photo to the disheveled, sad-eyed boy standing at my side made my heart twist in my chest.
I searched his face. Was there still a faint touch of mischief in those eyes? I hoped so…
Then it hit me—his name! There it was, typed in a black standard font on the passport. Tallak Jarlsberg Nansen. And it gave his date of birth.
He was only six years old.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat before speaking. “Tallak?” I wasn’t sure about the pronunciation, but he nodded.
And then he came up and pointed at the passport photo and then at his chest, just in case the connection wasn’t made. Hiding my grin, I nodded. And then I couldn’t help it—my hand lifted up and ruffled his tangled, dirty hair. He froze, a startled expression on his face. Stopping my action, I brought my hand down slowly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare—” I began, and then had to bite back a scream of pain as he lunged, wrapping his little arms around my middle, squeezing. I worked past the pain, knowing this poor little kid, whose shoulders were now shaking, needed to feel a connection with someone. He was starving for it. I let him cry, rubbing his back and murmuring words of comfort. He wouldn’t understand the words, but some things when said in hushed tones were universal.
Chapter 32
Tallak grinned, quickly flipping over the second cardboard piece, revealing another Princess Aurora. He grabbed the matching pair and placed them in his growing pile of matches. Studying the remaining pieces with great concentration, he selected another one. Cinderella.
He had more pairs than I did, which was hilarious, because I was really trying—not just letting him win to make him feel good. What made it so funny was that I didn’t know who I was, how I got here, what was really going on, and now a six-year old was beating me at the memory game. Rather appropriate, I thought.
However, it was strange. I could swear I played this game before. Not this exact Disney Princess memory game, but another one with fish, hot dogs, skateboards, and other images on the cardboard pieces. No other information was attached to that vague piece of memory.
About two hours ago, after our bonding moment out in the mall, we’d returned to the store so Tallak could help bind my ribcage. There was one thing I’d needed to do first, though. I had to get out of the disgusting clothing I was wearing. Top priority. And then I needed to clean my skin. Hard to imagine ever being this gross and smelly (and bloody) before—but I wouldn’t know if I had been or not.
Ripping the cellophane off the baby wipes I’d confiscated from Walgreens, I’d moved behind a clothing rack and twirled my finger at Tallak, indicating that he needed to turn his back to me. The removal process was slow. After everything was off except my sports bra, which would have to remain on as there’d be no way to peel it off without causing an explosion of pain in my side, I scrubbed my skin with the baby wipes. All over. Numerous times. Unfortunately, the wipes could do nothing for my blood-caked hair, so I ended up finding a hair tie and pulling the whole stiff mess into a bun on top of my head.
When I was as clean as I could get without using water, I’d donned a white t-shirt sporting a one-eyed Mike Wazowski, and paired it with gray sweatpants that were too short. I pulled the elastic bottoms up so they’d be at my knees rather than mid-calf. They were clean, that’s all I cared about.
We found a mirror in the store. Tallak held it for me while I carefully inspected the wound on my face. A deep trench had been dug from the center of my forehead to the edge of my eyebrow. Blood had congealed around the puckered, angry flesh, drying to a crackle pattern across my forehead. I wondered what could’ve caused such an injury. Whatever it was, it had certainly rung my bell—rung it hard enough to knock me unconscious and scatter memories to the farthest corners of my mind.
After cleaning the raw and torn flesh the best that I could, antibiotic ointment was smeared over the area, and then a pad placed on top, secured by white gauze wrapped around my head. I looked like a war refuge. Maybe I was.
Admittedly, when I first looked in the mirror, I expected an “AHA!” moment, where all the blanks got filled in suddenly and completely upon seeing my reflection. No such luck. The dark haired girl staring back at me—while familiar—didn’t spark any memories.
While wandering around the store checking to see how how my side felt with the binding, I saw the memory game. After a short presentation on how to play the game, Tallak was a pro. After he won the third game in a row, I indicated that I was done. His lower lip came out. Shaking my head, I grinned at him. There was a purpose for finishing up the game. There was something else that needed to be done. And he wouldn’t like it.
Okay.
No laughing or moving my forehead.
“What—”
“Me-kay” he said, tapping his chest.
A few seconds ticked by as I stared at him, stunned that he actually spoke. And then his meaning sunk in. “Oh. You don’t want me to call you Tallak, you want me to call you Mickey?”
“Me-kay,” he nodded. “No Tallak,” he shook his head back and forth.
Look at that! We were communicating with words!
Almost giddy with the discovery that he could talk, I nodded. “Okay. From here on out, I’ll call you Mickey. But hey, I need you to let me do something.” Leaning down, I grabbed the box of baby wipes and clicked open the lid. “I need to clean you a little bit because—I’ll be honest—you look like you haven’t washed in months. And since I have a feeling that running water isn’t an option here anymore, we’ll have to make do with these.” Pulling out a moist baby wipe, I held it up and made a rubbing motion. And then pointed a finger at him.
Mickey, giving me the hairy eyeball, started backing away.
There was a routine I’d been following the past couple of weeks. Three times a day I’d run, having built my stamina up to the point where I didn’t get winded anymore. My ribs still gave me fits with certain movements, but the tight binding around my torso helped a great deal. The wound on my forehead was healing nicely as well. It would leave a nasty scar, but I was okay with that. A battle wound.
As to what battle, there was still no clue.
Mickey liked to run with me, and he could run with astounding speed. This little six-year-old kid could outrun me with no problem. While zipping around, he was almost a blur.
Speed like that was born out of a wild thing inhabiting the soul, a gleeful madness that drove a person to feel they always needed to get there first, to be the point of the V, never following, always leading. It coaxed the muscles from birth to know how to move, how to slide and pull and bunch at the right time, like a well-oiled machine. You either had it or you didn’t.
And he had it—in spades. Mickey was born with some mighty impressive wheels.
It was fun watching him. He made it look so easy, the effortless precision of his pumping arms and legs as he ran full-out, like anyone should be able to move so fluidly and with such grace. Plus he was a quiet. When I ran, it was with huffing and heavy footfalls, so anyone within fifty feet would know I was coming. Not so with Mickey. I’d be by myself one second, and the next he’d whoosh by me, the wind on his tail the only sound accompanying him.
A couple of days ago on an afternoon run, he had me stop. And then he’d shown me what was in Barnes and Noble.
It wasn’t located within the main loop of the mall. During my daily runs, I stuck to the straightaways, the less turns the better. Barnes and Noble, located on the ground level, was down a short hallway off-shoot I had yet to travel. Not that I would’ve given the storefront more than a passing glance. A closed security gate usually meant dead bodies piled inside, and I didn’t care to see any more of those.
Mickey pulled me to the entrance of the book store, and then rapped his knuckles against the gate a few times. I watched in shock as a handful of people emerged from the aisles and lumbered towards us. A couple of them bumped together, continuing forward with no acknowledgement of the collision. They looked crazy.
No. Not crazy.
Inhuman.
That was a more fitting word. Inhuman. And dead in the eyes.
I was left wondering what the hell happened to them, and how were they even alive. Six males and four females. We watched in silence as they clawed at the gate, trying to get us. After a couple of minutes observing the odd behavior, I found my eyes drawn past the mob and into the store. What a waste, I thought, scanning shelf after shelf of books, all unreachable because these—whatever these people had become—were trapped inside.
An image flashed through my mind of dark gleaming wood and a heavy desk stacked with books near an ornate fireplace. I tried to grab ahold and examine it, but the image popped out of existence like a poked soap bubble.
The run this morning felt a little different. In fact, ever since Mickey had shown me the people inside the book store, a weird, unsettled sensation had been growing in the pit of my stomach. Ignoring it, I pushed my legs and lungs to the limit, perhaps trying to leave the odd feeling behind. After a few minutes of hard running, I slowed to a walk, allowing my breath to catch up.
Bright patches of sunlight alternated with shadows on the floor on one side of the mall, the angled light shining in from the domed glass ceiling. While running through the glaring beams gave a strobe light effect, walking made the transition between light and shadow more gradual. The slanted columns created by the sun’s rays appeared to have shape, form—almost embraceable if only you could get your arms around them.
Slowing even more, eventually I stopped in one of the illuminated spots and lifted my face, absorbing the warmth and brightness. Closing my eyes against the all-consuming sun, I was thinking of nothing in particular while Mickey continued running, his laughter bouncing around as it echoed throughout the empty mall.
It happened right there, in that spot, while I took my moment in the sun.
A thought occurred as I stood there, body loose, feet shoulder width apart, lost in the blazing whiteout created by the light burning past the thin skin of my eyelids. A catalyst consisting of a simple thought that shook itself down into my head, telling me I needed to figure out what to do about Rolo.
Rolo?
An ice cold jolt shot through my body as my eyes popped open and went sun blind. Squeezing them shut again, I tilted my head down, knowing I was on the edge of a deep precipice. It was black and quiet down there, but that inky dead zone held vital information.
Did I want to know?
My heart was galloping.
Did I?
Did I?
Yes, I had to.
After a moment’s hesitation, I let my mind fall into the darkness. And then it wasn’t dark anymore. Deep in the black there were pops of light. They were far away but moving towards me, intense, pulsating, powerful. Faster and faster the flickers and flashes came until they were starbursts, the memories and secrets contained in each rushing at me with the velocity of a rollercoaster roaring downhill and flying through turns.
Cheerios. Closets. Asha! My name was Asha McTiernan. Awful, awful things happened to me. So much blood and pain. No! Oh God, those memories were supposed to stay in the dark place—in the secret room inside that was locked up tight. The door was opening…I slammed it shut with all my might. It can never be opened…
The rollercoaster hiccupped before it sped up, snapping to more recent events.
The reset. Rolo running down the hall as I crouched by Ray, reaching out to touch him, Rolo yelling at me not to, that something was wrong with all of them. D and his swinging earbud. Bangers. A jaw hanging open obscenely, dispensing a tooth like a gumball from a machine. Gunshots. Snick and Todd in 7-Eleven. Walking through fields and staying at farms. A rooster. A barn. Mary…Oh God no! The bangers in the barn. Mary lying there, broken.
My fault. It was all my fault.
The rollercoaster was stuttering, slowing down.
An exquisite pain exploded in my chest, making me gasp. I opened my eyes and choked back a sob. Even though it happened months ago, reliving it again in my mind made it fresh. My heart was tearing itself apart. It was—
Stop.
Oh God, stop stop stop.
I needed to focus—there was something important that I needed to remember, I could feel it. Swallowing the agony down, I tucked it away to be dealt with later.
The ride sped up, cresting and rushing down yet again, turning, twisting, shaking me to pieces. My knees finally
buckled and I dropped to the floor, squeezing my eyes shut again.
Mary in my dream. Numerous dreams of the green bridge on the border of Iowa. Following an imaginary dog. A beautiful mansion in the middle of nowhere. Cory and Claire…and Savannah. Savannah. She was the one who brought me to the mall. She’d drugged me. A group was here with her. Mickey tried to help me. And then…Savannah must’ve shot me in the head. But I didn’t die. Bullet must’ve grazed me, making it look like I was dead.
And now…
Wait. What was I missing?
A broken nose. A boy with a messed up nose. Todd. Todd from the 7-Eleven in Boston. He’d been here. At the mall.
And he knew from Savannah that Rolo was at the house.
Oh fucking hell. That was it. Todd was going to take the entire group back to Cory and Claire’s, his prime objective to kill Rolo—maybe kill the others as well.
The horrifying revelation stole my strength, causing me to tip forward. And then fingers were digging into my upper arms. I opened my eyes to find Mickey’s face directly in front of my own. Concern had pulled his brows down into a fierce expression as he struggled to hold me up—and struggled to figure out what was wrong with me.
My hands found their way to his shoulders. Taking a deep breath in, I held the air in my lungs as I fought to regain control.
Releasing my breath, I straightened my spine, finding that strength and resolve had returned in a rush. Fear brings about fast recovery. Pulling the worried boy into my arms, I hugged him tight before letting go and then standing. Moving fast was the key, and who knew how much time had already gone by.
“Mickey, we have to leave. But first, we need to find a map.”
Chapter 33
