by Joe Shine
US Marshals? Was I being transferred? Seemed like a pretty rough way to do it. This was not protocol; this was not how the Marshals worked. I’d watched Justified, so I knew. This was something new and different. It was also pitch black. And weirdly silent. When the van suddenly accelerated forward, I fell backward. When I regained my balance, I felt my way forward until I reached a solid metal wall. I banged on it as hard as I could.
“Hey! What’s going on?! Let me out of here!”
Okay, I’ll admit it. I was afraid now. My imagination wasn’t too shabby and I’d seen too many movies to believe this would end well. Look, I talked a big game, but I was still only fourteen and this had gotten scary in a hurry. Luckily, before I could really panic, I heard a hiss and the air unexpectedly smelled sweet like honey. My eyelids felt heavy and my thoughts became slow.
Mmmmm, honey. Drizzle it on toast . . . it’s stickeeeee . . .
“Hu-neeeee,” I said with a smile.
After that, I was out cold.
Chapter 4
Definitely Not Juvie
Allergy pills. That’s how I felt. You know, like how you feel super sleepy after you take one of those allergy pills at night but then have to wake up way too early the next day?
I wanted to go back to sleep, but there was some annoying, repetitive beeping. It was accompanied by a definite cold breeze on my junk. I forced my eyes open. I was in (best I could guess) the middle of some kind of hospital-patient-room-type place, strapped firmly to a chair by my arms and wrists, wearing only a hospital gown. That explained the breeze. Super. The smell of bleach was so strong it burned my nose. I knew better than to try to fight my bindings. I’d been in these before, after a scuffle at juvie a couple years ago. I’d given those things hell back then and had gotten zilch out of it except really sore wrists.
No matter what you see in the movies, you ain’t chewing, rocking, or pulling yourself out of true prison-issued restraints. No, I was stuck here until whatever was going to happen happened. Might as well save my energy. I was scared (who wouldn’t be?) but I was more curious than anything. This day, if it was even the same one, had taken one helluva turn for the bizarre. If Leslie had wanted me dead, I would be, so that was comforting, I guess. She could have let me die in juvie, like she claimed I would have, or killed me in the van. Why keep me alive if the plan was to kill me anyway? Made no sense. Right? But there were some messed-up people in this world. Like Leslie. Any moment now I’d pass the threshold between keeping my cool and really freaking out.
I was about to scream for answers when the door slid open. An old dude in a white lab coat came in. He totally looked like a real doctor and for some reason that calmed my nerves. Maybe it was the glasses.
“Good morning, Mister . . .” He peered down at a thin, paper-size piece of square glass in his hand and tapped it. Instantly the glass came to life and a picture of me was staring up at him from it. I could see it from behind. My eyes widened, but he tapped the screen blank after he got my name and continued, “. . . Hutchinson. How are we feeling?”
It was a pretty stupid first question. Didn’t he know I had just been busted out of prison, gassed, and then woken up here?
“Tired?” I answered.
“That will wear off soon enough,” he told me. He took a seat on the round rolling stool next to me. I hadn’t even noticed it until now.
The door slid open again. In walked a petite, pretty cute, red-headed girl. I was suddenly very aware of how near-naked I was.
“Get lost?” the man asked her.
She was super pale. I mention this because when she went red with embarrassment, it looked almost fake.
“Sorry,” she answered, eyes down.
“Don’t be. Confusing place. We don’t have the convenience of the lights to guide us around. Prepare the shot please,” he instructed. He turned back to me and rolled his eyes, adding under his breath, “New interns, right?”
Interns? What the hell was this place?
“Where am I?” I asked.
“I guess you could call it home?” he answered. “I never understood why they insist on doing this before explaining everything to you. Seems a bit cruel, like they get off on the fear or something, but I just work here.”
“I’m not afraid,” I lied.
“Good, you shouldn’t be.”
“What’s about to happen to me?” I asked, swallowing. I knew I couldn’t move, but I struggled anyway. A reflex. Instinct.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he assured me.
“Thanks?”
The intern appeared at his side, holding a metal tray with the biggest syringe I’d ever seen. Needles didn’t bother me, but this—this thing was almost as big as a turkey baster. All my veins quivered in fear.
“I’m all up to date on my vaccines, Doc.” It was worth a try.
The doctor smiled. “Cute.”
The syringe was filled with what looked like black paint. The doctor took it from the tray and held it up but then scrunched up his face.
“You know what?” He put the syringe back on the tray and looked at the intern. “Why don’t you do it?”
He got up and patted his old seat.
“I’ve never . . .” she began.
“Given anyone fire? First time for everything.”
“. . . never given someone a shot before,” the intern finished.
He waved her off. “He’s a tough kid. You’re a tough kid, right?”
What was the right answer here?
“Look at those muscles. He can handle it,” he told her, patting his empty seat again.
She sat down. For the first time she looked at me. She’d been avoiding eye contact this whole time. She had pretty green eyes. Yes, they were worried and scared eyes, which concerned me, but they were pretty. The old man took a call and left the room without a word. It was just the two of us now.
Now, I pride myself on being a tough guy. I can fake it, even when things get crazy. But if I have one weakness, it’s a sad girl. It’s the kryptonite to my Superman. I can’t handle it. I’ll do anything to cheer that girl up. Tears? Forget about it. I’ll run through a brick wall to make them stop.
The intern took the needle from the tray. I couldn’t help but gulp as she looked down at my arm.
“Hey,” I said quietly. When she didn’t look up, I repeated, “Hey.”
Her eyes flashed to mine. She was nervous.
“Just do it. I’ll be fine. You’re not trying to kill me, right?”
She shook her head.
“Then do it. No grudges, promise. You know, assuming I live.”
A smile flitted across her face. Her hand was still shaking, and she noticed I was staring at it.
“Sorry,” she said. She took a deep breath.
“I have an idea I think will help.” I closed my eyes and sang slowly . . .
“Silent night
Holy night
All is calm
All is bright . . .”
I opened my eyes. She was speechless. Worked like a charm.
“Weren’t expecting that, were you? And check it out,” I said, nodding at her hand, which had stopped shaking. “Now, hurry up before you think about it too much and go all Norman Bates in the shower on my arm.”
She laughed. “Ha, okay. Thanks. Interesting song choice, though.”
“It’s December,” I said. Interesting? I wondered as she tapped at the bubbles in the syringe. What was it with everyone these days? I mean, yeah, early December but . . .
“No, it’s January. You’ve been out a while.”
I blinked. Her words made no sense.
With a sigh, she used her free hand to pull out her phone. She showed me the date on the blank screen: January 10. “You’ve been out for a few weeks.”
“What do you mean, �
�out’?” I had to ask, but I was figuring it out. Not the sharpest spoon in the drawer, folks . . .
“You should feel lucky. Recruits are gathered throughout the year—”
The door opened, silencing her. The doctor (again, assuming he was a doctor) popped his head into the room. “How are you not done yet? You stick it in, push the plunger, chop-chop. They need us in C3-11Y. We’ve got our first fry of the year. Come on!”
She looked at the shot and then again at me. I wanted answers. I deserved them. I turned back to the old guy, but he was gone.
That was the moment she chose to plunge the needle in my arm.
The initial pain was indescribable. The moment the black liquid entered my bloodstream, I let out every curse word I knew. Trust me, I know a lot. I might have called the intern a few choice words that I’m not proud of, but it felt as if she’d stabbed me with a fiery piece of metal, not given an injection. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the pain was spreading like a snakebite. Why in the hell had I been so helpful?!
The girl stood. I tried to scream, but it was all so intense, so awful, that I felt paralyzed. I closed my eyes to try to fight the pain. It was an agony like no other. I was going to lose this battle if it didn’t let up soon. When I felt hands unstrapping me, my eyes popped open. Two men—they looked like soldiers—were taking off my restraints. The moment my right hand was free, I tried to punch the one on my left, but even the slightest motion made the throbbing worse. It ended up looking more like I’d reached over to scratch my other arm.
It felt like someone had put a fire demon in my body and it was trying to burn its way out. The hurt washed over me in waves.
The two men plunked me down into a wheelchair.
I’d hoped that the cool metal frame of the chair would be soothing to my flaming skin, but the torture worsened. As we rolled through a maze of hallways, I tried to follow the route to remember it for a later escape, but I blacked out.
Screaming coming from all over woke me up. Still in excruciating pain. Still in the wheelchair. We rolled past door after door. Each seemed to house a unique scream. Girl. Guy. Could be either. Girl. Girl. Girl. Guy. There were so many it was like listening to hell’s choir. I closed my eyes. Darkness was coming again. I needed relief.
The wheelchair jerked to a stop. I dry-heaved. The guards grabbed me, their hands like hot razors. They dragged me into a dark room and dropped me down on a bed before leaving. I dry-heaved again. The screaming was coming from all over, and after a few seconds I couldn’t help but join in. One more singer for the devil’s choir.
I had been refusing to wake up for a few minutes now, but there was this really annoying, high-pitched noise coming from somewhere in the room.
“Uhhhhhh,” I moaned as I forced my eyes open. The noise stopped.
An all-too-familiar cinder block wall looked back at me. So it had all been a dream. Wow, that had been awful. Maybe I was going crazy. I closed my eyes. The annoying noise came back the nanosecond my lids fell shut. It stopped again when they opened. Seriously? Of course, there was no way I could resist playing with this. I spent the next minute or so opening and closing my eyes to make the noise stop and start.
“Okay, I get it,” I shouted at the empty room.
Wait.
The cinder block wall in my juvie cell was white; this one was gray. And this one was a lot cleaner, too. Mine had doodles and carvings from detainees of yesteryear all over it. This was not my cell. So . . . the van, the supersized shot, the torture . . . it was . . . real? It all sort of hit me at once and I sat up on the bed in shock. Big mistake. Everything hurt. No part of me felt okay. I was the most sore I’d ever been—ever.
Moving was not an option, so I examined my room from the bed. Looked like a prison cell. Prison-issued toilet-sink combo kit. Tiny desk and simple stool chair. If this wasn’t prison, someone was trying really hard to make it look like one.
On the desk was a stack of yellow clothes. All yellow. As in no other color but. It reminded me of the time my grandma got a “great deal at the flea market” on some blue fabric with hot dogs printed all over it. She made me an entire week’s worth of clothes out of it. Shirts, shorts, and even boxers—all made out of the same fabric. It did make choosing an outfit really easy. I called that summer “the dog days” . . . get it? Not coincidentally, it was the summer I got into the most fights. At least the yellow clothes were better than my drafty hospital gown. Gingerly, I swung my sore legs over the edge of the bed. I put them on the cold linoleum floor. Tracksuit, shorts, shirt, yep, all yellow down to boxer briefs, socks, and even shoes. Where do you find yellow shoes? It was very clear that unless I was naked someone wanted to be damn sure I would be wearing yellow. Or maybe they’d just gotten a good deal like my gram.
I winced as I eased into the various items. Now, normally I was a jeans and T-shirt kinda guy, but the clothes were made from that “athletic wear” moisture-wicking stuff, so I had to admit they were pretty comfy.
With nothing to do, I decided to do what always must be done in a new prison cell—tag it. Make sure whoever comes after you knows you were there. It’s tradition. All prisoners do it. Using the zipper from my tracksuit I carved my initials into the wall. R.H. A crude tag, but a tag nonetheless. I’d do better later if could get my hands on a Sharpie.
After that I snooped around. Bed was a bed. Sink and toilet ran and flushed—boring. The desk was interesting. It looked lame and prefab, but the top of it was shiny black glass. It felt out of place. Honestly, given that doctor’s device, I wondered if it was a screen, a giant tablet, or something else. But no matter how many times I poked, swiped, or pinched the surface, nothing happened.
“On!” I even tried yelling at it. It didn’t respond.
“Good morning. I hope you slept well,” came a calm man’s voice behind me.
I instinctively spun away from the desk and raised my fist. It was no one, of course. The place was empty. I’d gone over every inch of it, so there was no way someone was in there with me.
“I see the clothes fit well.”
The voice reminded me of those hilarious “breathe in, breathe out,” “you can do it” motivational recordings that old people listen to in the car to convince themselves their life doesn’t suck. It does, by the way. Life, I mean. Just accept that it sucks, and you’ll be happier. I tried to remind myself of that now. I was alive, wasn’t I?
“Looking good,” the voice added.
I looked over my right shoulder—and yep, there it was: a small speaker above the door. Oh, and a small camera, too.
“Hope you enjoyed the show,” I commented, remembering how naked I’d been while changing.
“I am sure you are bursting with questions, my dear, most of which will be answered now,” the voice replied.
I was going to comment on his use of “my dear,” but before I could, a cinder block slid out from the wall like a dresser drawer and stopped. Inside was a pair of clear, plastic-looking glasses—a much, much cooler version of the ones I’d worn in Biology class when we dissected a frog.
“Put those on,” the voice commanded.
Hey, I’m no genius, I can admit that, but I didn’t need that last part, dude. A little faith, please. Had someone actually not known what to do with the glasses before? Had they thought they were a toothbrush?
“We’ll speak again once you are finished. Hurry along, now. There’s no time to waste.”
Bull. You’re a recording. We both know this, so from here on out I’m calling you Pre-taped.
I picked up the glasses, which were beyond light, and used them as a toothbrush.
Kidding.
It’s a little hard to explain what the glasses did.
Say you decide to watch a movie, but turn fast-forward as high as it can go. Then you put your face an inch from the screen. Lots of flashing images. No sound. Nothing really to focus
on. Total confusion. But then somehow when it ends, you totally remember the whole movie like you’d watched it at normal speed. Only, this movie explains everything that happened to you until now and why.
Long story short, the people who now owned me could see into the future. Well, sort of. They could see glimpses of it, like pictures, so they knew who was important and they knew who wasn’t. Not only was I not important, but I was dead at fourteen. That was the “why” of why I was here. Leslie, crazy, I-can-see-the-future Leslie, wasn’t so crazy after all. I saw my tombstone. I saw my mom standing over my coffin. I even saw a freeze-frame image from the video of the kid stabbing me. Really exoskeletal. No, that’s not right. Exo . . . sential. No. Existential! Whew, that would have eaten at me. It was really existential to watch.
How could they see the future? I could go into it, but do I have to? You either believe me, or you don’t. Accept it, and let’s move on. It’s a lot cooler if you do. Since I was dead, and a rotting corpse is useless, I was brought here along with a bunch of other teens my age who would have died, too—though probably not from being stabbed, but in more normal ways like car crashes and stuff.
Today was the first day of our training.
From here on out, we were alive for one thing and one thing only: to become “Shadows.” That was their word for us. We were each chosen to protect a Future Important Person, FIP for short—to make sure nothing or no one got in the way of their doing the miraculous, world-changing thing that they would apparently do.
First we had to learn a lot, of course. But after four years of brutal training, my fellow dead teens and I would graduate as certifiable badasses. It was like high school in that way. Every year, seniors would finally achieve their title of Shadow and get linked to a FIP. Once you’re linked, you’re linked for life. Here—at the official headquarters of the Shadow Program, a highly classified facility known as the FATE Center, which stood for Future Affairs Training and Education—I’d learn to fight, spy, shoot everything, drive everything, become a ninja at evasion, you name it.
