Resist (RedZone)

by Tracey Martin

  Myself. The only person I can trust right now is myself, and as long as I’m missing memories, myself may not be a reliable source.

  “No.” The word falls from my lips, more so than is spoken. I’m not aware I say it aloud at first. “No.”

  Cole takes my arm, not roughly but there’s something fiercely authoritative in the gesture. “We’re leaving. Seven has enough to deal with without your bullshit.”

  The latter is spoken to Kyle, who laughs incredulously. “My bullshit?” He lowers his voice so I can barely hear him. “You think she won’t get her memories back? You think she won’t be furious when she discovers you’ve been lying to her? You don’t get to rewrite this story to be the hero. She’s not yours.”

  I’m processing the implications of Kyle’s words when Cole lets go of me and punches Kyle in the face. Swearing, I dart toward Kyle, but Cole grabs me and pulls me out of the cell. I’m so dazed by everything that just happened that I don’t put up much of a fight.

  Cole locks the door and hurries down the corridor, half dragging me with him. My head finally clears enough that I jerk my arm away. “Damn it, Cole. Stop it.”

  “One,” he says with a tight jaw. “My name is One. Your name is Seven, and Kyle Chen is a prisoner who will say anything to play on your sympathy.”

  “No.” I stop in the middle of the corridor. While I silently berate myself for slipping up and using Cole’s unofficial name, that mistake is the least of my problems if anyone is listening to our conversation. Hell, simply visiting Kyle was more dangerous than this conversation.

  And on that thought, it’s time to continue pushing my luck.

  “I want answers. I believe you have them, and I believe if you don’t have them, it’s because Malone deleted some of your memories too. So which is it?”

  Cole’s face pinches with unhappy emotions. “Come with me.”

  “Not until you explain how I got back to the camp, why Kyle would lie, and—”

  “Not here.” He smacks the controls that open the corridor door far harder than necessary. “For your own good, Sev.”

  I purse my lips together and reluctantly follow him down the corridor, up the stairs and into the brisk outdoors. Cole doesn’t speak or slow his pace, and because of his longer legs I have to work to keep up. We cross through the main camp and past the lots where parked jeeps and trucks, some covered in melting snow, nudge additional memories around in my head.

  Beyond the vehicles, Cole leads me down an unshoveled path in the woods. The snow has been trampled by hordes of feet, and I curl my fingers into fists at my sides for warmth. In so many memories, I’m cold.

  It’s not just the physical temperature that bothers me though. I’m cold inside, chilled with fear over what’s going on. I can accept that being back at the camp is a bad thing. That Malone is a bad person, and I was right to escape. That I need to free Kyle and escape again.

  I can’t accept what Kyle told me. And yet, the thought takes root in my brain as I walk. Kyle accused Cole of being a mole when we were on the run. Then, like now, I wondered if the animosity between them had driven Kyle’s accusation. But I have no memory of Cole denying it. That’s weird.

  I remind myself that I have no memories of a lot of things still, but it’s no use shrugging this off as a coincidence. We’re all trained liars here. We’re all decent at it, if not great. The only reason Cole would avoid lying—if Kyle’s accusation is true—is because Cole would see lying to us as dishonorable. Sure, betraying us would be too, but if Cole believed in what he was doing, if he truly thought he was on the side of good…

  Damn it. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become of the truth in Kyle’s words. I need a memory to surface, preferably one of Cole denying Kyle’s charge. But the only things I remember are Cole insisting his phone wasn’t bugged and that he didn’t have a tracker.

  I’ve got nothing new. My memories aren’t coming back on demand. So typical.

  Cole doesn’t stop until we’re in the middle of the woods, a spot near a partially iced-over lake that Fitzpatrick froze us in when we were younger. Despite my shit-for-memories, I know this spot well. The associations I have with it are strong.

  The camp’s security cameras and traps fill these woods, but this spot is one of the largest dead zones in the system. As such, it’s where Cole and I met the morning before I left for RTC, and where, months later, I figured out that Kyle was the boy I’d been sent to RTC to find. Where Cole kissed me both times.

  My body flushes with the heat of those memories, but they contribute to my confusion. Cole could only kiss me out here because any relationship between us was forbidden. So when did Malone’s policy change?

  I can think of only one reason—Malone is rewarding Cole for capturing us. Cole has proven his loyalty to Malone over his unit. The thought makes my gut churn. I want so badly for it to not be true, but I’m having a hard time imagining what Cole could say to convince me otherwise.

  “So?” I cross my arms, a gesture designed to keep my distance. Since this was our kissing spot, I don’t want Cole getting ideas. “How did I get here? Is everything I discovered about this place true? Did your memories get wiped too? Speak.”

  “Slow down, Sev.”

  “I don’t have time to slow down. Malone could be reviewing my latest set of tests at this very moment and figuring out that I remember more than I’m supposed to. I’m trusting you just by admitting as much, and I’m not sure it’s such a good idea, but I don’t see any other choice. I need answers, One.”

  Cole starts to reach for me then seems to realize that’s not a good idea either. “Things aren’t going to fully make sense to you until you get all your memories back. But it sounds like they are coming back. That’s promising. You need to hang in there.”

  “Is it promising? Malone wouldn’t think so, and you don’t sound entirely convinced.”

  He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “I am. I am and…” Cole fights to regain control. “I need you to trust me a little longer. I don’t want to lose you again. Please. You know you can trust me. I haven’t breathed a word to Malone about you getting your memories back, have I?”

  “No, but you haven’t needed to. Why won’t you answer my questions? Why won’t you swear to me that you never betrayed me?”

  “Because it’s complicated, and—”

  “Complicated?” My emotions explode out of me. I feel twice my size, amorphous and chaotic. “So it’s true. Kyle wasn’t lying.”

  Cole closes his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you’re not denying it. Damn it. It’s all adding up. I should have known it wasn’t a coincidence when you showed up in the van with Summer during our escape. Never trust a coincidence—Fitzpatrick drilled that into our heads, and the first time I had to really trust my training over my instincts, I failed.”

  “Seven!” Cole yells after me, but I don’t stop shoving my way through the snowy brush. “Sophia, wait!”

  Wait for what? More lies? More betrayals? More memories to be deleted?

  I’m done waiting. Done with everything. Cole’s voice steals my breath as I hurry away, and my chest tightens in pain. I need to be alone, but this is the camp. There is no alone. And I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wednesday Afternoon: Two Days After Escape

  A text arrives as the bus eases into traffic. Kyle and I bump arms, and I show him my phone.

  Everything okay still?

  It’s from Jordan, and I write back to say yes. I’m tempted to let the others know we’ve almost reached our destination, but putting details like that in writing is a bad idea. Theoretically, if RedZone got their hands on these phones, they could use the time stamps to narrow down the list of locations where we might have gone.

  None of my unit members liked the secrecy when
I explained our plan, and only Jordan still thought it was wise for us to split up. I even suggested to Kyle that she come with us, but he refused. I understand his concern, but all my worries continue to nag me. On the other hand, our alone time has been a mixed blessing. It’s provided plenty of awkwardness, as well as time for me to open up to Kyle in a better attempt to explain to him who I am.

  He already knew about our implants, how they bolster memory, speed up our thinking, and that we can download and manipulate information by plugging directly into computers. He didn’t realize that our genetics were tweaked to make us better soldiers—faster, smarter, stronger, and with improved senses and healing abilities.

  He also didn’t understand what it was like for us growing up. I mean, he got it on a superficial level, how we’d been trained to be weapons since before we could even walk or talk. Literally, before we could walk or talk. I’ve seen videos of how RedZone worked with us in our cribs to stimulate our brains and motor development, and I’ve seen them do it in real time too with the HY2s—the less emotional version of us that came several years after we were born.

  But Kyle didn’t know about Fitzpatrick’s sadistic training techniques or the way we were kept sheltered from the outside world except as part of sanctioned “cultural studies”, as they were called. After all, we had to be able to blend in on assignments.

  He didn’t know I was ten years old the first time I killed someone. At least, the first time that I know I killed someone.

  He didn’t know how this, and a hundred other things I used to think were good, haunt me.

  I hope he understands me better now. Telling him all these unfortunate facts might do more to make him want to run from me rather than rebuild our relationship, but I continue to believe honesty is the only way I can repair the damage I’ve done. If he leaves me, he should do it because he’s informed. Not because I fucked everything up.

  I sip my bottled water, taking in the faces of our fellow bus passengers. Just thinking about our car ride from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia dries out my tongue. I talked seventy-four percent of the time we were alone in the car. That’s a lot of talking. I have a dry mouth but a somewhat lighter burden on my shoulders.

  In return, Kyle told me more about how he’d been trained by his mother and stepfather since he was young too. How to fight and shoot, how to spot suspicious activity around him, what to do if it looked like RedZone was ever closing in. I’m glad his parents were smart enough to take these precautions.

  “Here,” Kyle says as the bus slows down for another stop.

  We get off the bus somewhere in Center City Philadelphia with four others. The tall buildings on either side of the street form a wind tunnel, and I pull my hat lower over my ears. Kyle hasn’t told me exactly where we’re going. A bank is all I know, though if I had the time, I could probably narrow it down. Kyle can’t possibly have a key for the safety deposit box on him, and the number of banks using biometric security is limited.

  “We’re heading back the way we came,” I say into the wind.

  “Yeah, I’m trying to shake any potential tails.”

  I knit my eyebrows together, caught between amusement and confusion. I can’t tell if he’s serious, and just in case, I don’t want to hurt his feelings by explaining that we’re not being super clever. “We don’t have any tails. I’ve been on alert since we left.”

  Kyle zips his jacket up over his chin. “Hey, I’m following the safety protocols I was taught if I ever had to make this trip. Maybe they’re not up to your standards, but cut my parents some slack. My dad was a regular soldier, not a super one.”

  I smirk because he doesn’t sound upset. “Keep checking the reflections in the windows we pass. Change your pace constantly or pause to window shop. Look for people who stay the same distance away in spite of your erratic speed.”

  For another couple blocks I continue to share tips with Kyle, all the while using my own advice. It’s late in the afternoon, but the streets are busy. Not being familiar with Philadelphia except for the maps I memorized this morning, I can’t tell whether this is normal. Given that many of the pedestrians are carrying shopping bags, I’m guessing the holiday season is part of it.

  Kyle yawns as we cross the street. “I need to get coffee once we’re done. Too many nights without enough sleep.”

  “Tell me about it.” Lack of sleep can be deadly. We can’t afford stupid mistakes brought about by it.

  Kyle and I left before sunrise this morning, ditching one of the stolen cars as soon as we could. They were too hot to drive across the state, and timing was an issue. We took the highway for part of the journey rather than back roads. It was risky, but Kyle was dead set on getting to the city before the bank closed since that would mean another night of waiting.

  Three buildings down the block, I figure out where we’re heading. The enormous bank with its ornate doors and beautiful old architecture screams safety and stability, and most importantly, that it’s big enough and rich enough to offer its clients biometric security.

  Sure enough, Kyle opens the heavy, brass-handled doors, and I bask in the warmth as we enter the lobby. High ceilings, marble floors and an enormous and elaborately decorated Christmas tree greet us.

  I follow Kyle’s lead, eyeing the security guards’ side arms. I have my stolen, camp-issued .38 under my jacket, and Kyle has one too. Here’s hoping we don’t have to pass through any security checks.

  While Kyle approaches an information desk and explains he needs to access his safety deposit box, I take note of the cameras, the guards, the exits, and anyone coming or going through the myriad doors.

  The woman at the desk has Kyle enter some information into an e-sheet, then tells him someone will assist him in a moment. She motions to chairs in a waiting area. A few antsy minutes later, an older man approaches us with the unsurprising news that Kyle’s passcode checks out. We follow him through a security door and into a more modern room where Kyle then has his retinas scanned and his cheek swabbed for DNA verification.

  “Can you tell me if the box has been accessed in the past week?” Kyle asks as we wait for the results to confirm that he is who he claims to be.

  “I’m afraid we can’t give out that information.” The portable scanner beeps at that moment, identifying Kyle as a match on the box. “I would think you’d know if you accessed your own box.” The man sounds skeptical.

  “It’s a family box. Multiple people have access, but thanks.”

  The bank employee makes a polite noise, and soon enough I’m standing in a cramped room with a dinged-up wood table and two cheap chairs. As Kyle enters his password into the box, I glance away so I can’t accidentally memorize it.

  When the lid pops open, his relief is palpable. I’m surprised he doesn’t melt into the floor with the release of tension. “She’s been here. Look.”

  He pushes aside a Canadian passport, which I’m assuming is a fake, and a couple electronic funds cards to reveal one of the largest rolls of dollars I’ve ever seen. I’ve been carrying around a lot of paper money myself lately because getting my hands on dubious cash was part of my escape plan while I was at RTC. But my stash is nothing compared to these bills. Although I’m told paper money was once ubiquitous, like most paper, it’s unusual to see a lot of it these days.

  Speaking of paper, Kyle holds out a note written on the stuff. His hand trembles, so he spreads it on the table so we can both read it.

  K—

  I hope you are safe and getting this. M’s men have found us. Don’t know how. Your call about something weird happening at school was a lifesaver. Thanks to you, we’ve been able to stay one step ahead of them.

  R is watching the remains of the house, so stay away and keep your head low. Use the phone in the box to contact me. The number is programmed. I’m proud of you and know you can do this.

  Love,

  Mom />
  I place my hand over Kyle’s, and he wraps his fingers around mine. “She’s safe. See? I told you.”

  He nods as though still convincing himself. “For now.”

  Kyle takes the disposable phone and zips it into an interior pocket of his jacket. While he packs up a few more items, including one of the three fake driver’s licenses with his photo on it, I examine the note again.

  “What does ‘remains of the house’ mean?”

  He grimaces. “Just that. They would have torched it before fleeing to get rid of as much evidence as possible.”

  “Smart but ouch. And that?” I point to a series of marks in the bottom right corner. It could just be that his mother was trying to coax more ink out of her pen, but something about the scratches looks deliberate.

  Kyle folds up the paper, and it goes into the pocket with his phone. “It’s kind of like her watermark. It’s how I know she’s the one who actually wrote the note and that she did it without coercion.”

  “Aren’t you all clever.”

  “Just because we’re not super spies, Hernandez…”

  I elbow him. “You’re pretty super. So now what?” I want to return to my unit, but whether Kyle will want to return with me… I’m not at all certain of it.

  Kyle seems pleased with the situation. His movements are snappier, and the dark cloud that’s been omnipresent about his head for the past few days has lifted. It actually appears that more light is landing on his skin, but I suppose that’s my own improved emotions coloring my perception. I’m glad Kyle is feeling better, and I’m thrilled to discover that there was more to his gloom than what I’d done.

  In retrospect, I should have known it was more than just me bringing him down. How arrogant could I get?

  “Now?” He shuts the box, which relocks automatically, and pushes the button to signal a bank worker. “We get coffee, I make a call, and then we find a nice place to go for dinner and a warm room to sleep in tonight. Because I’m done eating fast food and freezing if that’s okay with you, super-spy.”