Blinded By Sight (Gray Series Book 3)

by Brian Spangler

  For a moment, she thought the window-eye had blinked, winking at her, as though knowing what she’d done, knowing about how Nolan had really died. Emotion squeezed her heart, and she laid her hand against her chest, taking a breath until the painful reminder passed. In her mind, she searched for Nolan’s face, for the memories of him smiling at her, telling her that he loved her.

  She shrugged off the sense of being stared at: being judged. It was just an oval window, nothing more. But there was motion on the other side: she was certain of it. A set of dark shadows waved back and forth, and then up and down.

  Curiosity got the better of her and, without realizing it, she approached the door. The eye watched her with a cautious gaze, as if she were an intruder breaching its domain. She briefly caught a glimpse of herself in the steel reflection. She had expected to see her old gray coveralls, but instead, she saw a woman dressed in tight-fitting, pristine white coveralls with a fresh sheen that caught the lights in the room. She flushed, admiring what she saw. Caught off guard by the unexpected image, Isla turned, smiling, and then continued forward.

  With her fingers stretched wide, she touched the strange door, pressing her palms against the steel. The metal was cold and empty of any motion or vibrations. Her eyes were lower than the bottom of the window, so she could only see upwards into the room on the other side. Other than its pitted gray ceiling, there was nothing more for her to see. She heard the muffled sounds of movement, but they weren’t the sounds of something alive. They were mechanical, and reminded her of the low thrumming sound generated by pedaling the Commune cycles. Annoyed by her blindness, Isla pushed up onto her toes to peer inside.

  Through the window, she found a long mechanical arm swinging from one side of the room to the other. The arm moved quickly, humming a mechanical song as it passed in front of her. Instinct told her to duck below the window’s rim, but she only laughed at the impulse.

  What she saw next changed every thought she’d had about her lab.

  The hidden room was larger than her lab, and squared with the same silver steel on all sides. From the floor to the ceiling, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of shelves—all of them filled with vials that numbered a dozen rows deep. In each vial, Isla saw what looked like a dark red solution. Blood was her best guess. Actually, it was her only guess.

  But whose blood? And why so many? She thought of school then, and how much her classmates had admired the way she worked numbers in her head. Guessing the count of rows on one of the shelves, and then sizing up the room, Isla’s breath caught, and she dropped back to her feet. She turned around to face her lab. By her estimate, the hidden room contained over one hundred thousand blood samples. But why?

  Motorized sounds from behind the door whirred, stopped, whirred again. Jumping back up on her toes, Isla turned in time to see another large mechanical arm flying back and forth, cutting in all directions. Extending from the tracks in the floor, the two arms turned and twisted their square mechanical elbows, rubber tips rotating at the ends of their open jaws.

  An arm near her moved up, then turned, placing its fingerless rubber tips on a vial of blood. The tips closed gently on the glass and lifted it from the shelf. The same was happening across the room, as other arms picked up other vials, moving them up and down, back and forth. Some vials went to other shelves, others disappeared on a journey into the furthest shadows of the room. Still others had their pink and lavender rubber stops pierced by a needle that extended from the mechanical hand; after a sample was drawn, the vials were put back down.

  A sharp light bounced off the window, breaking her study of the activities. The lights were talking to her again, and at once she dropped to her feet, turning away from the door. She was there to work, and her work was critical. At least, that’s what she’d been told.

  How are the lights telling me anything? Isla clasped her hand over her mouth, uncertain whether it was okay to have such thoughts. She dipped her chin and waited. Afraid to look up, she listened to the eerie silence of the lab, expecting something to happen. But the room remained quiet.

  Isla slowly raised her head, finding the lights, and a sudden myriad of flashes startled her. Squinting, she shielded herself from the shouting brightness, and an ache tumbled clumsily somewhere deep inside her head. Slowly the pain began to fade, and the lights softened; they were now once again soothing, like a parent’s voice, comforting after a scolding. Their sequence of colors told her the next task. Without hesitation or question she nodded, knew what she was there to do.

  The lights filled her with urgency—the kind she associated with earnest work that used to get her excited. She went to the middle of the lab to the one table that differed from all the others: her table. It was clear of any lab equipment, and was more desk than work surface. She knew it was her station, and it was where she’d sit to think, to document and plan.

  Isla turned to the lights on the wall. This was her lab, and details meant everything. The lights were quiet, and she offered back a reserved nod, understanding they’d already told her enough. She rubbed the side of her head, easing the faint pain that surfaced just behind her eyes.

  Pressing her waist against the desk, Isla leaned into it, resting. Her room and its food dispenser was what she really wanted right now, but the lights flickered, telling her differently. It wasn’t time to leave yet. Reluctantly, she began to pick through the contents of her desk. She stopped when her hands fell upon a lab journal.

  Isla pulled the journal in front of her. The pressed pages were bound by heavy thread, and the pages were protected by what felt like sheepskin leather. Running her fingers along the binding, she was intrigued: she’d never touched an actual book. In school they’d been taught about books, but hadn’t had any. Over time, most books had become lost, or had been eaten by the salty gray air, disintegrating into a powdery dust.

  She opened the thick cover and smiled, admiring the flat and smooth pages. The edges were stiff and sharp; not at all soft or pulpy, like the writing parchment she’d grown up with. At once, she wanted to write something down. She searched for a writing stone, but then understood that a lab journal like this wouldn’t be written in with a crude writing stone. In the drawer of her desk, she found a pen, and fumbled it, trying to figure out how to hold it. She corrected the lay of the pen across her fingers and scratched in her name. After all, it was her lab, and her lab journal.

  Some of the scrawling letters were tall with loopy swings and low rounding arches. She stopped a moment, looking at her first words, and her heart sank. What she’d written was a jaggy mess. How long had it been since she’d written anything? Isla continued the effort, though, slowly gaining control over the letters. And within a few sentences, her words and form looked better.

  After a full page, she wrung out the tight knot building in her hand; her unused muscles complained. She finished the day’s journal entry, admiring how much she’d written.

  “It’s the details,” she said, and then leafed through the remaining blank pages.

  Without thinking, Isla pinched the corner of her completed page and tore it away. She winced at the sound of the tearing parchment and felt a sudden panic. Why did I do that? she wondered, and sought out the lights on the wall. But they were dormant again, giving her nothing. Guilt came next, as though she’d just broken something new. Flicking the scrap from her fingers, she watched it flutter down to the floor.

  But rather than let the guilt continue to lie there, Isla decided to take the torn corner with her. And when she knelt down, she discovered more than just the parchment. She found a shelf under her desk. Excitement made her want to scream, but she held her voice. She clutched her fingers, eager to take hold of what she’d found. Standing upright, and in perfect order, the set of lab journals had been carefully placed there, waiting. And from the creases in the binders, she could see that they’d already been written in.

  With her outstretched hand, she bounced the tip of her finger from journal to journal, counti
ng them. As she reached the thirtieth journal, delight filled her belly. Her lab was more than thirty years old! Before her arrival, there’d been other lab technicians, entering their activities onto the pages of their journals. She wanted to read the journals, and wondered if she’d be allowed to take any of them back to her room. Just a few at a time was all she’d want. Who did she need permission from? It was her lab. Without another moment’s hesitation, she pulled the first lab journal from the shelf. It was the first, so it must be the oldest.

  Straightening up, she found relief in the darkness of the lights. She was free to go to her room and begin reading. Isla closed her lab journal, placing it alongside the journal she’d just found. Side by side, they were identical; if not for the one looking older, she wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.

  Restlessness played a coy game, and Isla flipped open the old journal. On the first page, scratched across the smooth parchment, she found a name. The penmanship displayed swings that were far and tall, and arches that dipped low. The writing was familiar. Clearing her throat, she felt a pang of skepticism as she read the name aloud.

  “Isla Jenkins,” she said, and slammed the journal closed. Shaking her head, she searched the lab—looking for someone, anyone. What kind of joke is this? Whose idea was it to play with her? She pushed her eyes to the lights on the wall, frowning when she again found them black. With her fingers nestled between the pages, she opened the old journal again. A tear wet her cheek and fell onto the page. She didn’t like being teased. Reading the journal, she found the penmanship forced at first, awkward, but farther down the page, it had become smooth and practiced. Her teardrop blossomed where it landed, taking with it some of the ink, creating a budding flower. Isla’s hands tensed when she saw what was next to the flower: the corner of the lab page had been torn away. And it wasn’t just the first page; the corner had been torn from all the pages.

  Isla quickly fanned the pages; the air turned her cheeks cold. She continued until she got to the first blank page. Its corner was still whole. She raised her brow, understanding. The practice of tearing the corner of a completed page helped her to find the next blank page. Torn corners were completed days. She put her hands together, raising them so that her fingers rested on her lips. How could she know that? How could this be her journal?

  She considered. If this thirty-year-old journal was really hers, then the torn piece from the new journal would be the same size: no bigger, no smaller. Losing patience and needing to know, she pushed the torn piece into place. While the old journal’s pages were yellowing, the torn piece was a near-perfect fit. Isla put the back of her hand to her mouth.

  “This can’t be!” she gasped.

  Shuffling her feet, Isla felt a bitter taste fill her mouth, felt heat rise from under her collar. Her heart was beating hard, rapidly, causing pain in her chest. Her head became heavy and her ears were ringing. When the room turned on its side, she was sure her heart was going to stop. It was happening again, and she couldn’t stop it. Her reality was slipping from her—she didn’t know what was real, and what wasn’t. She turned once to the lights, finding them quiet, silent, and she wondered if she’d ever heard anything from them at all.

  A tear dropped to her chin. The cold touch on her face, alone, reminded her of what the blade had felt like the night she had pressed it onto her skin. Isla searched her thoughts for Nolan, her chosen, hoping his face would help her, but the images of him were fleeting, leaving as soon as they came. Instead, she saw his death. She saw what she’d done, and then she fell to her knees, gasping against her tightening throat. Isla gripped her hands together and cried into them.

  Her lab was suddenly too small. Its walls and ceiling were closing in on her, trapping her in a never-ending cycle of nightmarish repentance. She was losing her mind again. It was the simplest explanation; the easiest explanation. She was still mourning the loss of Nolan, and her mind wasn’t going to let her forget what had really happened to him.

  “I’m sorry. Nolan, I’m so sorry for what happened.” Her words echoed as she curled herself into a ball on the metal floor. She shut the light from her eyes, welcoming the touch of the cold against her body. She let the exhaustion take hold of her, and she stopped trying to understand what was real and what wasn’t.

  Maybe I’m still on the steel table, and the mortician is standing above me. Maybe that would be best. The smothering heat on her face and neck began to recede, and the thumping in her head quieted to a dull ache. She didn’t want to understand; not anymore. She only wanted to disappear, even if it was for just a short while.

  6

  Janice’s legs began to stiffen as she made her way to the farming floor. She pushed through her reluctance, lifted her knees against the uneasiness that weighed down her step. As she approached the room where James would be presented for the rite of cleaning and passing, she kept in her mind and heart the memory of the day that they’d made their bond. The memory helped, but still, she had to stop a moment to try and rest the temptation to cry. While it had been twenty years, she’d been surprised by the strength of the grief. And as she walked and relived the short life they’d had together, she considered that maybe she was supposed to feel this way.

  Though in all that time apart she hadn’t spoken to James, or so much as seen him even once, she couldn’t help but feel nervous. She assumed that James must have deliberately kept his distance from her, made an effort to avoid even the most casual accidental encounters; and maybe that was for the better. Janice wondered if he’d ever seen her and turned away at the last second, changing direction to avoid her. Maybe he’d even been to her classroom, stood just outside the door, listened to her work. The notion was nice, and warmed her, but Janice shrugged it away, realizing that she’d never know.

  Shaking out her hands—they’d gone clammy—a nervous flutter rumbled inside her. At one point, she had to stop and stretch out her arms, taking in a salty breath, thinking that it was absolutely silly that she felt this way. But he was her chosen, and as much as she wanted to hate him for having left her the way he did, she couldn’t deny that choosing was forever, and that maybe he just didn’t see it that way.

  An old habit came to her then, surprising her: she wrapped an arm around her middle. She thought of their years together, their years of trying to have a baby; their years of trying to fulfill their bond. She felt a subtle twinge of pain, but it was nothing like the heartbreak that had almost destroyed her. Janice winced, stopping again. Though it had been twenty years, some scars hurt forever.

  Their time trying wasn’t all bad, of course; certainly not at first. Thinking of their first years together, she lifted her cheeks in a smile. It was just a tiny smile, the kind that’s reserved for memories that are private, intimate. Though her womb stayed empty, ending their bond, the love in her heart for James had never faltered. Her chosen was dead now, and she’d see him through his passing, as was expected of her.

  Before she realized it, she’d reached the farming floor and the room where James would be presented. At once, the nervous flutter turned and twisted, knotting her insides as she squeezed her hands, trying to relax. She found the Commune mortician, seeing the back of him, hoping that his eyes were warm and welcome. She needed them to be. The mortician turned and nodded his narrow head in a kind gesture of respect. She felt thankful relief, having found comfort in his face, and dipped her head. She then took his outstretched hand in hers. It occurred to her then that she knew the routine, and she wondered how wrong it was to know it so well. Were there a lot of folks who’d experienced the ceremony?

  As she counted the number of passings she’d attended, an awful realization came to her: the two of them were alone. Scanning the room, she saw that, other than the mortician, nobody else had come to James’s passing.

  And there was no silver steel table. Confused, Janice looked up into the mortician’s face, wanting to ask if they were in the wrong room. But when a door she hadn’t noticed opened, she saw the en
d of the table with two pale feet hanging off its edge. Janice grabbed her mouth, as if the air had been suddenly pulled from her body. One of James’s feet was a tortured mess of broken skin. It was discolored, almost black, and turned inward in a manner that was unnatural. As she looked upon the rest of his body, she saw holes in his coveralls filled by protruding bone and skin, eclipsed with the drippings of dark blood that had long since dried.

  Janice had to turn away. She suddenly wasn’t sure if she’d be able to perform the cleaning—not with his body like that. Most of it was broken, unrecognizable. Even with his coveralls still on, she could see that he’d died horribly, and not at all in the way she’d expected.

  “How… how did he die?” she asked, her words hanging up in her breath. The mortician didn’t turn, but kept his posture and stance straight and upright, formal. Instead, he stretched a long arm behind her, resting his hand on her back. She thought his touch felt gentle and oddly calming.

  “He jumped, ma’am,” the mortician answered, his tone flat and absent emotion. “Two days ago, he jumped from the executive floor, and landed in the courtyard. Shall we get started?”

  But Janice didn’t want to get started. She didn’t want to see her chosen’s broken body. Choosing is forever, she thought, and then a sense of wishful guilt followed. For the first time since their bond, she wished that she’d moved on when he’d broken it.

  Janice gulped the dryness from her mouth and tried to hold back a tear. But as she turned to fetch the cleaning bowl and decomp salts, the tears came. They besieged her, as though she and James had never broken their bond. She looked back at her chosen; she looked at the dried blood on his coveralls, and at how he’d bled from where his bone pierced his skin. From his legs to his arms to his sides, large stains blotted his coveralls. The blood must have run, pooled along him, beneath him, as he lay on the ground of the courtyard.