by E. R. Arroyo
“Is there anything else?” I look up at him, eager for more information. I thought I had that place figured out, but it’s so full of secrets I didn’t have a clue. I move closer to him, realizing none of this is his fault. I promised not to punish him for things he didn’t do.
We hear movement by the door and something shifts outside it. Dylan pulls me close and whispers, “Be honest with them, but don’t give away too much. If we give them a reason not to trust us, they’ll probably kill us.”
As Tyce walks in, still alone, Dylan and I separate and sit up.
“Tell me about yourself, Cori.”
“What do you want to know?” I rub my chin, trying to look casual. I probably look like an idiot.
“I want to know if you’re a threat. I want to know if we should trust you.”
“A threat? To you?” I laugh.
“You’re obviously important enough to them that they would chase you. I’d like to know why.”
“I don’t know why.” I wouldn’t be lying right now if I hadn’t pressed Dylan for that information. It’s so fresh on my mind, I’m liable to scream it out, but I don’t think this is something I should tell Tyce. I kick myself for pushing Dylan.
The tension in Dylan’s jaw returns as Tyce looks at him. “We are not a threat to you, but the people following us are.”
“We killed them. Are there more?” Tyce sits on the chair the way he had before.
“There will be.” Dylan swallows hard. “They’ll find us within a day if we stay put.”
“That so?”
Dylan points to the chip in his neck. “She has a tracker.” He nods toward me. “It transmits once a day, early every morning.”
“What?” I stare at him with wide eyes. “How have they not caught us?”
“It’s not the best signal, and since it only transmits for a moment, it brings them to a general area at best.”
Tyce’s hand drifts not-so-subtly to his knife. “So you’re bringing an enemy to our doorstep. Why shouldn’t I just kill her?” I should be frightened, but for some reason, I don’t feel threatened despite what he’s saying.
“It would still transmit, so you’d want to take her body far away from where you live, and you’d want to do it by morning.” Dylan referring to me as a “body” sends a wave of cold through my bones. I don’t know if I should hit him or cry. All along, they were on our trail because of this thing in my neck.
“That can be arranged,” Tyce says, with his hand around the knife handle. But he smirks anyway. “But I sense that a smart guy like you might have a better idea.”
Dylan clears his throat. “If I can remove it, I can deactivate it. I’ll need sterile tools, and a bright light.”
“What’s the point of a tracker that only transmits once a day?” Tyce asks, but I was wondering the same thing myself.
“Their developers must not be very good.” He’s lying again. Dylan is a technology developer, and he is very good. But this time, I don’t mind the lie. The less information we give Tyce, the better. I think.
“And what about your device?” Tyce taps the place on his neck where a chip would be.
“I deactivated it shortly after it was installed.”
Tyce seems to be considering the information, and I can’t tell if he’s buying it. He stands and thrusts his hands in his pockets. “We don’t have any fancy anesthesia or anything.” He nods and leaves the room.
I lie on a wooden table in the middle of a warehouse, all black inside just like the room we were held in. It reminds me of the one my father and I hid inside before the savages chased us onto the roof. Around the edges of the room, the other men go on about their business. Some of them watch us, most of them don’t.
In the corner, a young guy groans and another laughs at him, clapping him on the shoulder. It takes a minute for me to figure out what everyone around them is looking at. An older man seems to be stabbing him, but when I look closer I realize he’s only tapping the sharp object into the kid’s skin, leaving a trail of black ink where it touches. This must be how they all get those designs on their skin.
Tyce approaches Dylan. “Will the light do?”
“What is that?” I ask, nodding to the boy in the corner.
“Getting his first tat. Want one?” He grins.
“No.” I glance down at his arms and wonder how much it hurts. I don’t return the smile.
“The light is fine,” Dylan assures Tyce.
One of Tyce’s boys--I realize now they’re all young, probably twenty and under--holds a light above my head. Another guy, brown-headed and maybe fourteen, holds my hair away from the chip, and when Dylan touches my jaw to push my head to the side, the kid holds me still.
Dylan keeps his voice just loud enough for me to hear. “I’m sorry, I can’t numb the incision site.”
“I know.” I grit my teeth.
The blade feels ice cold against my flesh and it stings beyond belief. I bite down hard, barely keeping a groan from turning into a scream.
Dylan slices into the skin around my chip, and it feels like he’s shredding the flesh. I didn’t look before he started, but now I’m wondering what the heck he’s cutting me with. It feels larger than a scalpel, not that I would expect these people to have scalpels.
Once he’s satisfied he’s cut away enough skin, he starts tugging on the chip, and I realize it’s much bigger than what showed through the skin. Something deep inside my head tugs and I finally release a scream, and the boy holding my head tightens his grip.
“I’m going to have to cut this,” Dylan says over his shoulder. I’m in too much pain to ask what it is.
Someone hands him a knife, and I hear him sawing something, but I don’t think he’s cutting me. When he gets through whatever it is, something snaps back into my head and the pressure disappears. But not the pain.
I finally look and see Dylan holding a device three times the size of the piece that had been on the surface. When he drops it in a little bowl, it makes a plink sound and for some reason, I lose control of my stomach. I vomit over the edge of the table somewhere near the light guy’s feet. The light flicks away from me as he dodges the puke.
Dylan holds my shoulder. “Let me stitch it, and then we’re done.”
I nod, and the incision stings. It feels like gaping hole would be more appropriate than incision but I can’t see it, so maybe it’s not as bad as it feels.
By the time the needle pricks my skin and thread pulls it tight, it’s nearly numb, or at least I’m blocking it out somehow.
I lie still on the table long after he’s done. He takes the bowl and chip somewhere, and when he returns simply says, “How do you feel?”
“Um.” My mouth is cottony and probably smells wretched. “Water?”
“Tyce, can she have some water?”
A moment later, Dylan extends a cup to me. I prop up on one elbow and take it, sipping cautiously. Surely they wouldn’t poison me after all this trouble.
“Is there a restroom?” I ask no one in particular.
I sit up and ignore the puddle of my blood on the table. A guy with brown hair steps up. Despite his baby face, he has markings up and down his arms, too. He also has fresh scratch marks on his cheeks. I blush a little as he gestures for me to follow him. I don’t want to know if that’s the one I attacked, but he probably is.
“I’ll show ‘er.” Tyce steps up and the boy walks away.
Tyce leads me down a dark corridor to a door. He leans casually against the doorframe, looking me over. A moment later, he opens the door and tilts his head for me to go in.
I enter cautiously, but it is, in fact, a bathroom. Though the mirror is dingy and warped, I see the incision site, swelled and bloody. I turn on the faucet and wet my hands before wiping the blood away. When I’m satisfied my neck is as clean as I can get it, I address the blood on my forehead and gently wash off the wound on my scalp. I swish water around in my mouth hoping to rid it of the awful after-vomit taste.
When Tyce takes me back to our room, Dylan is already there, along with a pile of blankets and pillows, which sits in the middle of the floor.
The door locks behind me, and I realize we’re still technically being held captive.
Dylan stands with his hands in his pockets next to the bedding. When I walk toward him, he reaches for me. I wrap my arms around his waist and tilt my head up so I can whisper--I don’t know who might be listening--and he bends down so I can reach his ear.
“How much of what you said was true?”
He kisses my forehead. “About ninety percent.”
“What about the other ten?” He strokes my hair. “Stop distracting me. Tell me the truth.” He pulls his hands away from my hair and lays them on my shoulders. I want to push him away until he spills it, but I don’t know if we’re being watched. I don’t want them to see us fighting. But there has to be more, it seems there always is.
Dylan huffs, his body tense against me. “Fine. Your transmitter only fires once a day because your body shut down every device w--” He clears his throat. “Every device they tried that transmitted constantly or more frequently. Your brain sensed the electric pulse, and your body attacked the device. You would convulse, your heart rate would soar, among other things. The most they could get your anatomy to accept was a low-frequency device with a minimal, daily transmission.”
“When did all that happen?” I wonder if this has something to do with the immunity Nathan talked about when I got my chip. Dylan shouldn’t know anything about that, unless they briefed him on my entire history for the short time he was in Chemistry before transferring to Tech. But why would they trust him with that information?
He huffs again, and I think he’s getting tired of all my questions. “When you came in for your implant, they kept you under for three days. You woke up thinking it was the same day, but it wasn’t.” He scratches his chin. “The rest was true.”
Sensing the conversation is over, Dylan spreads out the blankets on the floor, making two distinct and separate pallets a couple feet apart, each with one pillow.
I crawl into the pallet closer to the door. I don’t see what Dylan does, because I turn away from him and settle in. The lights are shut off from the outside. Ever since we left the compound, I haven’t had a sleepless night. I drift off in no time.
A voice says my name. A moment later, a hand touches my shoulder. I open my eyes, suddenly alert, and grab a wrist, jerking the hand away from me. I lock eyes with Tyce. “Don’t touch me.”
He holds up both hands to demonstrate that he’s not trying to hurt me. I release his wrist, shoving it away. “Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”
He backs up and plops into the wooden chair, but this time sitting frontward, with a foot propped on the edge. He fidgets with the hem of his pants, and he looks much younger this way.
Behind him, there’s a sliver of light coming in through the open door. Beside his chair, there’s a tray of food on the floor.
Tyce runs his fingers through his hair and pushes it away from his face. “How ya holdin’ up?”
“I’m fine.”
“That was a pretty gnarly thing he took out of you. He sure seems to know a lot about them.”
I sit up. “Mmm.” I press my lips together and try to look apathetic.
“Where are you from, Cori?”
Without facing him, I rub my eyes. “I’m from Antius. You know that.”
I can’t see clearly enough, but I think he smirks. He points to Dylan. “He...is from Antius. But you...well, you’re nothing like him.”
“What do you mean?”
I glance over at Dylan, whose breaths are deep and steady.
“He’s even-tempered, intelligent, calculated. He strikes me as the type of guy who’s only ever known captivity.”
“Ah.” I don’t want to be intrigued, but I am.
“But you.” He leans forward in his chair. “You’re like a bear in a cage. All instinct. You’re tactile. You’re animal. You’re not that different from me and the savages I run with.” He says the last part mockingly. “How’d the kid get wrapped up in whatever it is you’re doing?”
“Escaping Antius?”
He nods.
I think long and hard how to answer. I don’t think honesty will help me now. Tyce is trying to appeal to me, which means he wants to trust me.
“I needed his help.” I bite my lip, hating admitting need, even if I am lying. “So he helped me escape, but something went wrong, and he had no choice but come with me.”
“You trust him? What if he’s the reason it’s so easy for them to track you? He is one of them, you know.” I remember that Dylan is Nathan’s son but feel guilty as soon as I consider it. He’s not like his father.
“I am, too.”
He laughs quietly. “Don’t lie. You’re not one of them, and you don’t need anyone.”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.” He narrows his eyes at me.
“So would I.”
“Okay, kiddo. What would you like to know?” He rubs his palms on his pant legs.
I take a deep breath, not sure how to ask without sounding stupid. But now I know he doesn’t think I’m smart, anyway, so why bother trying to sound like I am? “The older men we saw...”
“The savages?” He grins.
I nod, not sure how to phrase the actual question. He spares me the turmoil.
“They are human beings,” he says, sounding irritated. “They’re just damaged. The effects of the bombs never wore off completely--thus the masks--but they settled down. And their offspring did not inherit their disease.” That explains why the young ones are normal and the old ones are not. “And our offspring is uninfected, too.”
“You have children?” I can’t keep my mouth from gaping open.
“I fathered a tot when I was fifteen. I would have fathered more, but my mate was killed while expecting our second.”
I look at my hands, fidgeting with my fingernails. I don’t have a reply.
Tyce clears his throat. “Why did you bring him with you?” He’s more forceful this time.
I glance over my shoulder at Dylan again. I won’t betray him. “I wanted him to come. He’s my best friend. And yes, I trust him.”
He waits a few moments longer, pondering my reply, I guess. He scratches his knee and rakes his hand through his hair again. He’s no good at sitting still, that’s for sure.
“All right, then.” He rises and walks toward the door just as sunlight begins to pour through cracks in the blackened glass. He turns back toward me. “His people killed her. She was defenseless and almost nine months pregnant. You tell me who the savages are.”
I can’t look at him. It was so easy to judge him, to assume the worst. But he’s just as human as I am. Maybe even more so.
“I hate them, too, you know.” I glance sideways at him. He leans against the doorway, crossing his arms.
“Maybe I could deliver you to them, since you’re so special. In exchange for them leaving us the hell alone.”
“Even if they agreed, they wouldn’t honor it.” My chest tightens, and my palms sweat.
“You’re probably right,” he says.
The door closes and I look back to Dylan. He turns on his side toward me, groggily. He squints at me through eyes swollen from sleep, propping himself on an elbow.
“He could keep you safer than I can. You’d be smart to side with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff, but his words bounce around in my skull. You’d be smart to side with him. I drop my head between my knees and cover it with both hands.
I didn’t wake up with a headache.
I lift my head and touch it in different spots, checking for pressure or pain. Something still feels off, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s hurt every day since...since I got my chip. The chip is gone, the headache is gone. I wonder what’s still inside that Dylan couldn’t r
emove, but whatever’s left is not the source of those headaches, and I’m grateful.
Chapter Sixteen
Dylan doesn’t speak for a while after we finish eating what Tyce left us. What the food lacked in flavor, it made up for in freshness. Bread and soup.
“You should consider playing along. You wanted to find other people, you found them. Accepting you would mean protection. And food.”
I don’t respond.
“I know I wasn’t part of your plan.”
“Please stop.” I scratch the back of my head and my hand gets stuck in a tangle. I tug my fingers through it, ripping out a tiny clump of hair and dropping it.
He walks over. “I just...” He kneels beside me. “I want you to be safe. If it’s the only way--”
“It’s not.” I grab his hand. “It’s not.”
A lock clicks on the other side of the door, and Dylan pulls me to my feet. Tyce steps in, lingering in the doorway. “A word with you, Cori?”
Dylan holds my hand, shifting his body slightly in front of mine.
“Oh, gimme a break, man. I’m not gonna hurt her.”
“It’s okay.” I squeeze Dylan’s hand then slip out of his grip.
On the other side of the door, the kid with the scratches on his face scowls at me. Tyce waves him away, and he leaves us.
“We need to move. Don’t like to stay put too long.” He rubs his chin, looking over his shoulder. “The others don’t trust you, but I do. Hopefully I’m not wrong.”
“Thanks?”
“You vouch for him? Honestly.” He seems on edge, but still as confident as always.
“I’m not going anywhere without him. If you don’t want us around, let us go. We won’t follow you.”
“And where will you go?” I realize he’s awfully close to me. He’s speaking so softly I have to lean toward him to hear.
“I heard there was another colony.”
