by Kate Breuer
I strain my eyes and make out the walls separating the city’s districts. I can’t see enough to get a clear idea, but I think I have to be in the Inner Circle—or maybe the Government Complex itself.
There’s a small desk with a computer on the corner next to me, though I notice the power cord is missing. This must be a makeshift solution for holding me if they didn’t bother moving it completely out.
Pen and paper are neatly stacked next to the keyboard. I walk over to have a closer look. My fingers glide over the untidy scrawl of handwriting on the notepad. I can’t make sense of much as it’s covered with math formulas, and most of the words seem to be rambling thoughts way above my level. I’m no good with math, and this looks complicated even for someone with a knack for it.
On the wall next to the desk is an empty bookcase. I notice the dust on the shelves has recently been disturbed. Imprints of things that were here are clear on the darkened wood.
The rest of the room is more or less empty. An armchair sits in one corner next to a small stool with a vase holding a single white flower. I have only ever seen flowers in books. You can’t buy them in the Outer Circle. I don’t think you can get any in the Middle Circle either. No one I know can afford such expensive luxuries.
I walk over and gingerly touch the petals. I’m surprised how soft and fragile they are. I pick up the vase and sniff the blossom. The sweet smell brings me hope despite my situation.
But I spot the blinking light of a camera in the corner above me, and I feel the urge to smash the petals. As the flower is my only comfort, I fight the instinct and set it back down on the table.
I’ve calmed down a little, and fatigue is settling back in. I let myself sink into the cushioned armchair. It is nothing like our moth-eaten couch at home. I trace the lines in the soft leather and lose myself in its texture. I’ve worked with fake leather at work a few times, but I don’t think this is fake. The fake leather was much more regular and stuck to my skin. This is velvety smooth.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hunter.”
A melodic, female voice pulls me from my sleep. I open my eyes and look around. I’m still alone in the room. My eyes fall onto the blinking light of a camera, but I can’t see speakers anywhere.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hunter.” She repeats her greeting, and I feel annoyance bubble up inside me. There is a kindness to the voice that is throwing me off.
“Where am I?” I ask. I’m in no mood for pleasantries.
“It would have been politer to wish me a good morning in return,” the bodiless voice answers. I feel like a child being reprimanded.
“Good morning,” I grunt.
“That’s not very convincing, dear. Would you like to try again?”
Why does she care if I’m polite or not? What the hell is going on?
“Where am I?” I repeat, ignoring the question. I scan the room for the source of the voice. I get up and look around to try and pinpoint the location.
“Sit down, Mrs. Hunter,” the voice commands in an annoying singsong.
“Why?” I want to keep her talking. I walk around the room, searching the walls and ceiling. I want her to speak so I can determine if I’m heading in the right direction.
“Because I said so. Sit!” Despite the still-pleasant tone, the volume increase makes her sound less friendly.
It also allows me to figure out where the voice is coming from. A dark shimmer is barely visible behind the matted glass of the light panels in the ceiling. I’m sure that’s the speaker.
“Not until you tell me where I am and what I’m doing here,” I demand.
I hear muttering over the speaker, like someone else is giving her directions.
“This is my last warning. Sit down, Mrs. Hunter.”
I shake my head and immediately regret it. Pain is the last thing I know before everything turns black.
Waking up is worse than the first time around. My body feels weak, as if I have a really bad hangover combined with sore muscles from running a marathon. My head hammers in pain.
What the hell happened?
I open my eyes, and it takes me a moment to get my surroundings into focus again. I’m spread out in the middle of the floor, exactly where I had been standing earlier. The sun is nearing the horizon outside. I must have slept all day.
I look around. Someone moved out the desk and computer. With relief, I find the armchair in its place, though I am sad to see the flower gone. In its stead are a flask with water and a plate of food.
I crawl over to the armchair and heave myself into it. I didn’t realize how parched my mouth was until I saw the water. I can’t get to it quickly enough. I gulp it down and lean back in the chair, my eyes sagging closed. Before I can think about eating, I fall asleep again.
I open my eyes. It’s dark outside, but the lights in the room are bright as ever. I must have slept all day. I’m grateful no annoying voices woke me this time.
What did they do to make me sleep so much? Whatever it is, I’m sure it has something to do with what they shot me with.
“Perfect, you’re up.”
Ugh. I was hoping not to hear that voice again this soon.
“Good evening, Mrs. Hunter.” The chipper female voice echoes around the room, but I don’t move. “I wished you a good evening, Mrs. Hunter. Let’s try for some politeness, shall we?”
The memory of the pain and my need for answers enable me play along. “Good evening,” I answer in the most compliant voice I can manage.
I sink deeper into my armchair. Something inside me seems to have given up. I’m shocked at how easily I’ve reached this point.
“Very good.” She pauses, and I hear mumbling again. Someone is telling her what to say. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you were at the hospital?”
I hear another noise in the background I can’t make sense of. I decide to push the woman a little to get some answers.
“No,” I respond. “I want to know if my family is okay. I want to know where I am, why I’m here, and who you are. Until I get some answers, I won’t tell you anything.” It’s a risky approach, but answers are all that matter right now.
“My name is Susan Goodman,” she says in a suddenly much softer voice. “I am your experiment supervisor. You are being held in the Imperium’s government labs. That’s all I can and will tell you right now. It’s already more than you need to know.”
Why is she being nicer? Did the other person leave? Why am I in a room at the labs? Shouldn’t I be in a prison? What experiment is she talking about?
Her short burst of information raises more questions than it answers. I consider pursuing them but don’t dare push my luck any further.
“Why were you at the hospital?” Susan repeats.
“I was there to deliver doctor’s robes.” I hope the cover story is enough to keep them from discovering the truth about Willow.
I hear more noises in the background and strain my ears to hear what is going on. I can’t make sense of it.
Susan speaks again, and the background noise is drowned out. Instead of acknowledging my response, she repeats, “Why were you at the hospital, Mrs. Hunter?”
“I told you,” I insist. “I was delivering robes.”
As soon as I finish repeating my lie, a sharp pain shoots through my body. It fills me and completely takes over my senses.
This time I don’t pass out. I clench my jaw to stop myself from screaming. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much they’re hurting me. It feels like trying to escape a sea of daggers while a swarm of hornets makes its way through my body. My arms and legs twitch uncontrollably, as if trying to shake off the attack. It is agony worse than I could ever have imagined.
I am sweating, and my breathing is ragged, but I manage to stay conscious until the pain ebbs away. My body stops twitching, and I am left with nothing but a throbbing ache. The aching itself is so bad, it would have made me cry in any other situation. Now, it’s a welcome relief.
“You are probably wondering how we did that.”
I notice her use of the plural. There are other people with her. Are they watching me—or Susan—right now?
I don’t respond, but Susan supplies the information anyway. “We shot you with something called tecjection,” she explains. “The bullet released a serum that spread electronic transmitters through your bloodstream. These transmitters allow us to shut down your body. Since you didn’t pass out this last time, it must be wearing off.”
Electronic transmitters? I can’t pretend I know how those would work and decide to remain silent for now.
“We experimented on apes to fine-tune the pulses but haven’t had the”—she hesitates, and I wonder where they got apes from—“pleasure of working with a human test subject. Thank you for providing us the opportunity.”
I scoff. It’s all I can manage.
“The apes we tested this on started rejecting the serum after approximately seventy impulses. You are coping with it much better. A couple of impulses and already staying alert—very interesting.”
A small hope this will be over soon rises inside me, but Susan crushes it immediately. “Unfortunately, this means we will have to inject you again. Thank you for helping us figure out the right dosage for humans.”
How can she change from genuine kindness to cruelty so quickly? I wish she would yell or scream. It would be better than her pretend friendliness.
“Be sure to not get your hopes up,” Susan continues. “There is quite a bit of pain between now and when you will be able to get over them fully.” Another pause. “Don’t get any funny ideas. I still have full control over you.”
She’s using the same, annoyingly cheerful tone she’s had all along, but something about those last words makes my insides buzz with defiance. I get out of my chair, ignoring the renewed pain, and walk over to the door. I yell and hammer my fists against the cold metal.
“No one can hear you, Mrs. Hunter.”
“Stop calling me that!” I burst out before I can stop myself.
I’ve always hated the name, but it’s more than that. The constant use of Dale’s last name reminds me of my daughter and my friends. Every time she uses it is like a stab in my gut. I don’t want to think about how much I let them down. Instead of saving my daughter, I made everything worse.
“Please, calm down, Mrs. Hun—” She stops herself from finishing the last name, and I hate myself for being thankful. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”
I believe her. Her voice is back to the kind, soft version I heard earlier when she answered my questions. It’s like dealing with freaking Jekyll and Hyde.
I keep hammering against the door, though I know it is pointless. I pause and scream for help before I continue my pounding. I barely register Susan talking to me until she raises her voice and yells, “Chase!”
The use of my first name shakes me into silence. I squint up at the spot where the voice comes out of the ceiling pane. It’s a small triumph, getting her to call me Chase, and it fills me with a renewed burst of hope and energy.
I walk over to the armchair and sit down, pulling my knees up against my chest. I put my head on my knees and try to focus. I need to find a solution. And right now, Susan is my only chance to get out of here.
I change tactics.
“Susan?” I ask sweetly and look up at the camera. “Would you please tell me why I am here?”
I think my change in tone has gained me some points—it seems to have an effect on Susan at the very least because she answers, “You are here because we found you in a restricted area of the hospital. We have a suspicion as to why you did it, but it is necessary for us to understand exactly how you found out. We need you to tell us everything you know and everyone you told.”
She didn’t mention what she thinks I know. They must not be sure. Keeping me here may have nothing to do with Willow. They want to figure out if they should kill me to keep their secrets or if I’ve shared things I shouldn’t.
The realization they can’t kill me—or at least not yet—gives me some power. As long as I hold on to what I know, they can’t get rid of me. Hurt me, yes. But I’ll be alive. At the very least, I can buy the others time to escape.
14
Nate
I stare up at the ceiling in my dark bedroom. 5:49 a.m. mocks me in giant, red letters on my ceiling. I’ll never get back to sleep. I climb out of bed and shuffle into the bathroom. The light flickers on. Way too bright. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I hate winter. It’s always dark, and the lack of sunlight makes me moody. I miss summer.
Liz is exactly where I left her last night—asleep on the couch. I’m surprised she’s still here. Usually she sneaks off during the night if she falls asleep here. She must have been more exhausted than she seemed.
I try to make as little noise as possible. I grab an iced coffee from the fridge, but I’d prefer real coffee. I eye the machine in the corner. Too much noise.
I carefully pick up my novel from the end table. The e-reader lights up. I glance at Liz to make sure I haven’t woken her and settle into my book. After reading a few chapters, the sun rises outside. Liz stirs at first light.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” I whisper. “Coffee?”
She grunts and nods.
I turn on the machine and get out two large cups. As it brews, I look outside through the narrow kitchen window. Frost is hanging on every leaf. Buildings are bathed in a warm light. It’s a beautiful morning.
I hand Liz her coffee, and Zeke opens the front door.
“Good morning,” he cheers and slaps me on the shoulder.
Zeke and Liz are the only ones with access to my house. I’ve given up on them knocking a long time ago. Sometimes they do. Most of the time they just come in and yell.
I remember one time, a few years ago, I brought home a girl I’d picked up at a bar in the Inner Circle. It was one or two in the morning, and we were in the middle of making out on the couch when Zeke stormed in. My date must have set a record for getting dressed. She was super embarrassed. Stormed out of the house. Shirt buttoned wrong, mumbling insults under her breath. Poor girl.
He’s been more careful since—not that it matters. I stopped bringing home guests a long time ago. Random sexual encounters don’t bring me the satisfaction I need. I want something real. Plus, not many unmatched people older than twenty-two. People much younger than me are not my thing.
“You look like shit,” Zeke points out, looking me up and down. I shove him a little and laugh.
“Thanks, asshole,” I answer as Liz throws Zeke a dirty look.
Zeke recoils in pretend fear. “Sorry, Liz.” He turns toward me and grins, “I mean, you look beautiful and amazing but a little tired.” We all burst out laughing.
“We might have been up a little late,” I admit.
Liz adds, “Yeah, just a bit. What time was it?”
“You fell asleep around two after, like, the twentieth round of cards. And I woke up before six.”
Liz shakes her head at me in disbelief and says her goodbyes, insisting on a shower in her own home. We convince Liz to join us for dinner later, though.
Zeke raises an eyebrow. “You guys have weird priorities. I like my sleep. So, what’s up? Why were you two up late?”
I fill him in on the break-in and how Liz was involved. I don’t tell him about seeing the woman being taken into the Imperium. I’m not sure why. Something inside me tells me to keep my mouth shut.
“Yeah, I was there. I was the one who found her. The bitch knocked me over. Landed in someone’s blood sample, and got glass stuck in my hands.” He holds up his scratched palms.
“You were there?”
“Yeah. I was about to escort her out, too. I thought she was an inspector. She dropped a vial of blood, then ran for it. I don’t know why she freaked out about the vial . . . Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she didn’t escape because of me, but she would’ve been a free woman had she just ignore
d the vial.”
“I wonder what she was doing in the hospital,” I muse. I scratch my head and try to puzzle together what happened.
Why did she want to see the files? What about the blood vials?
“Honestly, I don’t care.” Zeke shrugs. “A nurse was picking slivers of glass out of my hands forever. By the time I came down, everything was over. I asked what happened to her, but they didn’t want to tell me.”
“Maybe we’ll be able to find out today,” I say, trying to sound casual about my interest. But I’m dying to find out more about this woman.
By the time we finish our coffee, it’s time to leave for work. I grab my jacket and scarf, and we stomp through the cold. Zippers pulled up all the way, arms wrapped tight.
Most of our unit waits in the PCR control room. I see Steve and Clyde talking to a redhead outside the door—the same red hair I saw last night with the transport unit. Derec steps up to the front of the room. Smug grin on his face.
“Okay, everyone. Let’s get started,” he announces. “First off, let’s welcome Johnson to our unit.” He indicates the redhead. “He transferred from another unit yesterday. Got a promotion for exceptional work.”
The room fills with voices as everyone greets him. I don’t join in. I’m sure his promotion was for catching that woman.
I’m not sure why I feel she doesn’t deserve to be punished. For all I know, she could be a violent psychopath. Somehow, I don’t think she is. She looked so fragile when they carried her in.
“Next on the agenda,” Derec continues. “The lab is out of bounds for everyone until further notice. The lab rats need undisturbed peace and quiet for some top-secret experiment. We can’t let anyone interrupt them. Unless you get my permission to enter, you are not going anywhere near the corridor. Clear?”
He scans the room. This is the first time we’ve been banned from any part of the Government Complex. He glares until he hears a delayed but sharp, “Yes, sir.”
