“No, I mean, I don’t trust him not to follow us back to the Compound. I think you should head to the Compound, and I’ll distract him, maybe lead him on a wild-goose chase. Will you be okay on your own?”
“Of course.” And as I watch Trey stride to his black truck, I’m not worried. After all, what could possibly go wrong?
***
Using the same coordinates Chaz gave me before, I find the location of the hidden entrance to the Fringe Compound. I sit on my bike and stare at the desert soil, waiting patiently for the outhouse building to appear. The concrete building rises up like lava cresting the top of a volcano. Two men exit the building. The same ones as the day before.
Leaving my bike on the side of the road, I walk toward them, my backpack on my back and my hands in the air. Their guns lower as I near the concrete slab.
“Remember me?” I call out.
“How could we forget?” Curly hollers back. “You’re the only chick I’ve ever seen ride one of those.”
I stop a few feet from them and hook my fingers in my belt loops. “I’m here to join you guys,” I say.
The two men look at each other and burst out laughing. “You want to be part of the Fringe?”
My temper flares. “What’s so funny?” I demand.
“You. Here you are—this tiny thing with the biggest attitude I’ve ever seen,” Curly says. “It’s pretty damn funny.”
I decide to ignore them and flaunt my source. “I have Trey’s permission.”
“Trey’s not here. He’s out on a supply run. Should be back in a couple of hours,” Scar says.
“I know. He told me to come—”
“In the meantime,” Curly adds, “Nash is in charge.”
“Nash?”
“Yeah, also known as the Commander. And when you meet him, you’ll see why.” Curly radios to someone and requests that Nash come to the front entrance.
My heart pounds in anticipation. I don’t know what to expect from this Nash guy. Trey is at least a decent person, but if Nash is anything like most members of the Fringe I’ve heard about, I have reason to fear.
My mouth dries out, and I have a hard time breathing when a man exits the same concrete building Trey came from yesterday. He’s much larger than Trey and a little older. He looks powerful… and dangerous. Clad in gray fatigue pants and a form-fitting black shirt, he shows off each ripple of muscle. And believe me, there are many. His hair is cut in typical military fashion—short.
His eyes narrow as he approaches the two guards. They come to rest on my face, and he scowls. “What do we have here?”
“Commander, this is…” Curly trails off when he realizes he doesn’t even know my name.
“Sienna. Sienna Preston.” I hold my hand out, trying to be cordial, but Nash just looks at it.
He studies me with cold, gray eyes, making me wonder why he’s not the leader of this group. His stare is very effective.
“Why are you here, Sienna?”
I straighten my shoulders and look him in the eyes. “I want to join your group.”
He looks surprised for a moment, but then covers it with a sneer. “And why should I let you?”
“I’m fast. I’m smart. I’m brave.” I pause for effect. “And I’m a great thief.”
Curly laughs, but shuts up when Nash turns and glares at him. As Nash turns, I notice a jagged white scar that begins at his ear and ends at his cheekbone.
“Well, Miss Preston, I don’t know why we would need a thief—”
“I’m friends with Trey, Commander. He expects me to be here when he gets back.”
He scowls. “Are you willing to complete Initiation?”
Initiation? I’ve never heard of it, but I wonder how bad it can be.
“I’ll do whatever is required of me,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
Nash smiles, and I see a row of crooked teeth. Not hideously crooked, but just enough to declare he needed to have teeth correctors as a child.
“Glad to hear you say that. Follow me.”
I hang back, not sure what to do about my bike. Nash senses my hesitation. “Give the keys to one of the boys. They have experience on jet bikes. They’ll park it in a safe place for you.”
I’m about to argue that no one, and I mean no one, drives that bike except for me. But then I think of the words I just uttered. I’ll do whatever is required of me. Suck.
I throw the keys to Curly, who stares at me with wide eyes before his lips split into a grin.
“If you get one scratch on her,” I threaten.
“No worries,” he calls back.
I follow the Commander across the sand without looking back. I can’t watch someone else drive my Harley. The very thought makes my stomach clench.
We enter the gray outhouse building, which is about the size of a small elevator and large enough to house a couple of metal chairs. Like an elevator, there are a series of buttons on a control panel, which the Commander pushes. The elevator-like room descends underground. When it stops, we step out to a mini car waiting for us.
“Climb in.”
Once we’re folded into the tiny space—and my backpack is resting on my lap—the smart machine moves on its own, knowing when to stop and when to go. We weave through underground tunnels for several minutes, traveling a couple of miles underneath the desert soil. Just when I think we’ll end up in the ocean if we keep going, the car pulls up to an elevator and stops.
“Follow me.”
We take the elevator to a higher level. When the doors open, two people step aside, guns slung across their bodies. They’re guarding the elevator, making sure no one comes in… or no one leaves. Not sure which yet.
The female guard, who’s probably in her late teens, is tall and perfectly proportioned. With short brown hair and high cheekbones, she looks like she could be a supermodel in another life. Now she guards the elevator door wearing a gray tank top, khaki shorts, and combat boots.
The male on the other side of the door is much shorter, but well muscled. With spiky blond hair and several chains around his neck, he’s like a surfer who lost his wave. Too bad he’ll never find it out here in the desert.
Nash nods to the male and female guard. “Trina, Jeff, follow me, please.”
Trina and Jeff file in line behind the Commander, and I bring up the rear. He leads us down a hallway of concrete flooring and beige walls. Immaculately clean and devoid of any art on the walls, this place could easily be mistaken for the inside of an old hospital.
Nash opens the door to a room on the right and ushers us inside. The room is white and empty. No furniture. No chairs. Nothing. But when I turn my head and see what rests against the far wall of the room, my heart stops. The room isn’t completely empty. There are two items… and two items only.
A small table. And a pair of rusty scissors.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Long hair gets in the way of what we’re about here,” the Commander says, holding out the rusty scissors. “Cut it.”
For all the times I’ve cursed my hair, I’ve never wanted it taken from me. It may produce unwanted curls in the summer heat, but it’s long and it’s mine. One of the few things I own that I’m proud of.
I shake my head and wrap my arms around my body, as if I can protect myself.
Nash’s eyes narrow. “Do it. Now.”
The girl named Trina steps in. “Commander, is this really necessary?”
The Commander turns and glares at Trina, shutting her right up.
Choking back a sob, I grab the scissors from his outstretched hand. I refuse to cry in front of these people.
I twist my arms behind my head. Grabbing a chunk of hair, I bite my lip to keep from crying out. The scissors are dull and rip strands from my head. I blink back tears as the first hunk falls to the floor in an orange ring. By the time I’m finished, my arms ache and my eyes sting from holding in the tears. The fallen hair lies on the floor in a clump of dull red. The back of my neck feels naked. Exposed. I h
and Nash the scissors.
“Better?”
He nods. “Much.”
He grips my shoulder and leads me into an adjoining room. A metal operating table sits in the middle with some type of gray machine hovering over it. This machine has a long “arm” that rests at a ninety-degree angle. But that’s not what strikes fear in my heart. It is the three-inch long needle sticking out of the metal arm.
“We show our allegiance by taking on the mark of the Fringe,” Nash says. “Are you willing to do this?”
I nod, too scared to speak.
“Lay down,” he orders.
My heart thuds loudly in my ears, but I do as he asks, placing my backpack on the floor first. The table is hard and cold beneath me, the metal cooling my skin through my thin cotton shirt.
He motions to Jeff and Trina. “Hold her down.”
My eyes widen when they grab my arms and force them onto the table. A sideways version of Nash appears in my vision, and I watch as he tinkers with the large machine.
Even though I want to scream, I lay as still as I can, the world tilted on its side.
The machine starts with a whir, and Nash brings the needle within inches of my upper arm.
“This may hurt a little,” he says. His eyes shift to my other bandaged arm. “But it looks like you’re used to pain.”
My throat closes. What am I getting myself into?
Trina is holding my right arm, and she gives me an encouraging smile. “It’ll be okay,” she says, her voice soft.
The needle punctures my skin, and the pain roars down my arm. I scream out, a mind-blowing noise that rings through my ears. Heat sears into my skin—burning, flaming, stinging. The needle moves quickly like an antique sewing machine, but it digs deep. It hits muscle, cartilage, and even bone.
My stomach heaves, and I squeeze my eyes shut as tears sting the edges. The pain is too great. Just when I think I can’t handle a minute more, there is relief. The heat is gone, and a cool compress soothes the burning site.
I keep my eyes closed until the pain settles to a dull ache.
Trina pats my hand. “It’s over. You did great.” She helps me sit up, and I dare a glance at my upper arm. The skin is bright red and tiny drops of blood seep out of the needle holes. My stomach heaves again, and this time, I can’t keep it in. I jump off the table, pain shooting down my arm, and run to the nearest trash can. The acid burns the back of my throat, and I puke until there’s nothing left. I’m weak. Tired. Humiliated.
The Commander stands in the doorway, waiting for me to compose myself. His face is blank, unfeeling. Neither disgust nor an ounce of care resides between the lines of his eyes.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as Trina hands me a glass of water. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “It happens to the best of us.”
Nash stares at us and then barks a command. “Trina, show Sienna to her room.” With that, he turns and strides out the door.
Trina flashes me an apologetic look as Jeff quietly slips out of the room.
“What did he do?” I ask, wiping away the beads of blood with the towel Trina hands me.
“You now have an internal tattoo,” she says. “We all have the same one embedded in our skin. The sign for the Fringe.”
“What’s an internal tattoo?”
“Instead of tattoos being on the surface of the skin, they penetrate deep, beyond the bottom layer. You can only see them using a black light or when it’s completely dark.” Trina walks over to the light switch and flips it off. The room is immediately bathed in darkness, but then I see swirls of orange radiating from Trina’s arm, almost like vines snaking from her wrist and disappearing into her shirtsleeve. I glance down at my upper arm where light glows through my own skin. It’s a geometric pattern consisting of overlapping circles that vaguely resembles a flower.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s called the Flower of Life. It symbolizes our connection to life.”
That’s when I remember the knotted tree decorating Trey’s arm the night he busted me out of the government facility.
“What’s that on your arm?” I ask her.
“This is my scenery tattoo.” She flips the lights back on, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the brightness. She moves to the metal table. “Usually people choose something from nature to counter-balance all that’s unnatural in our world.” She raises her eyebrows. “Do you want one?”
It was incredibly painful getting the small Flower of Life tattoo, and I’m not sure I’m up for something even larger. I’m about to say no, but then I think of how cool it would be to have something that defines me.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I do.”
Trina pats the metal table. “Hop back up here, and I’ll do it for you.”
I slide back onto the metal operating table as my heart pounds. Maybe Trina will be more gentle with that thing.
“Do you know what you want?” she asks.
I think back to when I was ten and my father took me shopping to get a birthday present for Mom. For lunch, we ate at an outdoor cafe in the city. A beautiful black and purple butterfly landed on our table and I was about to touch it when my father stopped me.
“Do you know what I love about butterflies?” he’d said. Without waiting for an answer, he’d continued. “I love that they get to experience a rebirth. They start this life as an ugly old caterpillar, but when they emerge from the cocoon, they are one of the most beautiful creatures. Whenever I see a butterfly, I’m reminded of that.”
At the time, my father’s words held no meaning for me. But now, they do.
When a butterfly goes through its transformation and emerges from its cocoon, it is free of its old life. It is free of its life as a caterpillar and the cocoon that not only bound it, but also helped it complete its transformation. I love the idea of being free from my old life. The idea of a rebirth or a transformation. I have the opportunity to become a new Sienna, one who doesn’t lie or steal to make ends meet. A new person who doesn’t get her mom abducted because of her carelessness and stupidity. I can be different.
“A butterfly, please.”
***
My “room” is more like a cell. An eight-by-eight square cement block with no windows. They might as well put bars on the fourth wall. The room is only large enough for a mattress, a blue plastic chair, and a small dresser. A crude mirror hangs over the dresser. I approach the mirror with caution, not sure what I’ll think of the girl who stares back.
I don’t recognize the face I see. The green eyes are mine, the full lips are mine, but that’s where the similarities end. My hair is brutally short. Hacked at my ears, it sticks out in all directions. My vision blurs as I finger the blunt edges.
What would Zane think if he could see me now?
I shake my head. I don’t want to think about him.
He means nothing to me.
I want to convince myself of that, and yet, he openly volunteered to take care of Emily. I will forever be in his debt.
I pull out my Lynk and speak into the receiver, recording a message for Emily. Once I press send, I wait for a response. There is only silence. She’s probably getting settled in her new place.
Unfortunately, that thought doesn’t stop the ache that spreads in my chest. It matches the pain in my arm. I flip my light switch off and study the interconnected purple butterflies that loop and swirl up my arm. The purple glow seeps out of my skin. I now know why it burns so badly to have an internal tattoo put under your skin—because of the fluorescent liquid that’s inserted through the needle tip. No wonder it hurts like hell.
Shouts and a loud noise filter through my closed door. I throw it open and watch as a dozen or so people race down the halls. Trina is one of them.
“What’s going on?” I call to her.
She stops and turns. “Trey’s back with another inmate. He just performed an extraction all by himself.”
There’s that word again. Extraction. What i
s that?
Curious about what’s going on, I slip a hoodie on over my T-shirt—one of the few things I brought to the Compound—and pull the hood over my head, trying to hide my butchered hair. Once the door is closed behind me, I hurry down the hall to catch up to Trina. At least a dozen other teenagers jostle each other as they move down the narrow corridor. Bringing up the rear, Trina and I pass room after room until we reach an open doorway. People are spilling out into the hall, but Trina pushes her way through until she’s inside. I’m grateful I’m small as I easily maneuver past the others until I’m standing next to Trina.
It’s a hospital-type room with several unoccupied beds.
“Watch out,” someone shouts. “Trey’s coming through!”
The crowd behind us parts. Trina grabs my arm, pulling me to the side as Trey passes us, carrying a girl with a blonde ponytail in his arms. He lays the jumpsuit-clad girl gently down on one of the beds and pulls a blanket up to her chest. Her eyes are closed and she sighs, snuggling deeper into the covers. He’s about to move away from her side when this girl, who can’t be more than sixteen, opens her eyes and wraps her fingers around his wrist.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Her hand falls back onto her chest and she closes her eyes again, turning her head away from us.
With one finger up to his lips, Trey shoos us out of the room and into the hallway. Once the door is closed behind him, a dozen voices all start speaking at once.
“What’s her name?”
“Why did you go by yourself?”
“How long was she in the lab?”
Trey holds up a hand to stop the questions, and that’s when he notices me for the first time. He stares at me for a moment, a slight frown on his face, before giving a nod in my direction. He then focuses on the others scrambling for his attention.
“Her name is Kaylee. It was an emergency extraction. I received the call while I was in the city, so I didn’t want to waste time coming back to the Compound for help. I know you’re excited, but please, let her rest. I’m sure she’ll feel up to socializing in a day or two.”
Catalyst Page 11
