Catalyst

by Kristin Smith

  “Of course I can,” Chaz says in an exasperated voice. He moves to his bedroom, muttering his indignation about us even questioning his ability to complete the task. His bedroom is where his computers and equipment are stored. I follow cautiously behind, never knowing the condition I might find his room.

  Dirty socks litter the floor and empty chip bags are scattered everywhere—the nightstand, the bed, and the desk.

  “Someone likes chips,” Trey mutters beside me.

  “And socks,” I whisper back.

  Trey tries to hide a smile, but I see it before he turns away.

  Chaz settles his large body in front of the computer and types rapidly on the paper-thin keypad. A holographic image of the screen transfers to the spot beside him, and Trey and I are able to watch his process without leaning over his shoulder. A series of numbers and letters pops up on the holoscreen—codes of some sort. I’m boggled by it, but Chaz takes it in stride. His fingers fly over the keypad as he mumbles to himself.

  “I just need to bypass the security system and I’ll be in,” he mutters. After a few more minutes of clicking away at the keys as I bite my lip and watch, Chaz exclaims, “I’m in!”

  The official government logo, the triskelion symbol that represents progress and advancement, flashes onto the screen. Some say the curved symbol looks like three legs running, but all I see are three swirls or incomplete circles spreading out from one location. Underneath, the government motto flashes—Profectus est futurum. Progress is our future.

  “If I can access the central database, I’ll be golden,” Chaz says, concentrating on the screen in front of him.

  Trey pats Chaz on the shoulder. “So glad you’re one of us, Chaz.”

  After a few more minutes, a new screen pops up on the holograph. This one lists the various departments of the government.

  “Which one?” Chaz asks.

  I search the image and see the only one that would make sense. “Try military.”

  Chaz clicks on it, and we enter an internal military site. After more codes and bypassing passwords, we hit the jackpot. Underground bunkers.

  “See if you can pull up an aerial view,” I say.

  The entire desert landscape folds out before us, and we have a bird’s-eye view. I close my eyes and try to remember every detail from yesterday. The sounds, the smells, and the time it took to travel in the car. My eyes flip open.

  “Here’s what I know. They dropped me off around here.” I move to the holographic image and point to the spot I think my bike was parked. “It took roughly twenty minutes to get to this spot.” I turn to Chaz. “Can you highlight the area around this point that would be twenty minutes or closer?”

  “I’m on it.”

  An expanded circle frames my point of reference, and I begin to feel hope. There are only two underground bunkers within those parameters.

  “There was a smell,” I say. Trey looks at me curiously. “In the car, there was a smell. Like onions and hamburgers. Clearly, they bought hamburgers somewhere, which would likely put them on the southern part of this circle, near Harry’s Hamburger Joint.”

  “Yeah, but they could have gotten those hamburgers from anywhere,” Trey says. “If those are government cars, they do an extensive amount of traveling. It could have been a leftover smell from days—even weeks ago.”

  I nod in agreement. “True. But how else can we narrow it down?”

  “Can you think of any other details that might be helpful? A sound, maybe?” Trey asks.

  Closing my eyes, I picture walking down the underground hallway. I’d suspected I was underground because of the grainy dirt that scraped against the concrete as I walked. It was more dirt than would be typical if it was tracked in, which led me to believe that dirt particles were falling from above.

  That’s it! The dirt.

  I rush over to Chaz’s nightstand, turn the lamp on, and sink down on his unmade bed. Carefully, I take off one of my shoes and study the bottom, holding it up to the light. I’m going off a small glimmer of hope, knowing I’m not likely to find anything. It would be a miracle.

  Then I see it. Specks of deep orange embedded in the soles of my shoe. Just like the clay around the northern part of our perimeter. Clay that is more prevalent the nearer we get to the Fire Cliffs, huge rock formations made entirely of this orange, dusty dirt.

  I turn to them and grin. “I got it. I know where she is.” I slip my shoe back on and hurry over to the holoscreen. “Right there.” I point to the bunker located in the northernmost part of our perimeter, about twenty minutes from my starting point.

  “Chaz, can you get the coordinates for us? We need to know exactly where we’re going,” Trey says.

  “Sure. I’m accessing those right now. I’ll send them to your Lynk, Sienna.”

  Almost simultaneously, my communicator buzzes, indicating I have a new message from Chaz. “Got it, thanks.”

  Chaz rests his hands in his lap and glances back and forth between Trey and me. “Anything else you want me to find while I’m on here?” he offers.

  Trey shakes his head. “If I think of something, I’ll be in touch.”

  Chaz follows us to the door, and I wrap my arms around his soft body, hugging him tight. “Thank you so much for helping me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Chaz grins. “I’m sure you’d think of something. You always do.” His face grows serious, and he pauses. “Sienna?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Good luck finding your mom.” His eyes get all watery, and he swipes at them. “Dang, I think I have something in my eye.”

  I chuckle and pull him in for another quick hug. “Those are called tears, Chaz.”

  He clears his throat and steps back. “Yeah, well, I’m not used to them.”

  Chaz and Trey clasp hands and pat backs in typical man fashion, and then Trey and I leave.

  “Now that we have the coordinates, how soon can we get a group together?” I ask once we reach the parking lot.

  Trey shakes his head. “Sienna, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. We aren’t going in there half-cocked. We need to come up with a plan, maybe even do a little training.”

  My hope plummets. “Training? Are you kidding me?”

  “I don’t mean intense training. Maybe a few fighting lessons, a little target shooting. What do you think?”

  He has a point. These are trained military professionals guarding the facility and the people inside. But, my impatience is one of my biggest downfalls. I don’t want to wait. I want to ride into the bunker with guns blazing and get my mom the hell out of there. “I think you’re wasting my time,” I say, my voice flat.

  His face hardens. “Look, if you want my help, you’ll do it my way. If not, feel free to tackle the bunker on your own.” He turns away, indicating the conversation is over, and straddles the bike, leaving just enough space for me in the front.

  I heave a sigh and start toward my Harley. There’s no use arguing with him. He’s the one with manpower, guns, and ammo, and as Chaz pointed out earlier, all I have are the clothes on my back. Trey’s the leader, and that’s the way it works.

  ***

  That night, as I lay on my mattress, my mind wanders. Even though every muscle in my body aches, and my eyelids are heavy, my mind refuses to calm. Images of my mother in that stupid prison float into my mind, and my fists clench. Is she hurt? Scared? Sick?

  Are they feeding her?

  I feel useless, hopeless, and inadequate. If I could trade places with her, I would do it in an instant.

  When Trey says we’ll get her out, I want to believe him, but he’s clearly busy with things in the Compound. I only hope that extracting my mother has become his top priority.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “You need to learn a little hand-to-hand combat.” Trey puts his fists up by his face. “Always protect your soft spots—your face being numero uno.” He glances at my bandaged arm. “You right-handed?”

  It’s
after breakfast and we’re in the training facility, a large, gym-type room with thick mats, punching bags, weights, and a long wall of mirrors. The smell of sweat and stinky feet assault my nose as I stand across from him on the pile of black mats used to create a “ring”. We have the gym to ourselves. Most likely because everyone else is too smart to work out right after a meal.

  I nod and flex my right hand, the one that’s not bandaged.

  “You should be fine, then. I’ll take it easy on you.” He grins. “Go ahead—hit me.”

  I take a step back and shake my head. “I’m not gonna hit you.”

  He moves forward to decrease the distance between us. “I said, hit me.”

  I raise my arms as if I’m about to fight him, but all I can think is how much he’s done to help me. How can I punch the man who saved me from the government facility, removed my tracker, and is willing to help rescue my mother?

  When he realizes I won’t fight, he lowers his hands. “Remember, Sienna, these men don’t care that you’re a girl. They don’t care how old you are. If given the opportunity, they will hurt you.” His eyes harden. “Now hit me.”

  I punch him as hard as I can, and he’s not expecting it. The force of the blow to his face knocks him backward, and my hand throbs from the impact. He looks stunned, especially when a trickle of blood makes its way out of his nose. But then he grins.

  Wiping his nose on his shirt, he motions with his hands for me to come closer. “Nicely done. Now, hit me again.”

  Surely, he must be crazy. I’m about to walk away, but his words echo in my mind. If given the opportunity, they will hurt you. I can’t give them that opportunity.

  My arm swings out again, this time a right hook, but he’s too fast. He grabs my hand and twists it at a painful angle before letting go.

  “Too slow. You can’t give them the chance to grab you.” He nods at me. “Again.”

  Shaking my hand to get rid of the stinging pain, I take a stance. I try a roundhouse kick to his upper chest, but again, he’s too quick. He grabs my foot, twists it, and lifts me off the ground. I land hard on my back, gasping for air. What is this? I thought he was going to take it easy on me.

  “Still too slow,” he says as I jump to my feet, my bandaged arm throbbing.

  I shake my head and narrow my eyes. Now we’re fighting, for real. I hear a door open behind me, but I don’t bother to see who it is. I concentrate on the deep line in Trey’s chin. That is where I’m aiming. Maybe I can cause it to split wide open…

  I wait until his hands shift slightly before I make my move—a jab toward his face. I expect to feel the bone of his chin, but something stops me. His own fleshy hand blocks his face, and his other fist goes for my soft spot, my stomach. I double over in pain, and then his strong arms encircle my waist and force me to the ground. He straddles my lower body, and I’m helpless.

  “If I had a knife right now, you’d be dead,” he says. He shakes his head and hops up. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  Someone starts clapping behind me, slowly at first, and then gradually picking up speed. A deep voice booms and carries throughout the room, and my heart sinks.

  “Well done, Trey. Way to beat the hell out of a girl.”

  I turn to see Nash striding toward us. He hops up onto the mats and takes a stance across from Trey. “Now let me show you the right way to kick some ass.”

  I scoot out of the way just in time to see Nash throw the first punch. Rolling my eyes, I get up and brush myself off. What is it with guys and their egos? Do I really need to watch a testosterone battle?

  I lean against the wall, wishing I had a bag of popcorn. This could get interesting…

  Trey ducks under Nash’s arm and right hooks him in the ribs. Nash groans and throws a jab that lands on Trey’s cheekbone. Trey comes right back at him swinging and lands a nice sucker punch on Nash’s eye socket. I cringe because I know he will have a nice purple bruise by tomorrow.

  I watch them duke it out for a few minutes and wonder when it’s going to end. Trey’s face is covered in sweat and blood, and I cringe every time Nash’s fist makes contact. Nash is older and larger, but Trey is quick and a fighter.

  Trey goes down, clutching his gut, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Finally. It’s over, and Nash proved he has the bigger balls. He can walk away with that title and leave us the hell alone.

  But it’s not over. Nash begins kicking Trey while he’s down, aiming for his ribs and the softest spot of all. Trey gasps for air and curls into a ball to protect himself.

  I lunge toward the mats. “Stop, you’re hurting him!” I monkey jump onto Nash’s back and squeeze my arms around his neck, my stitches pulling from the strain. “Stop,” I scream into his ear.

  He shrugs me off like I weigh no more than a sack of potatoes. And that’s exactly how I fall to the ground—not very graceful at all. But it must have knocked some sense into Nash because he stops and stares down at Trey before striding off the mat and out the door. I scramble across the mat to get to Trey.

  Cradling his head in my lap, I stare down at his bloodied face. My stomach turns at the sight of his eye, swollen with a cut at the corner. Dried blood is crusted under his nose. Guilt fills me when I remember I’m the one who did that.

  “What the hell was that?” I breathe when Trey struggles to sit up.

  He groans and clutches his side, but he manages to make it into a sitting position. “That? That was just Nash and me duking it out. You know, one of those male-domination things. Who has the loudest roar, or the sharpest claws, or…”

  The biggest man parts? Yeah, I get it. No need to say it out loud.

  “Sorry you had to watch that. It’s kind of a family thing… We’ve been doing it for years.”

  Family thing?

  At my raised eyebrows, Trey clarifies. “Nash and I are cousins. His dad and my mom were brother and sister.”

  My mouth forms a silent oh. Never in a million years would I have guessed that Nash and Trey are related. Where Trey is kind, friendly, and helpful, Nash is… not.

  Trey continues. “Although, I think today he was taking out a little more aggression than usual.”

  “That kick to the ribs was a low blow. Literally.”

  Trey’s mouth turns up into a smile, but then he grimaces. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Definitely a low blow, even for him.”

  Trey moves to stand, and pain contorts his face. “Here, let me help you,” I say, hurrying to my feet. I hold out my arm for him to grab.

  “Thanks,” he says once he’s fully upright. “I’ll be sore for a few days, but no big deal.”

  I shake my head, completely miffed. I don’t understand the point of getting the crap beat out of you just for fun. “What will people think when they see you like this?”

  He shrugs. “Everyone knows by now what happens when Nash and I take to the ring.”

  The door to the training room bursts open, and a small, dark-haired girl I don’t recognize runs into the room.

  “Trey,” she says, gasping. “Come quick. You have to see this.”

  Trey takes off running after her, clutching his side while I hurry after them. I follow them down the narrow hallway to another room I haven’t been in yet. It looks like a large recreation room complete with couches, a pool table, and an oversized, paper-thin comscreen mounted to the wall.

  At least fifty people are crowded around the couches, staring at the screen. A young, raven-haired reporter stands in front of Confinement. The holding place for prisoners looks like a formidable fortress with its gray concrete walls and razor-sharp barbed wire. I creep closer and tune in to what she’s saying.

  “Officials report that yesterday afternoon, the terrorist group known as the Fringe broke in and kidnapped a juvenile inmate who was serving a five-year sentence for petty theft.”

  “That’s a lie,” Trey mutters beside me.

  “This is the fourth kidnapping of inmates in recent months. You can see the imposin
g structure of Confinement behind me. Officials are wondering how the Fringe has been able to get in and out undetected.”

  “Yeah, I’m wondering the same thing,” Trey says, his tone sarcastic. “It’s nice to see them covering their tracks.”

  The camera focuses for a moment on the building before returning to the woman. “President Shard held a press conference from Rubex this morning. Here’s a clip.”

  President Shard’s face appears, his blue eyes piercing the screen. He has a head full of dark hair that’s tinted with gray, and his skin is stretched too tight over his face, like if he smiles, it might rip wide open. He’s had too much work done to keep him from aging, which is sad, because it’s easy to see that in his younger years, he was a handsome man. Boos and hisses fill the room, and someone throws a shoe at the screen, which elicits a sharp remark from Trey.

  “My dear fellow citizens of Pacifica, our society is in turmoil. We have an opposing force that refuses to see the need for change. For growth. They want us to remain normal. But normal is not part of our vocabulary. We are more than normal—we are extraordinary. And we owe that to Harlow Ryder, the creator of Match 360 and Chromo 120. We hope to be able to partner with him in the future to grow our society and increase our progress toward perfect individuals.”

  President Shard looks straight into the camera, his nose crinkling as his eyes narrow. “Fellow citizens, it has come to my attention that the Fringe is harboring fugitives. We have a disease, if you will, that is spreading out of control. The Fringe is the disease, and they must be eradicated.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The screen clicks off. That’s when I notice Trey with the controller, his hand outstretched, aiming at the screen. There is a simultaneous roar from the crowd around us. There’s shouting, banging, and angry voices. I watch, eyes wide, as someone picks up a vase and smashes it, and two boys duke it out in the corner.

  Trey walks over to a wooden chair, stands on it, and puts two fingers in his mouth, letting out an ear-piercing whistle. Everyone stops what they’re doing, even the scuffling boys, and crowd around their leader. They wait expectantly for him to speak. I watch in admiration as Trey takes his time, demanding our attention and respect. He draws a few deep breaths, his eyes flickering to mine before he speaks.