by J. R. Rain
Wait, no. Right over me.
The faun whirls away, leaps the nearby brush, and vanishes, barely making a sound.
Shit.
“Federal agent, don’t move,” says a man behind me.
“Press,” I mutter. “I’m a reporter.”
“Keep your hands in view, stand up, and turn around slowly.” A second man circles to my left.
I obey, rising from my crouch to stand, and rotate around. The two huge guys in black suits must’ve been going in a circle. They have guns drawn, but not pointed at me. It makes about as much sense as the morning I’ve had, but neither one seems to want to get closer to me, like they’re afraid. “Uhh, hi. Is something wrong? All I’ve got is a camera. I’m not armed.”
“It’s talking,” whispers the guy on the right.
Wait… it? Did that guy just call me an ‘it’?
“I’m afraid you’ll need to come with us,” says the one on the left.
There goes my big break. They’re going to delete my images. Feds don’t want anyone to know the truth. They never do. It’s in all the movies.
“I haven’t done anything wrong. This is a public park.” I keep up my most innocent smile. “I’m trying to get some photos of birds but I haven’t found anything good yet.”
The man on the right reaches for me. “You need to come with us.”
“Uhh, how ‘bout, no?”
I sprint off, but not without his attempt to grab me snagging my hat and ripping it off. Hiding my ears couldn’t rank any lower on the priority list at that moment, so I keep on running.
“Stop!” yells one.
“Shoot it,” shouts the other.
“No. Grab her!”
Crap.
I haul ass like I’ve never hauled ass in my entire life. Good thing my ass got smaller―easier to carry. One hand clutches my $3,500 Canon to my chest while the other fumbles my iPhone out of my camera bag. Weaving among the growth, I try to keep a ton of trees between me and the pair of oxen thundering after me. Without looking over my shoulder, it’s hard to know, but it feels like I’m leaving them way behind. After scrambling up an incline, I scurry into a low spot between two hills and slide to a stop.
Hands shaking, I patch my iPhone to the camera’s Bluetooth and start an upload back to my paper’s media server. Fenton should see the update log and check… I hope. Once the progress bar starts creeping, I stuff the phone back in the bag and let it work. The two oafs come barreling up over the hill on my right, but they’re not expecting me to be crouched right there, and almost trip trying to stop.
After darting between them, I sprint back up the same hill they nearly wiped out on and race down the other side. They’re after me in seconds, but the chase is already showing on their faces and in their raspy breaths. I’m feeling it too, but nowhere near as bad. When the ground levels off, I veer left, patting the camera bag. Come on, come on, upload faster. Oh, hey, Mr. perfect faun, why don’t you come out of nowhere and save the innocent elf girl running for her life? Well, maybe not life, but I’m really not interested in finding out what those two guys want with me.
As best I can tell, I’m heading east, so a walk path shouldn’t be too far. The two guys are losing ground again, which gives me hope. I don’t remember being an unusually fast runner, but it’s not like I’ve ever tried to get away from the cops before. Wait, no. Cops, I trust. Not these clowns.
A moment later, I spot a paved walking trail in the trees ahead. I bee-line for it. I’m steps away when a body comes flying at me from the right. Like an idiot, I decide to save the camera instead of ducking. He hits me in a full-on flying tackle, both my arms up over my head with the camera well away from impact. Some goose-like squawk barks out of me when we land, and flashing lights and spots dance in my vision. I try to protest, but the hit’s left me struggling to breathe at all, forget speaking.
Ow. This is why I didn’t play sports in college.
My face rolls into the undergrowth, and I’m dimly aware of the other two idiots running up while handcuffs click around my wrists behind my back. A reassuring beep emanates from my camera bag.
Email sent.
Yes! … and Shit.
y three new friends drag me to my feet by vice grips on my arms. Mr. It’s-Okay-to-Tackle-a-Woman fiddles with my camera for a moment while Chaser 1 and Chaser 2 try to cut off all circulation below my biceps. None of the men in black reply to my protests of innocence or anything I yell about freedom of the press.
“Please be careful with that. It’s really expensive. My parents got it for me. I can’t replace it. You’re holding my job.”
Frustrated, Mr. Tackle manages to repack my camera in a way that doesn’t make me nervous. And… we’re off, back into the woods. That’s a surprise. I figured we’d be heading for one of those black SUVs men like this always seem to have. They ignore my stream of usual questions: where are you taking me? On what authority are you detaining me? And so on. These guys think between the handcuffs and their cyborg grip on my arms they got me. Really, it’s the camera. I’m not leaving my baby behind. The only thing I love more than my camera is my cat. And fortunately, he’s safe.
At least, in closer proximity, they do feel government-like and don’t tweak my worry that I’m being led off to the scene of my rape/murder. In a few minutes, the woods ahead come alive with scattered voices, and soon, we arrive in a small clearing. A beat-up New York Forest Service pickup truck is parked next to a tiny cinder block shed, both dappled with sunlight spots leaking past the tree cover. Men in black suits swarm the area, at least nine of them. They all grin at the guys escorting me like a cross-country fugitive hunt finally ended with my capture. Chaser 1 and 2 force me toward the shed, into the crowd of agents.
One guy near the truck doesn’t look right.
He’s about forty, prematurely grey hair in a military cut and has a thin two-inch scar a finger’s width behind his left eye. While the others all have suits that match to the last stitch, this guy’s is different. Still black, but it looks much cheaper. Also, he’s radiating arcane energy. And he’s got a fat gold ring on his left hand none of the others have. I know a glamour when I see one. Not that I’ve got any great love for my captors, but a bit of chaos could let me get away. Most glamours are fragile. It doesn’t take much to poke a hole in the bubble.
“Hey, you guys got a mole.” I swing my leg up and point at him with my right foot. “That guy’s not one of you. His suit’s cheap and he’s got no earpiece. Check out that bigass gold ring.”
Scar shoots me a look like he’s giving serious consideration to putting a bullet in me. He tries to laugh me off to a few of the others, but the way they’re staring at him tells me they’re starting to see through his magic. Unfortunately, Chaser 1 and 2 don’t care, don’t look, or are too well-trained to let go of me. Mr. Tackle swipes a badge at a dark stain on the cinder blocks and the shed door opens.
While half the group outside runs off into the woods in pursuit of Scar, whose balls of steel finally give out and send him bolting, my three personal government agents drag me into a tool shed. Lawnmowers, a workbench, a bunch of bladed things, chains, gardening tools from the 1940s, and a couple of spray tanks surround us.
I set my feet, trying to stop, but the men lift me airborne by their grip on my arms without missing a beat. “Uhh, what are you guys planning to do here? This is starting to feel like a bad horror movie.”
Mr. Tackle goes over to a tall steel cabinet and again swipes a badge at a discoloration on the metal. It emits a loud clank, and he opens the double doors to reveal a shiny, clean elevator cab. Oh, shit. This just got weird.
“Sorry guys, my mommy told me I shouldn’t go with strangers into secret underground lairs. I really can’t. Nice meeting you all, but―”
Chaser 2 shoves me in. I catch myself before French kissing the inside wall. All three lunks pack in behind me and the door closes. The ride down is short, and they drag me along a plain grey corridor past plain gre
y doors. No windows anywhere. Every ten feet, pale yellow-green lights on the ceiling suck all the life out of the air.
After a left turn and a couple more doorways, they pull me into a small room with a metal table and chairs. Chaser 1 grabs me by the handcuffs and pushes me over to a chair before unlocking one side. I’m about to thank him, but instead of letting me out, he re-cuffs my hands in front through an eyebolt on the table―which is bolted to the floor. A heavy hand on my shoulder pushes me down to sit, and they leave me alone.
Not that being chained to a table is a big deal. Handcuffs are simple locks, and Open has worked on devices that give experienced locksmiths bad dreams. Getting my hands loose isn’t the hard part. Actually, they made it easier on me. I do have to see the lock. Behind my back would’ve been annoying. No, the hard part is having a secret government bunker, three (or more) giant men in black suits, and a keycard-activated elevator between me and the outside world. Trying anything now would probably only get them to use something worse than cuffs on me. I need to wait for the right moment.
“If you’re stealing my camera, at least give me a receipt or something so I get reimbursed!”
My shout echoes in the bare room. One soul-absorbing light overhead hisses. I wonder if it bugs normal people too, or if I’m super special and get to be driven insane by things no one else can hear. To mask that irritating noise, I fidget at the handcuffs.
Eventually, the door opens again and a reedy man in his early fifties walks in with a clipboard of all things. No tablet or laptop. He’s sporting a brownish suit and almost no hair save for a horseshoe of grey around the back of his skull. Chaser 2 and Mr. Tackle walk in after him and stand by the door like proper henchmen.
Mr. Clipboard takes the facing seat and ‘reads’ while casting furtive glances over the top of his papers at me. I’m not sure if he thinks I don’t notice him or if he doesn’t care. This silence is even worse than the hissing light.
“Bit of an extreme way to find a date, don’t ya think? You’re really not that bad looking, but I’m seeing someone.”
The man-in-not-black frowns. “Where did you come from?”
“My apartment.”
He draws a large breath in his nostrils, holds it, and lets out a sigh. “Originally.”
“New Hope, PA.”
Mr. Clipboard jots while mumbling, “Breach point… Pennsylvania.” He looks up at me again. “What do you want here? Why did you come?”
“I’m a reporter with The Spiritualist. I wanted to get some pictures of birds for a piece about nature healing.”
Again, Mr. Clipboard sighs. “I mean why did you come here.”
I tug at the handcuffs. “I didn’t have any choice. Kinda got dragged here.”
“This. World,” he says, more than a little irritation in his voice.
My sweetest smile makes him angrier. “Why is anyone here? How should I know? I studied journalism and photography, not philosophy.”
“What do you want?” he drones.
“My camera back and to go home.”
He scribbles a few things. “Where is ‘home’ to you?”
“Morningside Heights.”
Mr. Clipboard gives me the kind of stare you give a little kid telling an obvious lie. “Being flippant isn’t helping.”
“At least this one can talk,” says Chaser 1.
“This one?” I ask. “What is wrong with you guys?”
“How did you get here?” Mr. Clipboard taps his pen on the table. I thought the hissing light was irritating, but the metallic click, click, click is making me want to scream.
“I took a cab. Look. I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m a US Citizen. My name is Solstice Winters. I’m thirty-four years old. I was born in New Hope Pennsylvania in 1983. I work for a crappy little tabloid, and I’ve been in this country my entire life.”
Mr. Clipboard’s stony face cracks with a chuckle. “Oh, please. You can’t be a day older than twenty, if you’re even that. Why don’t we try the truth?”
“Thanks.” I roll my eyes. “Found this awesome moisturizing cream on Amazon. Look, you don’t have to believe me. Call Jade Lau with the FBI. We went to CUNY together and I help her out sometimes with cases.” Shit, I hope she recognizes me. Then again, my face didn’t change, only my eye and hair color. Well, maybe I do look a little younger than I remember, but I’m still me.
Mr. Clipboard grumbles. “Not ready yet. Take her to Room 3. We’ll try the interview again tomorrow.”
“Wait. Tomorrow?” I leap to stand, but the handcuffs force me to lean on the table. “What am I being charged with? You can’t just kidnap me like this! This isn’t legal! Call my boss, Fenton Malcolm at The Spiritualist. He’ll confirm what I’m telling you.”
Without a word, or even looking at me, Mr. Clipboard gets up and leaves. The men-in-black unlock me from the table and secure my hands behind me again before escorting me into the hall. We head away from the entrance and around a right turn, deeper into the facility. Bizarre animal noises emanate from the first two doors on the left. A not-quite-dog howling, a screech like a thirty-pound pissed-off chicken, and a whole mess of small chittering noises. Despite the utter lack of windows, I stare at the plain grey wall as we go by.
What the hell did the government build this place for? They’ve got it packed with numina from the sounds of it, but there haven’t been anywhere near enough of them in our world to be worth government commitment… at least until today. And no way did they put this little home away from home together that fast. Maybe it’s like a decommissioned Cold War era thing they repurposed as a zoo, or something?
Close to the dead-end of the corridor, we go into a door at the right. The space beyond looks like a cross between a dentist’s office and a veterinarian’s exam room. All the equipment is brand new, but the ancient walls with peeling paint are such a sharp contrast, I feel even more like I’ve been sucked into a horror movie. Claw scratches cover a steel slab table on the left wall, while a medical chair in the middle doesn’t appear to have seen much use. Cabinets full of little bottles and bins line the walls. Two scales sit in the left far corner, one like any doctor’s office, the other looks like it’s meant for big animals: a low-lying pad with a weight display on the wall behind it.
A woman in a white coat looks up from her smartphone as we walk in. She’s got her black hair up in a messy bun and has an unremarkable ‘generic white lady’ appearance. Steel grey eyes widen a bit when she gets a good look at me. Wordless, she takes a sheet of cardboard from a shelf and folds it into a box, which she sets on the slab table.
The men guide me over there while the ‘doctor’ locks the door. Cozy. Chaser 1 takes the cuffs off me and steps back.
“Remove all personal belongings and put them in the box provided,” says the woman in a flat tone.
“Umm, how about, no thanks. I had a checkup a few months ago.”
The doctor walks over to a cabinet and takes out a small bottle as well as a syringe. “This will be easier if you are conscious, but it’s not necessary.”
What on Earth? “You can’t do that… I have rights.”
“You’re not human,” says the doctor. “The only rights you have are the ones we give you once we assess your level of threat to the country.”
I can’t believe this is happening to me. I stare at her like a pleading child for a moment, but her expression doesn’t soften. “Fine… Don’t stick me with anything. Some doctor you are. If I’m not human, how do you even know if that stuff will knock me out? What if it kills me?”
“Then we know not to use it on the next… whatever you are… we find.”
“Uhh.” I shiver. “Right.”
Okay, maybe I am in deep shit.
I step out of my Uggs and put them in the box before taking my sweater and top off. Soon, I’m stark naked. My casualness puts the men-in-black on edge, and gets the doctor to tap something into her tablet. She weighs me (ninety pounds on the nose). She measures me (four fo
ot eleven). After that, the lady takes pictures of me full frontal, back, sides, and close-ups of my face. The tape measure treatment is even worse. I feel like some long-frozen cavewoman unearthed from a Siberian glacier and shipped to a university. She takes more close-ups of my ears, measures them with a ruler, and then guides me by an icy claw-hand on the arm into a standing x-ray machine. Or something.
When that’s over with, she pushes me into the chair. I wind up sitting on the edge and she checks out my plumbing.
“Wow. Full service OB/GYN too?”
Fortunately, the exam is exceptionally brief.
“You’re similar enough to human that I don’t think it necessary to be invasive.”
I smirk. “Oh. You’re trying not to be invasive. Thanks for that. Well, at least I know how far apart to the millimeter my nipples are now.”
The doctor hands me a hospital gown and helps tie the back. When I sit again, Chaser 1 handcuffs my right wrist to the chair arm. This would be terrifying if I couldn’t unlock myself as soon as I wanted to. Wait, no. It’s still pretty scary.
“Open your mouth,” says the doctor.
I gag on a cotton swab exploring my tonsils. She places the swab in a baggie and labels it. “You can’t just take my DNA like that.”
“As soon as they extend the Bill of Rights to nonhumans, I’ll remember that.”
“What are you talking about? Something happened to me. I wasn’t always like this.”
The doctor ignores me and ties a stretchy strap around my free left arm. She feels around the crook of my elbow before sticking me with a needle and inserting a rubber-capped vial. I stare death at the little glass tube filling with blood. I don’t know why, but it surprises me that it’s red and normal. She takes two more before removing the needle and pressing a gauze pad over the spot. I’ve had blood taken before, so I reflexively bend my arm to apply pressure to the pad. This gets a look of surprise from the doctor.
“What?” I stare at her until it becomes clear she’s not going to say anything. “I know what needles are. I’m from goddamned Pennsylvania.”
