by Logan Keys
I’d change that now, if I could. Hide from both sides until things blew over. But regrets are about as good as dreams in this new life.
Time . . . it’s better than gold these days.
In rare moments of self-torture, I’ll fixate on a certain point in my past, then follow that line straight to an alternate ending. That first grade class with Miss Patterson, for example, when I’d met Daisy, ’cause she was kicking my chair. She’d just wanted someone to notice her patent leather shoes, the type of thing her parents could rarely afford.
I’d spun around and yelled at her.
And now her wilted expression won’t leave my mind.
But Daisy had been resilient. She’d bugged me up until our teen years, and when I’d toyed with her affections, used them when I was lonely, she’d never seemed to mind. I did it not ‘cause I truly appreciated what she’d given so openly, so sweetly.
I’d told her she wasn’t good enough, that I’d never marry some small-town girl with nothing but babies on the brain. I had the idea in my head that someone more sophisticated waited for me elsewhere. Someone with high heels and pinned-up hair, someone who drank wine from a bottle, not a box. Someone like my mother, who’d learned more than just agriculture and would prettily ask, “What’s cow tipping?” A girl who didn’t use cuss words like Daisy did whenever her mom wasn’t around.
Daisy had always had dirty feet from running around barefoot, and I’d let a silly thing like that bother me. I’d let a girl with the most beautiful auburn hair, gorgeously tanned skin from swimming naked in my pond, get away. And that’s the reason I rarely feel sorry for myself, even now, when the pain is making me pass out.
I barely flinch when they shove a needle into my spine—again.
I cough and gag just once when they make me swallow another giant pill.
My eyes water, but it’s not ’cause of the testing.
When a girl as pretty as Daisy loves you right off, you can’t imagine how quick you start to look further, for better.
The nurse says something now, but my eyes are blurry and my head’s throbbing.
Today’s testing is like a thousand angry hornets stinging my body.
“Can you feel this, Hatter?”
Of course I feel that . . . you’ve just cut me deep enough to scar.
I’m ignoring her question, trying to focus on my memories.
I relax into the darkness that beckons.
“I’m sorry, Daisy,” I whisper.
“What?” says the nurse. “Hatter, can you hear me?”
Tears stream down my face, and I sink further into the darkness. Daisy’s sweet face is there, turned up, while she’s laid out on the ground for her skin to be kissed by the old yellow sun.
A throat clears, waking me.
Narrowed brown eyes watch me impassively. They’re strained at their edges from tightly bunned hair. I notice she’s got heels on and one of those fancy pins the big-wig scientists wear.
Today must be special. I’m trying not to puke on her.
Her voice cracks like a whip. “Private Hatter, have you been taking your medication?”
I nod, trying to sit up.
“Sleep?”
I shrug. They know none of us Specials get much.
Tight-lipped, she marks something down. She’s pretty, in a city kind of way. Probably gorgeous to some. But now that I’ve lived a hundred lives in only one year, I don’t feel that tug of attraction anymore. Not for women like her.
The scientist nods to a nurse who’s listening to my heart, while she continues to take more notes.
“How long was I out?” I ask.
She frowns at her pad and ignores me. I’m not a person, I’m a specimen. Another failed experiment.
“Failed” isn’t the right word. We’re like one big puzzle, each piece a picture we can’t quite see alone. The UG’s goal is to create some kind of unicorn among us—a super being—and we all play a part in adding to the equation. But I just want to shake them and ask if they’ve looked around lately at the damage they’re causing. I can see it in their eyes, though; we’re merely practice runs for something bigger, something more, and that’s all they care about.
A doctor comes forward with the electrodes and sticks them to my chest. He’s a tad more interested in me, being that his job is to keep us alive. Other than my weary sigh, his white coat swishing is the only sound as he fixes them to a machine while the scientist waits impatiently.
I try not to get anxious, but I do. No matter how many times I smell my own skin burning, it never seems less terrifying.
The woman watches me coldly as they turn up the dial. My eyes find hers and lock on to focus. It’s not like I know her name or the UG scientists wear name tags. Sweat forms on my brow as the first surge tingles through my nerves, and although I fight it, shaking and gritting my teeth, the scream rips through my throat only after a minute or so.
She doesn’t ask for them to stop, and she never takes her eyes from me as they force charges through my chest until I can’t bear it any longer and fall out of the bed, hitting the cold floor like a fish out of water. I suck in the air, and noises come back out that sound something like begging. I ignore that part.
Then, that smell hits me in the back of the throat like it always does: flesh cooking.
They turn the dial back down while I move to sit up, hunched over, huffing in the silent, sanitary room.
Her heels click closer to where I sit on the floor, but I don’t look up.
“Private Hatter. I don’t believe you’ve been taking the medication as prescribed. You went half as long as last time. Do I need to speak with your superiors?”
It takes me three tries to force the words out. “No, ma’am.”
“Good. I think we need a trial in transition, what do you say?”
I lean over a bucket to empty my stomach.
“Bring the girl,” the scientist says, and I tense.
“Who?” I ask through coughs.
But I’m guessing already who they mean.
“No,” I whisper. “Please.”
She sneers in disgust and clicks quickly from the room, tossing over her shoulder, “Let’s see what this one’s made of.”
What I wouldn’t give to go back in time. I’d kiss Daisy’s bare feet right now, if I could.
— 17 —
Tonight, we’re on the city side, the remnants of it, anyway. Gothenburg. Frigid air punches my gut, but my body equalizes. A neat side effect from the changes they’ve made. Shadows stretch long beneath the empty buildings, all relics now. A fountain-style statue of Poseidon trickles in the square’s center, and moonlight shines like round diamonds against the coins at the bottom. Who’s maintaining it, and why?
The frozen deity holds a fish in one hand and a conch shell in the other, loftily accepting the displayed worship from tiny mermaids who spew water from their mouths.
I touch wetness near my temple that has nothing to do with the fountain. “Don’t make me do this, Joelle.”
My opponent appears on the ledge and tightrope walks the rim to match my height. Unconcerned, Joelle balances lithely on her toes, ready for another strike. Her aim will no doubt be on-point again.
Blood flows down onto my cheek and follows the grooves of my face until it fills the corner of my lip. I grimace at its coppery taste before I spit it at her in repayment. The spittle effectively carries the red, dotting her clothing and her feline face. Poseidon watches the exchange with an expression of boredom.
Shock registers on her pointed features before anger pulls her black eyes into slits amid the spots.
Joelle steps down to circle me, the game now set firmly in motion by my gross reaction. She arches her back, while her hands grip invisible adversaries.
“Come on, Tommy.”
The fade of
my usual rigid control is shown in my deepening voice. “It’s not a game, Joelle. He’s not a toy.”
She springs closer, quick enough to make lightning jealous. I dodge a swipe for my throat, but a tell-tale sting on my skin has me shaking my head that’s still attached . . . for now.
I try to puff up, use my bulk as intimidation. Already I feel myself growing, stretching, as my mind entices me to change. It begs to be released. Joelle’s slight figure dances around me in a playful but deadly fashion.
She laughs, and her chiming notes bounce on imaginary acoustics. I search the emptiness when she disappears, leaving only an echo of laughter—a childlike tinkle both far away and close. Even with my knowledge of her tricks, I feel chillingly drawn into the charming, mesmerizing decoy that changes to a throaty chuckle. This laugh tempts me in ways only a sick and delusional man would be lured. The crawling of my skin has nothing to do with the coldness of the air.
Joelle appears an inch away, and I shove hard at her chest—at the blur of her chest, anyway. It only sets her back a foot or two, and my body shakes violently at the threat she imposes.
It’s too late. My neck twists, trying to relieve the tension as my body runs both hot and cold. The monster within roars to life, but not before the chill turns into liquid fire that surges through my spinal column. That pain, I’m used to. But fear—no, pure horror at what Joelle’s attempting to do, savages my brain. She’ll kill herself.
I grab my head, shaking it from side to side, though I know the fight’s useless. Inside, a savage shift begins, and curses spew from between my teeth as the tendons in my neck tense beyond what a normal human body can withstand. When this happens, it reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of poor bastards drawn and quartered. Only, with me, there are no ropes, and I somehow make it out alive.
I glance up at the cause of my pain.
Joelle gasps, black eyes shining above where my blood’s smeared across her cheek and jaw; a morbid little china doll with razor sharp teeth, animated and deadly. But even she’s no match for what’s coming.
“Awwhhhhhrrr!”
My body rebels against the torturous stage where I double, then quadruple, in size.
Joelle has the good sense to step back. The monster called to heel springs loose, and I see her excitement mix with awe as she watches my sudden loss of control.
But soon she’ll be screaming. They always scream.
I lunge forward—at nothing, at everything. I want to tear the buildings from their foundations, and soon, I’ll be able to.
My reason slips, and along with it, a dropping sensation in my stomach both familiar and terrifying at the same time.
I’m falling—as if I’ve stepped away from myself and jumped from the highest building. Then, from some distant place, I’ll watch the monster’s swift punishment, unable to stop the evils he’ll commit.
My body finishes transitioning, and I’m now in that place, helpless.
Joelle’s holding her own so far as he reaches for her. Quick, like a wraith, she dodges the large fists and legs that swing with crushing strength. The monster, a distorted version of me, lunges closer each time with more cunning.
She jumps out of the way—once, twice. Then, he anticipates her next move, his wheezing laugh filling the night air.
On my mental island, sensations bleed back to me; sometimes I’ll be the beast’s eyes and ears. Except for the babbling fountain, though, there is silence.
A small white arm comes into my peripheral; it’s pulled at an impossible angle, shoulder twisting clear of the socket.
The shock of this forces me from the connection and into the shadows, ears buzzing like a swarm of bees—no, wait, not bees. Screaming. Frustrated pants of exhaustion mixed with frantic peals of terror make my ears hurt. The beast recoils from the high-pitched wail, and I recoil with him.
Images are fed through the darkness in flashes of black and white—a frightened expression swims into my line of vision. A small face appears pleading for me to do something.
Joelle’s on the ground, clutching my leg with a super strength that’s flagging. Her knee is beneath my foot—his foot—and we’re slowly crushing it into powder.
From inside my prison, I struggle with him, but the beast only smiles, reaching down to grab Joelle by the throat.
“Stop.”
I freeze, and the beast freezes with me, hackles rising.
Like thunder, that one word is spoken from beyond, and it blinds me to everything but the immense phenomena of his quiet order. A single utterance filled with such power, and like a shoe of cataclysmic proportions dropped, the world pauses. We stop moving like a strange game of red light, green light.
I take in large breaths as the monster recedes in reaction, my sanity returning with each gulp. Removing my foot, I watch in fascination as the tiny knee knits together, making itself whole again, like air pumped into a balloon.
Joelle stares into my eyes, wonderment etched on her perfect visage. I glare back, half myself and half . . . something else.
I draw in another shaky breath while she pulls her arm back into place. The grind of bone and tendon sickens me as it settles.
Joelle moves to stand alongside me, and we both turn toward our visitor: Simon.
He waits in a spot of moonlight, murky eyes of coal so black, they’re almost invisible in the dark. He’s been gone too long this time, and there are whispers about him losing more of his humanity with each travel.
This particular return speaks of change. I’m not sure what, but whenever Simon comes back to base, plans are made. And here he is.
“Joelle.” Her name echoes beyond reason, the voices layering and projecting louder as they go, growing.
It’s like Joelle’s laughter had sounded before, though with much more strength.
Joelle straightens into an innocent again; all at once, her thirteen-year-old body is demure and bendy, obedient.
Simon has her strings, it occurs to me. I need to get me some of those.
Then, he says, “Tom,” with equal force, and my lips peel back in reaction to the ripple of power. Can’t help it, I say with my eyes. The deranged thing inside is stretching, ready to make a run for it. I look at Joelle, then back to Simon in explanation, even as I waver between being me and not me.
“Tom,” he repeats, more firmly, and the beast backs down.
With a nod of approval, he turns to leave.
And we follow. As always.
— 18 —
“Promise me, you little vamp.” I point a finger in Joelle’s face and fight the urge to withdraw from her sharp teeth when she opens her mouth to answer.
“Don’t use the V-word!” she cries. Her voice has returned to its usual teenage defiance.
I lean back with a sigh, and Joelle pushes out her bottom lip at me.
“Well, you deserve it,” I say. “I mean it. No more. Swear it.”
I can’t have her forcing my transformation. It’s too risky, and next time I could really hurt her, or other people.
Joelle looks away and hunches over.
She only does that when she’s hiding something.
Then, it dawns on me. “Did Simon ask you to do this?”
She avoids my eyes.
“Tell me.”
Joelle spins around and blurts out the confession. “We want to help Tommy, Joelle. That’s what he said! Help you control it! I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad. Please!”
The thought of them putting her at risk almost undoes me.
We both are the old Specials, the reckless ones, and the few taken on missions to test things out away from the regular enlisted.
Silence falls as the vehicle lumbers onward to the new place that will be our home until . . . whenever. The base is large, newly erected.
The driver opens the window. “Welcome to Armist
ead, folks.”
Joelle and I share a look.
“Both of you have been assigned to the new unit.”
We move to the back portion of the truck to watch the gates close behind us.
The barracks are the largest I’ve ever seen. This used to be a highway road with six lanes, and on either side, they’ve hastily constructed apartments for soldiers.
The soldiers salute the truck behind ours, knowing Simon’s inside.
Joelle looks at me and lowers her voice. “What if this place is worse?”
“What can be worse than the labs?”
She shrugs before whispering, “How come only you and I became monsters, Tommy?”
“What?”
“Some people became good. They have good things. Are we evil?”
I don’t tell her that mine is because of my anger. I remember clearly being furious at life after leaving the US, after having to walk away from my own home. And later, when they’d experimented, my own fury fed whatever it was so that it sprang to life.
It’s hard to imagine what gave Joelle this new reality she bears, so I simply say, “No, Jo-Jo, we’re not evil.”
— 19 —
My mother was terrified of trains, and some of her fear rubbed off on me. Whenever we traveled, my father would shout at her, making it doubly scary from both his yelling and my mother’s tears.
This fear remained, and after strapping into my seat for the trip to the mainland, my hands grip the armrests like I’m going to crash, even before we start moving.
“Well, gel . . . did I not tell you dat dis be the place where little ones get better?” Desi stands in the aisle like a mirage.
I’m out of my buckle in an instant and hugging him to me like a lifeline. He’s dressed in regular clothes and smells like cheap cologne.
“What are you doing here?” My voice is light just seeing his face.
Desi takes a seat across from mine, dreads pulled back into a ponytail. “I thought I’d take a ride on dis here tin can wich ya.” He laughs. “Close your mouth, gel, before you catch dem flies.”
