Song of the Ovulum

by Bryan Davis

  Catherine swung the baton and smacked Ashley across her face, sending her staggering. Bonnie jumped and caught her with a wing.

  Glaring at Catherine, Ashley touched an emerging purplish lump on her cheek.

  “That’ll teach you to stay in your place … dragon.” Catherine waved the baton toward the hallway. “Bannister, it’s time to go.”

  After steadying Ashley, Bonnie pulled in her wings. There was more method to Ashley’s insult than madness. Getting the guards to open their minds to her probing sometimes required a stoking of their passions.

  Bonnie cast a thought at Ashley. If you picked up anything new from her mind, let me know later.

  Ashley gave her an almost imperceptible nod. “Remember to sing your psalm. It always helps.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  With Catherine’s baton pressed against her spine, Bonnie shuffled down the hallway, wincing at the light. The fluorescent lamps in the ceiling were always harsh here, but not as brutal as in the lab. Everything seemed brutal there. From the needles to the electrodes to the probing pill cameras, there was nothing gentle about that overly sanitized chamber. Even the white-smocked Healers’ condescending smiles were enough to make anyone barf. That is, of course, if one happened to be observing from the sharp side of the needle. The so-called scientists often chattered with glee about their new findings, ignoring the fact that they extracted their plunder through government-approved torture and the blood, sweat, and tears of their victims.

  Bonnie let out a silent sigh. Yes, force the few to suffer so the many could benefit. All in the name of science. All in the name of progress.

  After traveling through a series of ninety-degree turns and similarly harshly lit corridors, they halted in front of a thick steel door. The sign on the front provided its usual warning—Healers and Specimens Only.

  Catherine punched a red button on a wall-hanging box and barked into it. “I have Bannister.”

  A tinny voice responded. “We’re ready. Send her in.”

  A buzzer sounded. Catherine jerked the door open. With a final shove from her baton, she pushed Bonnie through. The door clicked shut behind her, the signal that torture would soon begin.

  Ahead, three women stood in a row, smiling as they clutched their clipboards against their chests, like charlatan preachers shielding their Bibles from those who might see what it really says. Three windows lined the far wall with the head of a hospital-style bed under each one. Leather straps hung from the side railings, another foreboding sign.

  As the woman in the middle—Dr. Myers, according to her perfectly lettered plastic name tag—stepped toward Bonnie, her instruments of torture came into view on a pristine paper-covered bed behind her. With wires and electrodes attached to a metallic hat sitting on the pillow of the rightmost bed, and an IV stand ready with a hanging bag of sedative-spiked saline, it seemed that the evening promised another electrical nightmare. The Healers planned to light up the specimen with cell-shocking probes, callously looking for clues that would unlock the answers they craved.

  “Come, Mrs. Bannister,” Dr. Myers said with a mechanical smile. “Your bed is waiting. We turned down the power, and the sedative will be stronger, so it shouldn’t hurt as much this time.”

  One of the other doctors handed her a hospital gown, not bothering to offer a fake smile. “You know the drill,” she said in a gruff tone.

  After changing into the gown and laying her clothes on the middle bed’s railing, Bonnie slid onto the prepared bed, spread out her wings, and laid her head on the half-sized pillow. She closed her eyes and mentally drew pictures of Dr. Myers attaching the metal cap and strapping her wrists to the bed frame, grunting as she pulled them. For some reason, she put extra effort into that task, probably a reflection of her sadistic nature.

  Bonnie peeked at a strap—tight and pinching her skin. If all went as it usually did, the straps would be loose when she awakened, whether the Healers were around during recovery or not. It seemed strange that they would be so diligent now and so careless after the tests.

  She closed her eyes again and let her body relax as she hummed her new rendition of her favorite psalm, allowing the words to pass quietly through her lips. In a way, it might be better if they would turn the power all the way up or give her a sedative overdose. Then she could fly back to Heaven and try to help Charles and Karen from there. If they really were being tracked by Enforcers, what good would it do to live through this ordeal, just to go back to her cell and rot?

  As the needle pierced her arm, she winced. Would living in such pain, blinded by iron bars and concrete, be better than dying and going to Heaven where she could watch all three of her beloveds, where she could drop to her knees in front of the God of mercy and appeal for their protection and deliverance?

  The sedative numbed her mind. Even the pinching straps seemed to relax. The shocks would come soon, as would another dream.

  “I think she’s under now,” Dr. Myers said. “You can show yourself.”

  “Very well.”

  Bonnie tried to open her eyes, though without success. That was a man’s voice, but the Healers had always been women.

  “We will have to conduct the test quickly,” the man continued. “I must get back to the weapons as soon as possible.”

  “Of course. We’ve already proven that the synthetic candlestones work quite well as a weakening agent, so we need you to examine the genetic code after we conduct a new stress test. We’re hoping for more physical changes this time.”

  “I know what you mean. Darkening her hair is hardly proof that you have altered her code. Your foolish attempts to create stress have failed to produce results. I suggest that you stop the routine torture immediately, including the withholding of heat in their cell.”

  Bonnie forced her eyes open. The man stood at her bedside, looking at one of the monitors. Although burn scars covered his face, his identity was clear. Mardon!

  Letting her eyelids drop, Bonnie shivered. How long had that mad scientist been involved with their experiments? What kind of weapons was he working on? Knowing Mardon, they would be powerful and designed for evil. And now he was doing experiments on her, somehow trying to alter her genetics. She had noticed her darker hair but thought it had come from aging. Now it was clear that he and the Healers were manipulating her traits.

  “I think she saw me,” Mardon said.

  “No worries.” Dr. Myers’s voice sounded calm and confident. “The drug will purge the memory. The only images she’ll keep are her dreams.”

  With unconsciousness looming, Bonnie let out a breath and silently prayed. Stop this madman. Send a message to Billy or Walter. Help them save our children.

  * * *

  Sitting on his bunk, Matt looked around the empty barracks. With his fellow cadets finally gone, he had a moment to himself, a chance to breathe. The afternoon drills had been fun but exhausting, especially the five-mile run with full gear. Dropping and shooting at robotic targets was a blast—a sweaty, muscle-draining blast.

  He opened the newspaper, the latest edition of the Hesperia Star, and read the headline—DRAGON SIGHTING IN LOS ANGELES.

  Shaking his head, he turned the page. Southern California was great, but so many loony birds roosted here, the dragon hysteria had gotten out of control. One letter to the editor after another railed about Second Eden and the dragons living there, that humans never should have trusted them and shouldn’t trust them now. One letter writer called for a nuclear attack, but, of course, he was clueless. Most civilians didn’t understand that Second Eden controlled the portals to their world. They assumed the military could do anything. Such was their false sense of security.

  “Package for you, Fletcher.”

  The mail clerk stood at the barracks door and tossed a brown rectangular object. Matt pushed the newspaper off his lap and caught the package. He turned it until the lettering shifted upright, then read the name above the return address.r />
  “Foley,” he whispered to himself. Who could that be?

  He tore away the wrapping paper, revealing a worn, spiral-bound journal with a floral design in pink, purple, and yellow pastels. Handwritten words at the bottom read:

  Silver Tokens

  My Hopes, My Prayers, My Dreams

  December 2002

  Bonnie Conner

  He rifled through the journal. The same person had filled every page with flowing script, obviously a female, judging from the elegance and, of course, the design and name on the cover.

  Footsteps sounded from the door. “Hey, Fletcher! Aren’t you coming to the pizza party?”

  Matt glanced up. Across the width of the barracks, Rick strolled to his bunk, the middle one of seven. He stood in front of a wall-mounted mirror and brushed his crew cut. Wearing civilian clothes—khaki slacks, long-sleeved sky-blue shirt, and a red tie—he looked almost human.

  “I’m thinking about it,” Matt said.

  “Victoria will be there.” A chuckle flavored his tone.

  “Figures.” Matt refocused on the journal. For some reason it carried an allure, a drawing power that begged him to read every word. “Victoria’s a bit too … I don’t know …”

  Rick turned toward him, retying his tie. “Aggressive?”

  “I guess that’s part of it.” Matt wanted to say shallow, but that was too blunt. Victoria was nice enough, and he had tried to engage her in stimulating conversation. Yet, when he asked her about history, philosophy, or anything unrelated to celebrities or popular music, she usually answered with a blank stare or somehow brought the topic back to the latest movie she had seen. She seemed no deeper than a layer of lipstick. Still, at least she wasn’t cold and calculating … like Darcy. “I don’t know why she’s zeroed in on me.”

  Rick laughed. “Don’t lie, Fletcher. You save a girl’s life, she’s gonna think you’re a rock star.”

  “I suppose so.” Memories of the previous “mingling,” as the drill sergeant called the social events, came to mind. He and Victoria were paired up at random to go on an ultimate thrill ride at a traveling carnival. The ride drops two people from a hundred feet up and catches them in a net, but for some reason the net hadn’t been raised when the floor opened. Just before the drop, he grabbed Victoria’s wrist and the ride’s frame. Then he hung there with her dangling in his grip until help could arrive. Everyone seemed amazed that he noticed the missing net in the dark, because the whole idea was for the riders to drop without being able to see it.

  And he didn’t see it. Somehow he just knew it wasn’t there. “I guess I got lucky.”

  “Lucky is better than good, I always say.” Rick tossed his brush to Matt’s bed, making it land on the newspaper. “Better tame that mess or the sergeant won’t let you keep your hair that long. As hot as you stay all the time, you should get a cool buzz cut. Then you’ll be as handsome as I am.”

  “Whatever.” Matt waited for Rick to leave before combing his fingers through his hair. Of course, it wasn’t more than two inches long, but to Mr. Crew Cut it probably looked like a stringy mop. Yet, the length of his hair was the least of his problems. Rick wasn’t the only one to notice his body heat issue. All summer long, he had to drink twice as much water as the others did just to avoid heat stroke. Fortunately, with winter coming, it wouldn’t be a problem. Being a human furnace made him eat more, but at least he always stayed warm.

  He refocused on the journal. Now with every cadet at the pizza social, maybe he could get a few minutes to figure out this mystery. He turned to a page somewhere near the middle and began reading.

  Dear God,

  Tomorrow is my birthday. It’s hard to believe that I’m going to be a teenager. One of my older acquaintances says that I will soon become more like her, that once I get exposed to the “real world,” I will turn away from my “childish” faith and realize that no one is as obsessed with “religion” as I am.

  Dear Father above, I pledge to you that I will not become like her—sullen, moody, and obsessed with appearance. I will cling to my faith, like a child in some ways—believing without seeing, hoping without visible proof, crawling into your spiritual lap, and luxuriating in your presence. Yet, in other ways, I have already put away childish things, and I am learning that this world is a dark place, often a lonely place.

  I know that even as I walk an obedient path, there is always more to learn, new wisdom to gather from your generous hand, more suffering to endure for the kingdom of Jesus Christ. Many are the tongues that tantalize with flattering words. Many are the hands that extend riches that come with a snare. And many are the hearts of my friends who willingly embrace the false offerings.

  Alas, my Father! It is such a lonely path! I have no friends my age who understand. Even most adults think my “obsession with religion” is unhealthy, and no matter how many times I try to explain that what I possess is love—love for you and for them—they assume that my passion has overcome my senses. To them, I am a fanatic.

  Not even Daddy understands. I overheard him say just two days ago, “No one could be that righteous. When the hormones kick in, she’ll change.”

  I am thankful that Mama defends me. She said, “I pray with all my might that she never changes, hormones or no hormones.”

  Dear Father, I vow never to leave my first love. With your help, my love for you will never flag or falter. I will be a light to this world. I will be a shining city on a hill. I will be your friend.

  Although tomorrow is supposed to be a day of celebration, I feel dark hours creeping up on the morn’s horizon. Like spiders spinning a web, evil forces lurk at my threshold and fashion snares for my feet.

  When comes my hour to face these dangers, will you be my friend, my comfort, my solace? I know you will, but I ask, knowing that you want to hear my requests. So I pray in faith, believing that you will honor your promises and stay by my side when darkness hides the light, for when I hold your hand, you are all the light I need.

  Your friend,

  Bonnie Conner

  Matt brushed a tear from his eye. A twelve-year-old wrote this? Okay, she was turning thirteen the next day, but still, how could anyone so young be so beautifully expressive? And the sentiments seemed to flow from the page as if the words had come alive and pierced his heart with her cry for help. These words were as deep as the ocean. This girl, unlike so many others, understood what was valuable in life.

  He looked at the cover again and noted the year. Bonnie Conner would be in her thirties now. Since she wrote so eloquently, this journal was probably a valuable keepsake. Why would someone send it to a high school guy who has never heard of her?

  As he slid his finger under the page to turn it, an odd sensation stung his gut—turmoil, trouble—an alert. He snapped his head up. A ball rocketed toward him. With a quick snap of his hand, he grabbed it out of the air, letting it smack against his palm.

  He rubbed the white ball’s red stitches. A baseball? He looked at the barracks doorway. Dr. Carter, the school administrator, stood there with a man wearing camouflage from his pants to his shirt to his baseball cap.

  “You were right,” Dr. Carter said. “Matt will go with you.”

  “Only if he’s willing.” The visitor’s voice was firm but friendly.

  Dr. Carter glanced between the visitor and Matt. “Since when do we care if they’re willing?”

  “Just let me worry about that.” The visitor kept his stare on Matt. “I don’t think it will be hard to convince him. The alternatives are not appealing.”

  “Very well.”

  As Dr. Carter left, the man walked closer, smiling as he touched the bill of his cap. “Hello, Matt. I’m Walter Foley.”

  Matt tucked the journal under his arm and rose to his feet. “It’s nice to meet you, sir,” he said, extending his hand.

  As they shook hands, Mr. Foley nodded at the ball. “That was a great catch you made. Very impressive reflexes.”


  “Thank you.” Matt displayed the ball in his palm. “Were you testing me for some reason? I already play for the team, but the season doesn’t start for a while.”

  “It was a test, but not for playing baseball.” Mr. Foley took the ball and dug into a scuff mark with his fingernail. “Word around the school has it that your reflexes are, shall we say, more like intuition?”

  Matt glanced at Rick’s bunk. Who could tell what stories he and the other guys had been spreading? “If you mean when I dumped a rattler out of my boot, I always check my boots before I put them on.”

  “No.” Mr. Foley nodded toward the front window. Approaching sunset had dimmed the military school’s facilities, but the football field and marching grounds were still easy to see. “I mean when you jerked your drill sergeant to the ground just before lightning struck.”

  “We were in a thunderstorm, and I heard a sizzling noise.”

  “And when you pulled a buddy from a jeep right before it exploded.”

  “I smelled gas and thought I saw a spark.”

  “And when you insisted that another friend check his parachute again before his jump.”

  “Yeah. The way it was packed, it wouldn’t have deployed.” Matt shrugged. “A lucky guess. It just didn’t look right.”

  Mr. Foley tossed the baseball into the air and caught it. “And I suppose you heard this coming toward you. Baseballs make a lot of noise, don’t they?”

  Matt scanned the stranger. His toned arms, bushy eyebrows, and square jaw made him look formidable. And the camo outfit just added to the idea that he probably wasn’t a man anyone would want to rile up. “I see your point, sir, but why are you here?” He lifted the journal. “And why did you mail this to me?”

  “First of all, you can cut the sir business. I’m not in the military. Just call me Walter. Second, my associates and I have been scanning every news story in the world searching for someone who has a danger-sensing ability like yours.”