The Pain Colony

by Shanon Hunt

  Elaine frowned. “Is it really important that we find it this afternoon? It can’t wait until the morning?”

  “This is all my fault. I should have come sooner. The board of directors is going to kill me. The patients—oh my god … And their treatments—oh god …” Allison forced her voice to tighten, a clear indication that tears would be coming soon.

  Elaine put a hand on her arm. “Okay, okay. Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

  Allison drifted toward the two-drawer file cabinet, still whimpering. She was preparing to perform a full-on emotional meltdown, which she’d practiced over the weekend, when Elaine’s cell phone rang.

  Elaine glanced at the screen. “Excuse me one moment. It’s my son’s school.”

  And just like that, the gods smiled down on her. Allison was alone in Dr. Chambers’s office.

  Chapter 36

  Layla peered inside Brother James’s office. The light was on, so she took a seat in the chair opposite his desk to wait for him. She was so utterly appalled by her behavior in Dr. Jeannette’s office, she’d locked herself inside the sweatbox for two hours of deep meditation with the marathon stick. The hot metal floor of the box against her fresh bruises had improved her focus, but she still felt impure. What had gotten into her? Dr. Jeannette may have been a bit harsh, but Layla needed her on her side. She could not make her an adversary.

  The poison inside her was too strong, and she wanted Brother James’s guidance.

  She gingerly knelt beside her chair. “Please forgive my insolence, Father. Please don’t let this stop my progression. Please forgive my insolence, Father. Please don’t let this stop my progression.”

  If she stayed on her wracked knees much longer, she might not be able to pass her body check tomorrow morning. She clambered back into the chair to wait. His office wasn’t as tidy as it should be. File folders were stacked on his desk and floor. Boxes of books stood along a wall, probably another donation of books for the library. She got up to peruse the new titles. She fingered through the stack of Nancy Drew books. They were for young girls and completely outdated, but for some reason she loved the mysteries. She dug deeper into the top box. A Tale of Two Cities. The Princess Bride.

  She picked up The Princess Bride. It seemed familiar. Had she read it before, in her poisoned life? She couldn’t remember what it was about, but she definitely remembered the cover. She kept it out. She’d ask Brother James if she could borrow it.

  She stepped outside his office and looked up and down the gravel path. Still no sign of him. She went back inside and picked up the book. Only then did she notice her name on the file sitting on his desk. Of course he had files on all the inductees. He would certainly have one for her.

  She glanced at the open door. No sound came from down the path.

  She set the book aside and opened the folder.

  “So that’s what I look like,” she breathed.

  She was much more beautiful than she’d expected. In the picture, her hair was blond, which she knew, but only shoulder length. Her hair now was long, nearly to the base of her spine. She wore eye makeup, which surprised her, and a sleek black knee-length dress and high-heeled shoes, as if she were going to a fancy party.

  Did she still look like that? She looked down at her body, now clothed in the Colony’s loose-fitting white linen. She lifted her pants leg just a few inches and recoiled at her bruised, bumpy shins. She turned back to the image of her smooth, tanned legs. And for just a second, she felt envious of life before the Colony. She looked simply radiant.

  She closed her eyes tightly. “I’m sorry, Father. I despise my poisoned life.”

  She should have closed the folder right then. But she looked at the next page, which included handwritten notes. At the top of the page was her name, followed by “Cohort 2: Renewed. Treatment: LXR204909, delivered on intake, consented.”

  It meant nothing to her. She read further. “Layla continues to respond positively to coercion therapy and easily recites back her post-hypnotic suggestions. However, she continues to resist internalization. Hypnotic suggestibility remains undetermined. She displays a heightened sensitivity to nonverbal communication. She shows growing enthusiasm for the purification process. At this time, however—”

  She heard voices approaching.

  “ … don’t think you’re listening to me.” It was Dr. Jeannette. Her voice grew louder as they approached Brother James’s office.

  Layla looked down at the folder she was holding, unable to move. Her breath caught.

  “Her attitude is changing. She’s …”

  She’d be expelled. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She’d be sent back to the impure world.

  “ … more assertive, more willful, more …”

  “Jeannette,” Brother James said. “You’re too close to her in the moment of transition. Your assessments …”

  She could only think of one thing to do. She had to hide. Right now. She slid the folder back onto the pile.

  “ … biased. You have to give her a little space to get there on her own terms.”

  Brother James stepped into his office just as Layla’s inflamed knees slammed down on the cement floor behind his desk.

  Chapter 37

  Allison bolted over to the file cabinet, offering a small prayer—please, God—and yanked the top drawer. It opened.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find, but she was surprised to see a collection of expandable folders, each labeled VWC and dated. She opened the first folder, labeled 2013. What a disappointment—patient files.

  Leonard Felix, age twenty-four, Hispanic. Condition: sciatic nerve pain resulting in debilitating numbness and leg buckling. Cause: unresectable bone spur, S5. Prior treatments: neurontin, oxycodone. Recommendation: inpatient admission, Vitapura Wellness Center.

  She shrugged and read the next profile.

  Sayid Al-Amari, age twenty-eight, Arab. Condition: idiopathic neuropathy. Cause: no known cause. Prior treatments: neurontin, oxycodone, self-medicated with alcohol and marijuana. Recommendation: inpatient admission, Vitapura Wellness Center.

  Emelia Antonucci, age twenty-six, African American, again recommended to the Vitapura Wellness Center after treatment for fibromyalgia. Wow, Emelia was striking. She looked like a model.

  She shuffled through twenty or so profiles, glancing at the photos. The patients came from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, but they were all in their early twenties. Odd. So many young people with chronic pain. Dr. Chambers sure had found himself a niche market to tap.

  Elaine’s voice outside the office reminded her that time was of the essence. She retied the expandable folder and closed the drawer. The second drawer looked much more likely, green hanging folders packed with tabbed manila folders. She ran her finger along the labels. There. “B. Elliott Intakes.” That was surely—

  “Allison? What are you doing?”

  She jerked back her hand.

  “Those are private files. You aren’t supposed to be in there. What are you doing?” Elaine’s voice vacillated somewhere between angry and fearful.

  Allison stood up slowly. “Listen, Elaine. Dr. Chambers is involved in something with Quandary that involves me personally, and it may even be illegal, and I’m just trying to find out what it is. I have a right and a responsibility for—”

  “I’m calling Dr. Chambers. You’re not supposed to be reading those.”

  Allison surged across the room until she stood six inches from Elaine’s face. Elaine cowered as though she expected to be struck, but she couldn’t back away because she was already pressed against the wall.

  Allison glowered, her face inches from Elaine’s. “You’ll do no such thing. What would Dr. Chambers do if he learned you’d invited me right into his office, showed me where you keep the key in your desk, and let me follow you inside? I’ll tell Austin that you knew about these files and you wanted me to have them. I’ll tell him Dr. Chambers treats you like shit and you wanted to get even for all those ye
ars of abuse. What will he do to you then? Is that what you want?”

  Elaine crouched against the wall, frozen in fear.

  “You will not speak of this, understand?” Allison’s chin quivered. “I need to find out what Austin—”

  “Elaine?”

  Allison spun around to see a man in a white coat in the doorway—the physician’s assistant, presumably.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing in here?” he asked. “You have no business being in Dr. Chambers’s office while he’s away. Who are you?”

  He uncapped his pen, ready to take notes.

  “We were just looking for a folder.” Elaine’s voice was barely a whisper. “Allison came by to—”

  He jabbed a finger at her. “I’m not speaking to you!”

  Still reeling with adrenaline, Allison nearly exploded. “Hey, don’t you talk to her like that. She’s just doing her job.”

  “Both of you. Get out of here immediately.”

  She took a deep breath to calm herself and turned back to Elaine with a smile. “Elaine, thank you so much for your help. I’ll let Austin know we couldn’t find the folder.” She glared at the PA. “And that some jackass interrupted our search.”

  She felt slightly dizzy as she marched out of Dr. Chambers’s office. It wasn’t until she stepped out the front door onto the porch that she started trembling.

  Chapter 38

  An explosion of stars announced the impact of Layla’s bruised legs against the hard floor, and her teeth caught hard against her tongue as she stifled a reflexive cry. Her brain registered the nauseating taste of copper before the pain, and her mouth instantly filled with blood. She opened her mouth slightly to keep from vomiting, then let the blood trickle from her mouth into her cupped hands. Through it all, she made no sound.

  Brother James stood in the doorway with Dr. Jeannette.

  “James, please. Talk to him about one more dose of 909. I believe she’s having visions that are not part of the coercion program.”

  Layla dropped into a tighter ball, making her legs throb even more. Blood continued to drip into her cupped hands, and her abs clenched for another wave of heaving. She opened her mouth wider to get more air. The bleeding slowed, and she focused on counting the drops to ease her stomach.

  “It cannot happen. The memory elixir is too toxic for a third dose. Look at what happened to Kelly.”

  Kelly? Layla heard him take a step closer to his desk. She shook with fear, but instead of moving behind it where she crouched doubled over in pain, he stopped in front of the desk. She heard him sweep the pile of folders into his arms.

  “I’m not taking that risk with Layla. Just keep up with the hypnosis—”

  “This is what I’m trying to tell you,” Dr. Jeannette said. “She’s not suggestible. She doesn’t respond. Nothing I’ve given her has stuck, not one image, even in the deepest state.”

  They were talking about her. But what—

  Something banged against the desk and a scorpion emerged from behind the trash can, skittering right into her mess of long hair splayed on the cement.

  “ … only one in the renewed cohort that hasn’t embraced her false narrative. She’s high risk …”

  She squeezed her eyes and mouth as tightly as she could, fighting the irresistible impulse to jump up and shake her head. She held her breath and somehow remained still.

  “ … no guarantee that she can be controlled. Doesn’t this worry you?”

  “Listen, Jeannette. We both know how important Layla is to this program. She’ll be the face of the renewed cohort. Think about how hard she’s struggled after having her memories erased, and yet she’s still fully committed …”

  Her hair twitched as the entangled scorpion struggled to break free, but it seemed to be only climbing closer to her scalp. A choked whimper escaped her.

  “ … lead all the others who follow her in this cohort. When they struggle with trying to rebuild a whole new impure past, she’ll be their champion. Peer mentors have a much better success rate than formal therapy. You know this.”

  “And what if she’s not a champion? She doesn’t fit our model, and you know it.”

  Layla shuddered. She shook her head vigorously until she could no longer feel the crawling.

  Brother James raised his voice. “This isn’t open for discussion.”

  She’d never heard that tone from him before.

  “We’re wasting valuable time,” he continued. “Get her on the advancement schedule. Do your job and make it happen. No excuses, and no more hesitation. The success of this program is bigger than our egos.”

  Dr. Jeannette sounded angry. “I don’t think I’m the one who’s lost objectivity here. It’s obvious you favor the girl.”

  Layla opened one eye in time to see the scorpion scuttle away.

  “It’s 4:01, James. Don’t you have a new recruit meeting? You better go do your job. Remember, the program is bigger than our egos.”

  Dr. Jeannette’s heels clicked out the door and away from the building.

  “Damn it,” Brother James muttered.

  The light went off, and the door clicked shut to silence.

  ***

  Layla silently counted to one hundred, trembling and sweating, blood and saliva still dripping from her mouth, before rolling to her backside and sliding against the wall away from the direction of the scorpion.

  Please forgive me, Father.

  She tipped the contents of her cupped hands into Brother James’s trash container and wiped her hands on some wadded paper and rearranged them in the trash bin to conceal the blood. She stood up unsteadily and surveyed the office, half expecting to see Brother James sitting quietly in the corner, ready to declare her the traitor that she was. But he was gone, and the room was empty.

  She steadied herself on the edge of the desk. That had been a very close call, and she silently thanked the Father for offering her a path to redemption. Her nausea from the blood had finally passed, but her tongue was sore and swollen and she was still trembling as she slipped back into the desert heat.

  As she hobbled down the path, she replayed Brother James’s words in her head. She would lead the others. She would be their champion. Layla slowed her pace and looked around the campus at the other inductees, realizing how rarely she looked up. She stood tall and flexed her leg muscles.

  Girl power! her dad’s voice said.

  She flexed her biceps. There was barely a perceptible bulge. If she was going to lead others in the cohort, whatever that meant, she would have to get stronger.

  “Girl power,” she agreed, and walked back to her dorm.

  Chapter 39

  Malloy had turned his work phone off during the extended weekend with Darcy, so he wasn’t particularly surprised to find Garcia in his office when he rolled in on Wednesday morning. What did surprise him is that it wasn’t even seven a.m.

  Garcia didn’t look happy. His first instinct was that Garcia was going to resign. Garcia had friends at the bureau, and he’d probably already heard the LXR case was being shut down. Unlike Malloy, who’d spent years building a thick skin for law enforcement corruption, Garcia was young and naive. He was likely to walk off the job on principle, shouting a litany of curses and burning every bridge he’d built.

  Malloy felt the pain in his gut. He didn’t want to lose Garcia.

  He strode straight to his desk, avoiding eye contact. “Awfully early for you to be awake, let alone sitting in my office.”

  When a reply didn’t come, he looked up.

  Garcia’s face was colorless. “We have another vic.”

  It caught him off guard. Cramer had assured him that he wouldn’t have to see another body or talk to another goddamn family.

  “I got a call early this morning from Stacy Cordone, from—”

  “Stop.” Malloy sat down. “Just let me—”

  He rubbed his eyes with his palms and sat back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t anger he was feeling;
it was exasperation. Cramer’s warning had been clear enough to convince him this case wasn’t worth his career or personal safety, but he still lay awake at night questioning his integrity. And now another victim.

  His mind was already ticking ahead to the next steps. How was he supposed to process the vic? Was he expected to simply ignore it? Cramer had told him the bureau would assign a lead, but Malloy wasn’t dumb. This case was destined for the graveyard.

  “Let’s hear it.” He sat up straight, ready for the download.

  Garcia spoke mechanically, like he was dictating a forensics report. “Twenty-four-year-old male found in a dumpster behind a drug den in Flagstaff.”

  Malloy opened his desk drawer and grabbed his Tums. Goddammit, he wasn’t going to deal with this alone. He’d call Cramer, make him take some of the responsibility, not to mention some of the damn burden on his conscience.

  “Test results show very high levels of heroin, and physical appearance of the body suggests death by overdose. Stacy called me when she found a partially healed wound exactly the location and size of a spinal port.”

  Malloy perked up. “But no actual port? Maybe it’s not one of ours. Give me the file.”

  He chewed up two Tums. Maybe he’d just hand the file straight over to Cramer and let him shove it in the face of whoever was sweeping things under the rug. Why did he even need to get involved at this point?

  “He’s one of ours, all right,” Garcia said. “You’ll know when you see the image of the wound.”

  “Give me the file,” he repeated. Maybe as each new body rolled in, he’d start stacking them up in the corner of his office. Fuck ’em.

  Garcia just looked at him, holding the file in his hand.

  “Give me the goddamn file!” Malloy demanded, standing up and holding out his hand. This day was off to a shitty start.

  Garcia exhaled. “It’s Tyler Steele.”

  The name registered as if Garcia had spoken in slow motion. Malloy felt the blood drain from his face as he stood rigid, mouth agape. He stared at Garcia, waiting for—praying for—a smirk, a wave of his hand to say just joking, boss.