Altered: A Dystopian Sci-Fi Adventure (Rogue Spark Book 1)

by Cameron Coral

  He shrugged.

  “I hadn’t heard that one before,” I said. Then, something shifted in his shirt pocket. “Hey, what’s that?” I pointed as a tiny, white face with pink nose and twitching whiskers emerged.

  “Nothing. F-forget it.” Peterson drew a clawed hand over his pocket, hiding the small mouse. He glanced at the surveillance camera before quickly closing and latching the door shut behind him.

  Why did the guard have a rodent in his pocket? Was it his pet? And why had he shied away from the camera? He didn’t want them to see the mouse. I had discovered Peterson’s weak spot.

  I’d learned a lot about thievery living in Hell’s Kitchen. Swiping things was how we survived. My pickpocketing skills would be a strength.

  Eleven

  The surprise Dr. Kenmore had promised turned out to be a book, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Normally, I would have devoured it, but my mind was preoccupied.

  The next day, I rose as usual, consumed my meager, unsatisfying breakfast, and rehearsed my plan in my head. I needed to make my move against Peterson. Against Kenmore. I sensed another surgery coming, and I didn’t want to delay any longer.

  I hid in my corner for a while, out of view. This small amount of privacy was my only luxury here, a ritual I repeated daily. Following my routine seemed the safest way to avoid raising any alarms as they monitored me. Let them underestimate me.

  An hour before I knew Peterson would arrive for his usual escort service, I clutched my stomach and groaned. After making a show for the cameras, I climbed into bed and pulled my covers up to my ears. Would they believe I was actually sick this time? I crossed my fingers.

  He knocked his baton against the cell door. “Step into the center of the room, hands behind your back, palms open, feet spread.”

  I lay in bed, ignoring him.

  He banged again, harder. “Center of the room. You know the drill.”

  Motionless, I listened carefully as he spoke in hushed tones into his comms. I only hoped they’d give him permission to enter and check on my condition.

  Seconds later, the handle rattled, the heavy steel door slid open in its groove, and then clanged shut. Peterson was inside. Alone. So far, my plan was on track.

  “Hey,” he said, the clunk of his boots getting louder as he edged closer. A swoosh—he’d drawn his stun baton, and I heard the fizz as voltage surged through the weapon. I had hoped he’d trust me more, but I would deal with it. I prepared my body, coiling my muscles like a tightly wound spring.

  He paused. I listened as the buzzing electricity switched off. Holding my breath, I waited under the darkness of the covers for his next move.

  A jab in my arm. “Hey, wake up.”

  Every muscle tensed. Just a few seconds more.

  He pulled the blanket down to my feet. Exactly what I’d hoped for. I was lying on my back with my right leg bent, my boot wedged between my butt and the wall. Poised, I opened my eyes wide and met his gaze.

  He peered down. “Are you okay?”

  I launched my shin outward and up as hard as I could. The edge of my boot caught his fist and sent the baton flying.

  He yelped, then staggered. I sprang up and pounced, using the height of the bed to launch me forward with raised fists. I jabbed him in his throat, landed, then front-kicked his gut. He doubled over, gasping. We both spied the baton which had rolled into a corner.

  Barreling into him, I knocked him backward with my body weight. I thrust my hands into his shirt pocket until I touched something small and warm. His arm flew to his side. He pulled the stunner out, but I retreated into the far corner, opposite the bed. Clutched in my hands, Peterson’s pet mouse squirmed.

  He growled as he checked his front pocket and his mouth trembled. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “I will if you don’t drop that gun.” I cupped my palms as the creature quivered inside.

  He lowered his weapon cautiously. “Don’t drop or throw her. P-p-please. She’s very delicate.”

  “Slide me the baton.” In my perfect scenario, I’d grabbed the weapon already. Taking the mouse hostage had been a last resort.

  He glanced at the camera. “They’re on their way.”

  “Give me your badge and the stunner, or I kill your mouse,” I hissed.

  “No.” He snarled and extended his claws. “Don’t you dare hurt her.”

  “The badge! Now!” I clasped the animal in one fist. How long before Kenmore and other guards arrived?

  “Okay,” he shouted. He snatched the cord that secured his badge to his belt and slid it across the floor.

  With my foot, I pulled it toward me and retrieved the access card, keeping my eyes locked on his.

  Then a shout, followed by loud voices in the hall. I panicked and hurried for the door. But the tender, fleshy spot between my thumb and finger stung like a needle prick. I yelped—the damn mouse had bitten me. I jumped in shock and she leapt from my hands.

  Another guard appeared in the doorway. I pivoted for a side-kick, but this guard was fast. He struck me in the side of my head with his baton. I stumbled, flailing. Peterson lunged at me, sliding and grabbing for his mouse as he knocked my feet out from under me.

  As I crumpled, I glimpsed the mouse scampering on the ground underneath me. Peterson clawed at my legs, piercing my skin as he tried to pull me out of the way. But I’d been smacked with such force in the head, my body hit the ground, and the mouse—small and warm and moist—crunched under my thigh. Peterson gasped in horror.

  Dizzy, I couldn’t resist as the second guard rolled me onto my stomach and restrained me. He yanked my arms behind me painfully—he was far rougher than Peterson had ever been.

  Kenmore loomed in the doorway, red-faced, hands on his hips. “What the hell happened here?”

  Peterson shrank against the wall, his hands raised defensively. He stared at his claws as my blood dripped from them. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” His words came fast, and his voice trembled.

  Kenmore faced him. “You idiot. Look what you’ve done. You could have damn well killed my patient.”

  My leg stung like ten wasps had ripped open holes, burrowed inside, and unleashed their fury. I felt blood soaking through my clothes and dripping onto the floor.

  Kenmore drew a syringe, looming over me. “Rule number one, don’t damage my property.” He curled his upper lip as he peered down. His eyes darted to the crumpled, lifeless mouse nearby. “Peterson!” He marched over to the wolfish guard and slapped his face. “I told you never to bring that wretched animal out of your room!” Despite his superior size, Peterson cowered.

  Kenmore strode over and crouched. Lifting the dead mouse by its tail, he flung it away from him. It landed under my bed. “We’ve no time for this.” Then he stabbed my shoulder with the needle.

  I blacked out.

  Twelve

  I woke to harsh fluorescence, blinked, then squeezed my eyes shut as I rolled over and buried my head under the pillow. Memory and reality mingled as I wondered whether I’d been dreaming a terrible, endless nightmare. Really, I was back at Woodlawn Improvement Center before the breakfast bell. All was normal, and I’d be pacing the yard soon while Reed shadowed me.

  After my brain fog cleared, I groaned, and my stomach dropped. It wasn’t Woodlawn. This cell was real. All was not right, and it wasn’t a goddamn dream. Pushing the pillow from my face, I leaned against the wall.

  “You’re in a mess this time, girl,” I muttered. Joanie used to say talking out loud to yourself was how you knew you were going bonkers. She always had a way with expressions—words like bonkers, jeepers, creepazoid. When I’d asked where she’d learned these words, she said she’d gotten around; her dad had sent her to private schools before her mom went to a loony bin. Before he’d gotten himself killed.

  Was that where I was—an insane asylum? I scratched my head as I pondered the new idea. Maybe the fight in the yard had been the system’s last straw, and Kilpatrick had sent me away to a place I’d never return fro
m.

  No time to dwell on the past. Reality check: Kenmore had drugged me again. Bastard. Rolling over, I hoisted my legs over the side of the bed but yelped because it felt like the skin behind my left leg was on fire. Then I remembered Peterson’s bloody claws after he’d grazed me. It wasn’t his fault; it had been an accident.

  I cradled my injured leg, lifting it gingerly over the side rail. Bandages covered both forearms. More gauze and tape crisscrossed my biceps and shoulders, too. Come to think of it, I ached all over and the skin on my arms itched.

  Time to stand up and get the blood flowing, I told myself as I forced my wobbly legs to straighten. Woozy, I wondered how long I’d been under this time. Staring down at my bandages, I figured Kenmore had punished me for my escape attempt.

  As I shuffled up and down the length of the room, the creeping sensation in my arms and shoulders intensified. I tried to scratch, but I’d worn my nails down from biting them.

  I heard a clank in the hall and wandered to the door, peering through my tiny window. Peterson approached, rolling his food cart. “Move away from the door,” he grunted.

  I obeyed, too weary to resist. I hadn’t even flipped off the camera yet—an act that had become part of my morning routine.

  The door panel slid open, and he pushed my tray through before his heavy footsteps faded.

  How long had I been a prisoner? Days, a week, longer? Outrage and hatred had been the emotions charging me. Now, I felt numb and defeated. I sunk to the floor beside the tray, not bothering to retreat to my hidden corner. I dug into my meal—dry, scrambled eggs, soggy toast, cold potatoes, and orange juice. As I gorged myself, some of my energy returned. I peered up at the camera and gave them the one-finger salute. Soon, I’d have my strength back. Calories helped.

  I extended my cramped legs and accidentally kicked the now-empty plate, revealing a long and rectangular object underneath. I sensed it was contraband, so I hunched over the tray as if feasting, to shield the plate. The hidden object was a flat, wide candy bar in a brown and silver wrapping. My mouth watered. I’d rarely had chocolate in the last few years. The Youth Improvement Centers were notoriously cheap, and candy was a novelty given only to exemplar kids. Yeah, I was the opposite of them.

  I tucked the bar into the waistband of my cotton pants, then slid the tray through the panel for pickup. After a few jumping jacks and more pacing to make the watchers think everything was normal, I strolled to my hidden corner.

  I sniffed the candy and marveled at its sweet aroma. Milk chocolate. Carefully, I peeled it open and found a tiny, folded note crammed inside. Opening it, I read:

  Am sorry I hurt you.

  -Peterson.

  I smiled. Maybe getting clawed was worth it when the reward was chocolate. I bit off a corner and let the creamy flavor melt on my tongue. After a few more bites, I re-wrapped it and tucked it back in my waistband. I’d have to find a hiding place, since Kenmore would discover it the next time he operated.

  So, Peterson was sorry he'd injured me. Good. A win for me. A pang of guilt swept over me. I felt terrible for killing his mouse, even though it had been accidental. I’d tried to fall away, but the force with which the second guard had hit me had been too powerful.

  I wished for something to give him in return. Something to show I was sorry about his mouse.

  The itching in my arms began again. I rubbed my skin furiously as I paced the small cell.

  Thirteen

  An hour later, the tingling in my arms still drove me nuts. Worse, a wave of nausea had struck, forcing me to lie in bed. Was I suddenly allergic to chocolate? Had Peterson laced the candy bar with poison? Or was I having side effects from Kenmore’s experiments?

  I forced myself up, feverish but determined. I stumbled to the door. “Kenmore, you asshole,” I yelled. “What are you doing to me?”

  Sufficiently pissed off and feeling a growing sense of panic at the painful tingling, I tore apart anything loose I could find: my bedcovers, the mattress, pillow—tiny, white puffs of cotton batting littered the floor in my wake. I flung The Hitchhiker’s Guide book at the camera. I kicked the door to no effect because they’d confiscated my boots after my escape attempt. Now they forced me to wear a pale blue uniform like a mental patient. What would be next—a straitjacket?

  I banged against the door. “Kenmore, answer me goddammit!”

  No reaction; not a sound in the hallway.

  A flood of tears threatened to burst forth. No, I told myself. I won’t let them see me ugly cry. “Joanie,” I muttered and sank to the ground near the door. Limp as a bird soaked in oil, I stared at the dull gray tiles. Numb and hopeless. Maybe I’d reached my breaking point.

  Then I heard footsteps. “Peterson?” I jerked my head and banged it against the door, too weak to bother knocking. “I’m so thirsty. May I have some water?”

  He shoved a small bottle through the meal slot without a word. The sound of his boots echoed, then faded as he continued his rounds. “Come back,” I whispered, but he'd already gone.

  Then I spied the dead mouse in a corner where Kenmore had tossed after the accident. Real hygienic, Doc.

  Crawling toward it, I poked its stiff body and sniffed. I’d read once that dead bodies begin to rot and stink after a while. The small creature didn’t smell yet. After touching it, my finger tingled, and I yanked my arm away. The sensation was strong, as if something had buzzed me with electricity. I raised my palms. Examining my skin, I saw tiny ripples underneath my flesh. Bubbles formed and undulated deep in my hands.

  Gasping, I straightened, grateful my back faced the camera. I watched, entranced and horrified, as the waves traveled from my palms into my fingers while others crawled up my arms.

  I climbed to my feet, arms spread. What had Kenmore done to me? My mouth gaped as I struggled for air. My skin flushed as a wave of dizziness gripped me. But there was something else… exhilaration.

  I peered down at the dead mouse. Sinking to my knees, I instinctively grasped the body and cradled it in my palms. As if attracted to the lifeless animal, the waves inside me changed direction, and navigated toward my hands. My breathing slowed, and I watched as the ripples gathered in my fingers, lining up.

  My eyelids grew heavy and closed without warning. Somehow, I could see miniature beads of light surrounded by darkness, darting everywhere. Then, suddenly, the lights jumped from my fingers onto the mouse’s body, then burrowed past hair follicles, broke past the skin barrier, and traveled inside the creature.

  I was one of the lights, spinning inside the rodent’s body. I guided the others. Wherever I wanted to go—turn left here, stop, and reverse there—happened. Just by thinking it. We surged through the creature and charged its delicate organs, infusing its body with the power of our light. How was this possible?

  Then I pulled away as warmth and brightness cascaded all around me like a blanket being lowered over me. I knew that if I didn’t get out fast, I might end up stuck inside. The heat chased me as if it wanted to suffocate me. I directed the lights to flee and return to my fingers.

  And in a second, I had exited the mouse’s body. The tiny lights jumped back into my hands and flooded my arms, where they settled and became still.

  I exhaled violently. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath for so long. The tingling and itching had disappeared.

  Peterson’s mouse twitched in my palm and tickled me with her whiskers.

  She was alive.

  Fourteen

  I cupped the squirming mouse. My stomach churned, and I broke into a cold sweat. She had been lifeless for many hours. Had the tiny things inside my arms brought her back to life? But that was ridiculous. People didn’t just raise the dead. I climbed to my feet, still grasping the mouse. Peterson—he needed to know.

  “Hey, Peterson,” I rapped my knuckles on the door. “Come here. Quick!”

  My voice echoed in the hallway as I waited.

  “Peterson, please.” My breath came in heavy sighs. “I hav
e something important to show you.”

  No sign of him. I paced, trying to think of a plan, but adrenaline made me shaky and clouded my thoughts. Eyeing the camera, I returned to my small hidden corner and examined the rodent, close up this time. “Are you the same mouse?”

  Her tiny pink nose wrinkled as she stared at me with glassy charcoal eyes.

  “Did I hallucinate this whole thing?” I said out loud. There had to be a sensible explanation. They whacked me out with drugs, and I found a mouse after I tore up my room. The silly thing had played dead, and I dreamt I’d brought her back to life with some kind of crazy tech inside my arms.

  And yet, this creature, with her white fur and brown spots, was identical to Peterson’s. It had to be the same mouse. I sighed and remembered the candy bar at my waist. “Don’t bite, okay?” As I placed her on one knee and unwrapped the chocolate, I bit off a chunk and chewed, then wondered if she was hungry too after dying and being reanimated.

  I tore off a piece and fed it to her. She grasped the small chunk in her dainty pink claws and nibbled. “Good chocolate, huh? You like that?” Tiny white whiskers twitched as she ate. I could see why Peterson would get used to having her around. With a finger, I petted her smooth fur.

  Then I heard footsteps in the hall. Peterson on a round?

  I wrapped the mouse inside the aluminum candy wrapper and slid it into my pocket, then scurried to the door just as Peterson’s face came into view. “Hey. It’s urgent.” My voice cracked.

  He halted but remained several feet away. “What?” he grunted with narrowed eyes.

  “Come closer.”

  “I’m forbidden to talk to you or get close to your cell.”

  “It’s your mouse.”

  He frowned.

  “She’s alive.” I crouched and slid the warm, wrapper-enshrouded mouse through the food slot, her tiny face peering out from one end.