We need to return to the surface and put as much distance as possible between us and Willard's Eden. We'll start up one of those vehicles we found in the parking structure and head back to the caves. There may yet be survivors, and they'll need us. But first we have to find Daiyna—and Milton. We won't leave the city without them.
Why do I hesitate? Part of me feels that we should linger here. Is it fear? The daunting prospect of escaping through a pitch-black maze of tunnels with lurking daemons? I don't feel dread. It's more a sense of leaving behind unfinished business. The spirits, through Daiyna, led us here for a reason. If we leave now, will we have failed in our purpose?
They said we had nothing to fear. Does that mean we won't come to harm, whether we stay or leave? Or have we been misled from the start? I would not fault them for seeking to destroy us, after the way our kind mistreated this planet. And if this is the case, then we are decidedly on our own.
I nod to Samson and Shechara. "Let's go."
The speaker crackles. Willard's dry chuckle echoes against the blood-soaked concrete around us. "Well, I must say, you folks put on quite a good show. You're a tribute to your kind. Only three of you up against all those hungry mutos—and you without even a scratch! Wish I could say I'm surprised, but that wouldn't be the honest truth. I knew you had it in you. Impressed, though? Definitely. I didn't think you'd get through them so fast. If I'd known, I would've let more of 'em loose!" He laughs out loud. "So yeah, you've probably figured it out already—"
"What do you want with us?" I demand, but he goes on uninterrupted.
"—a couple cameras in there. Yep, we saw the whole damn thing. Didn't even need those weapons you kept whining about, did you? You did just fine with your bare hands! And boy oh boy, are you vicious. I sure wouldn't want to cross you." A short pause. "So here's the thing. I know that you want to escape and all, and I don't really blame you. It's not like you belong here. You're not like us, obviously. And you want to go back to your own kind."
The locking mechanism groans, releasing the blast door behind us. We turn as it slowly recedes upward. Boots clatter as Willard's men duck inside with weapons trained on us.
"But here's the problem, folks," Willard's voice confides through the speaker. "I just can't find it in my heart to let you go."
The men fire their weapons. A shock of electricity tears through me, exploding like a shivering fire. They hit me again and again, and I fall, unable to control my limbs or the wild sounds escaping me. Shechara screams, and Samson curses, groaning. Then everything goes black as a heavy-soled boot collides with my skull.
Damp from the light rain, I pass through cool sheets of mist that cling to the branches and broad green leaves of trees overhead. My heart keeps a steady rhythm as my rubber-soled shoes strike the forest path beneath me. I run not out of necessity but by choice, inhaling deeply, feeling free here, completely at peace. There's a slight chill in the morning air, but I barely notice it. A woodpecker knocks on an oak's hollow trunk in the distance, and I look for it between the trees. The knock sounds again, breaking the silence, striking in quick succession only to pause at untimed intervals. I can't see it anywhere on the left side of the trail, the side where, if I were to venture far enough through the tall overgrowth below the leafy canopy, I'd eventually find myself standing at the lakeshore.
Perhaps I'll go for a swim after my morning jog. Last year, I swam across the lake in the rain, and the water I stroked through carried the texture of a million raindrops. I smile at the memory.
"We're all going to die here, Luther."
Milton stands rooted in the middle of the path before me. I skid to a halt. His jumpsuit is filthy with dust and blood stains. He holds his cracked face shield down at his side. His eyes are hollow as he stares at me.
"They don't want us to live," he says.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. I clear my throat as the rain falls heavier now.
"They want me to help them." He shakes his head, his sodden hair swinging in clumps against his face, drawn and unshaven. "I can't fight them. They're too strong."
Who? Willard and his men?
I look up, and the rain pelts my eyelids, forcing me to close them. I extend my arms out to the sides and breathe. Milton isn't here, he can't be. I'm seeing things, hearing things. I listen to the rain rushing through the trees, building in intensity. I'm sure there are white caps out on the lake.
"You have to stop them, Luther. Before it's too late. If they succeed, there won't be any of us left." Milton shudders as if suddenly chilled to the bone. "They've taken her."
Wake up!
A jolt of electricity pierces my midsection and I cry out. My eyelids blink against hot white light. I pull my arms and legs against steel shackles clamped onto my wrists and ankles. I twist with my torso and swing slightly. I'm suspended from the ceiling by chains. My head jerks forward, and I look down.
I'm naked, covered in gooseflesh.
"Have a nice nap?" the block-jawed Perch grins at me. He grips a shock prod down at his side. It sparks eagerly. "Hope you enjoyed yourself. You won't be gettin' any more winks for a while, I'm afraid."
We're alone in a small room with cold steel walls. A solid, windowless door stands a few meters beyond my chained feet. I can't see anything on either side. Perch moves behind me and rattles something on a metal tray. I drop my head back to find a cart, upside-down from my perspective. Perch holds a pair of large pliers and winks.
"The boss is gonna fix you up good. But first, I gotta make sure you won't be any trouble." He chuckles and nods down at me knowingly. "Been a while since you had a manicure, huh?"
He jams the prod into my side, just above my groin, and I grit my teeth to keep from screaming. My claws flex outward against my will, and he's ready with the pliers. He clamps on and rips the talon out of my index finger with brutal strength. It feels as though my finger's been torn from its socket. A hoarse scream escapes me as he lets the bloody claw drop to the floor. I pull against my restraints with all my might and arch my back. Then I fall on the chains and swing against him. He steadies me with one hand.
"Easy now. One down. Nine to go." He chuckles. "Hurts like hell, I bet."
He's a sadist. My head swims, dangling below my shoulders as the room spins. Pain blooms, and I look at my finger, wet with blood.
Will the claw grow back? Will the spirits bless me anew?
Where are they now?
Perch pulls out the next one from my middle finger, stripping me of my gift one claw at a time. I scream again, unable to control myself. The lights blink out, and everything goes black. Have I lost consciousness? The glaring white returns as the pliers rip the claw from my third finger. I scream, enraged. With all of the determination I can muster, I focus on willing the remaining talons to retract. I can't tell whether they obey me. I'm beginning to lose feeling in my limbs. Perhaps that's for the best.
"Hey now, don't you try anything cute." Perch jams the prod into me again, but the pain is nothing compared to the pliers. He hits me with it again on a higher setting. The jolt of electricity courses through me, shaking every nerve in my body. "Good boy." The pliers tug out another claw and send it to the floor.
The lights go out again. This time, they don't return.
I stand at the edge of the lake. A grassy slope descends toward dark silt beneath the lapping water. Rain falls heavily, and a wind has picked up from the north, driving short white crests onto shore. Raindrops plummet into the choppy surface, and I long to dive into the tumult. But my feet are planted to the ankles in the soil. No matter how hard I pull, I stand rooted here like a tree.
I turn my face to the sky and keep my eyes closed in the downpour. I feel the presence of the Creator. He's not in the rain or the wind, but they both are from Him. They are His creation.
"What are mortals, that You should think of us?" The words emerge from deep in my mind. They escape me in a whisper, a prayer. The fresh water rushes between my parted lips, and I
swallow. "You put us in charge of everything you made." We were unworthy of such responsibility, yet He already knew the end at its beginning. He gave us free dominion of His creation, knowing what we would do with it. And even so, He's given us a second chance. For He was, and is, and forever shall be the God of second chances. "Behold, all things are made new..."
Before my eyes, the lake and everything around it is instantly transformed. The clouds, overloaded with precipitation, disappear, and in their place expands an empty grey sky with a scorching sun. My feet are planted in sand now, not damp earth. The trees have been replaced with an arid, ash-colored moonscape that's all too familiar to me. A sinking feeling hits the pit of my stomach as I gaze across an empty crater and blink against the dry wind that flattens my sodden clothing. It won't be damp for long.
"A new earth," I hear the words rasp from my chapped lips. "A new heavens, and a new earth."
The exposed skin on my face begins to burn, but I can't raise my arms to shield myself from the sun. My hands are restrained by an unseen force at the wrists, my fingers cut off and bleeding. I stare at what remains, overwhelmed by loss. A tear skids down my cheek, dropping to dampen the sand an instant before it's swallowed by the thirsty ground.
"Why have You forsaken me?" I gasp.
Wake up!
High voltage rattles my rib cage and I cry out, my eyes jerking wide open with a start. I focus on my limp, bloody fingers, dangling from the steel shackles. They're still intact, but severely maimed.
"Perch says you took it like a man for the most part. Not too much blubbering." Willard grins at me, his head upside down, his thin face stretched too tightly across the skull underneath. "I told him that you would, but he had his doubts. Anyhow, what's done is done. And now you're on the road to recovery, Luther my man. Say, you don't want these, do you?" He extends an open palm. In it, he holds all ten of my talons, sharp at the tips and oozing fresh blood at the roots. "Mementos from a former life? What do you say?"
I cough against a surge of bile and jerk my head forward, my body swaying violently from the chains.
"Perhaps not. Okay, toss 'em." He hands them to Perch, who takes the claws without a word and heads for the door beyond my suspended feet. Willard wipes the blood from his palm onto a towel and casts it aside. "Bring some water. Luther's been through quite the ordeal today."
With a noncommittal grunt, Perch heaves open the steel door and leaves it to slam shut behind him. The walls reverberate from the impact.
"So." Willard scrapes a metal stool across the floor and seats himself beside my head. "How're you doing, buddy?"
I turn slowly to look up at him, but I say nothing. I clench my jaw, for the first time appreciating the chains that restrain me. Otherwise, I'm afraid I might kill this man.
"You're angry. Sure, I get it. Believe me, you're not the first person to hate my guts, and you won't be the last. Not everybody understands the Eden Guard. They don't realize what we're protecting. But they all see the light, eventually." He winks down at me and pats my bare chest with his clammy hand. "So will you, Luther. You're a reasonable man, after all." He catches himself. "You will be, that is—once we've got you back to normal. Once you're fixed."
I cough again, clearing my throat. "Where are my friends?" I manage, my voice little more than a croak. Dizziness washes over me in waves, and I struggle to remain conscious. I don't know how many more jolts from that prod my heart will be able to take without shutting down.
"They're no longer your concern. Think of them as dead, if that helps any. Right now, you've got just yourself to worry about. And that's more than enough, believe you me." He reaches for my right hand and surveys the work of his henchman. He clucks his tongue at the damage. "I'm sure it was tough to see them go. They've probably come in real handy out there on the surface with all the mutos and what-not to contend with. But now you're one step closer to—"
"How do you control them?"
His beady eyes rotate to meet my gaze. "Hmm?"
"The collars. How do they work?" I strain my neck muscles to keep my head raised.
"You wouldn't understand. It's fairly complicated." He releases my hand.
"How many of them have you fitted with those collars?"
He regards me for a moment, his eyes cold. "Why don't you ask what's really on your mind, Luther? The burning question that demands an answer." He pauses. "Did we send the bunch that went after your cave buddies?"
My jaw muscle twitches. "Did you?"
"We didn't even know you were out there. And besides, it's not like we've got all of the mutos collared. For every one we capture, there are easily five more topside running around loose." He curses. "We can't seem to get 'em to turn on each other, no matter how high we increase the settings. It's an extermination problem, really. We've just got to figure out a way to wipe out the rest."
"Sounds like you could really use a nuke." As soon as the words leave my mouth I'm filled with disgust, but the irony isn't lost on him. He laughs out loud, echoing against the walls.
"Yeah, wouldn't that be the ticket! Too bad they're in such short supply these days." His laughter subsides. "So here's the deal, Luther. One of my colleagues will be in here shortly to run a few tests on you, just to make sure you're on your way back to being the way God intended. We'll need to take some tissue samples and maybe a little blood—nothing major." He pats my chest again as he stands. "You just hang tight." He strides toward the door.
I clear my throat, drawing his attention before he leaves. "You're not soldiers, any of you. We know who you really are."
He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" He waits.
"You're engineers. From Sector 30."
"We were." He bites his lip. Then he shrugs. "Structural, chemical, molecular, genetic, nuclear—you name it. But that was a lifetime ago." He heaves the door open. "No longer relevant."
"We—" I grit my teeth against a sudden wave of nausea. "We were going to find you...on our way to the Preserve. That was the plan, to start a new life together."
"It's all gone, Luther. The Preserve—" He makes an explosive sound that puffs out his hollow cheeks, and he gestures with both hands. "Kaput. We're in a forbidden zone here—the whole continent. Or what's left of it. The rest of the world doesn't want to have anything to do with us." He chuckles dryly. "Sounds like you really need to be brought up to speed on a few things."
My head swims. I can no longer hold it up. The muscles in my neck give way, and my skull snaps backward, dangling. Willard says something before he leaves, but his words are slow and garbled. The door slams shut, and the walls reverberate again. So does my brain.
I can't lose consciousness. I don't want to be shocked awake again. But I don't want to be awake anymore. My eyelids close, falling like a black curtain, and the last thing I see is the metal cart behind me.
I can't sleep long. I need to wake up before Perch returns with his prod. Water? Is he bringing water? I'm so thirsty.
I should dive into the lake and swim past the buoy, something I always did with my brothers during those hot summers at our lake house in the Preserve. Gone forever? Was the Preserve obliterated on D-Day? What does that mean for us? How can we survive in this barren wasteland? Perhaps it's a moot point. My eyelids crack open to glaring white lights and bloody fingers dangling without feeling from the shackles. I may not survive this room, let alone anything beyond it.
What did he mean about a forbidden zone and the rest of the world? Has he been in contact with survivors on other continents? How many of them are there? How could he possibly communicate with them?
My eyelids collapse against my will. This time, I have no strength left to deny them, and I surrender to whatever comes next.
When I see light again, I find myself lying on a narrow bed with clean white sheets. Medical machines sit on each side; tubes and hoses of all sizes protrude from my arms and groin, connecting me to these machines. The walls are not steel as they were in that torture chamber. I'm now in a hospital ro
om without any windows, and the only light emanates from above the headboard of my bed, fluorescent and jittery.
Just beyond the foot of my bed, a lone figure stands in the shadows with its back to me. Garbed in a white medical coat that hangs limply from its thin frame. Dark, matted locks of shoulder-length hair. Who is this person?
My wrists, raw from the shackles, are no longer restrained. Yet I can't move a muscle. Am I paralyzed? What have they done to me now?
I take a breath to steady my nerves and look over the equipment around me. Then I try to ask Where am I? only to find a weak, unintelligible moan come out of me instead of a voice.
The lone figure doesn't stir. "You may not be able to articulate speech for a while," a woman's voice emerges from behind that curtain of unkempt hair. She sounds as lifeless as she looks. "We have you pumped full of muscle relaxants, sedatives. Probably feels like you're paralyzed, but that's temporary. Just while we run some tests."
Willard said there would be tests. I survey the hoses attached to my body. What are they taking from me? Or injecting me with?
I close my eyes and struggle to take in another deep breath, but it comes shallow. How long have I been here? Why didn't I wake up when they removed my chains? The one named Perch didn't seem able to keep his prod to himself. But if I blacked out completely, they may have had to bring me here to revive me. That would mean these tubes are for my benefit, feeding me nutrients, keeping me hydrated. But what about my groin? What could that possibly be for?
"So far, you've checked out. The best case we've seen so far. For most of the others, there's no going back, not once the physiological transformations have become permanent." She drops what sounds like a file folder onto the cart at the foot of the bed. Then she turns, and the light illuminates her skeletal features, bruised and swollen. At the base of her neck is a thin strip of metal with a blinking red light. "It looks like you're actually going to make it." Her heavy-lidded eyes stare at me bleakly from their hollow sockets. "Good for you, Luther."
Who are you? I want to ask, but another moan shudders out of me instead. I frown, mouthing the words. No recognition sparks in her vacant eyes. I try again, working my mouth sluggishly around the silent words. Despite my best efforts, I'm not rewarded with a response of any kind from the woman. She looks directly at me, but she doesn't seem to see me.
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