by Alice Reeds
“Yeah.” She grinned. “Like the fact I’d really like to kiss you right now.”
I blinked, my mind coming to a screeching halt. I was confused and yet a moment later, without asking for clarification, I still agreed.
She kissed me, and I kissed her, and everything else didn’t matter anymore. The fear, the threats, the crazy things we’d been told, our uncertain future and past, our mangled identities and memories. I understood why she wanted to kiss me now, this sweet break, a shared moment of calmness, togetherness, a sense of clarity slowly seeping into my mind. The chaos quieted, at least in this one little moment.
…
“Does it hurt a lot?” Fiona asked sometime later. At some point we’d relocated onto the bed—mine, supposedly—our limbs a tangle, her hair messy and lips lightly red and swollen from kissing. Absolutely gorgeous. “Your arm, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s pleasant,” I said in a feeble attempt at being funny.
“I’m so sorry.” Her words sounded more like a whine, her hand on my neck, though avoiding the bandage there, and her forehead falling against my chest. It was cute and made the pain almost forgettable. As the medication wore off, though, the pain had started to intensify again. “Anyway, you were trying to say something before I distracted you earlier.”
Moving around just a little so her head was closer to my face, I lowered my voice and said, “We should search the room, because the only way I can explain how they could possibly know we’d try something, fall into their trap, would be if they’ve hidden cameras and mics in our room. And if that’s the case, I’d like to get rid of them, or at least know where they are.”
Fiona pulled back, a look of disgust on her face. “Nasty. I hadn’t even thought of that.”
I tried my best to ignore the thought that, if cameras were in here, they could be watching us right now. Saw us kissing…
There weren’t too many places to be checked, the furnishings relatively sparse. While Fiona looked over the bookshelf, I went to the single wardrobe standing against the wall to the right. It was tall and surprisingly wide, dark wood with a polished finish, the handles a dark gray metal, but otherwise there were no decorations or carvings on it.
Just barely reaching the top, I tried to feel for any cameras that could be hidden there, but there was nothing but a layer of dust. Next, I opened both doors to see what was inside. The right side was composed of shelves, stacks of what looked like shirts and sweaters, boxes of socks and underwear according to the labels on them, and a section devoted to accessories. The left side had jackets and pants, button-down shirts, and a select few dresses and skirts, the bottom lined with a couple of pairs of shoes.
Surprisingly, many of the clothes looked like they were actually mine, things I distinctly remembered buying and wearing before. As for Fiona’s clothes, most looked unfamiliar to me. But before all this I’d only ever seen her at school, where we had to wear uniforms. These looked like they fit her style, though.
None of it had to mean anything. Whoever bought those clothes could’ve looked up our Instagram accounts and purchased whatever we wore in our pictures, an easy enough task.
Finding nothing more, I moved on to the two small nightstands. Their drawers contained nothing much of interest: a few loose papers with random notes scribbled on them, and some chewing gum, the labels in a language I didn’t understand or recognize, though it was probably the same one the security guard had used.
From all the people I’d heard speak so far, only the nurses and the guard Fiona had nearly knocked out had a faint accent. It sounded similar to the one the security guard had, which would mean they were locals, right? Doc Bowie, though, sounded like us, just like Pamela. These facts didn’t help much, only added to the mystery of this place. While I continued to look through the drawers, I filed that info away as potentially useful anyway.
What the—
Trying my best to keep my face neutral, I cleared my throat to get Fiona’s attention. With two random books in hand, she looked over to me and then at the single condom I held up that I’d found in the drawer next to her bed. Looking me dead in the eye, she raised one eyebrow, the hint of a smirk on her face. That look was enough to unravel me.
A moment later we both burst into laughter.
We continued our search, looked into every corner, checked every shelf twice, and I even pulled up a chair to have a look at the ceiling lamp and if anything was hidden there, but we didn’t find a thing. If there were any cameras, they were hidden really well, but most likely there were none.
“I guess we’re free of their prying eyes and judging minds in here,” Fiona said with a shrug. I nodded in agreement. It wasn’t much, but it was at least something. As long as we were in here, we could say and do whatever we wanted.
“Let’s have a look through our backpack again. Who knows, maybe something in there is useful.” It was probably a waste of time, but at least it gave us something to do.
With the backpack in hand we sat down in the middle of the fuzzy, soft carpet. Looking into every compartment and pocket I laid out everything that was inside; the gun we once had was mysteriously gone, of course, but besides that everything was still there. Fiona picked up a keycard from a hotel in Berlin, its name and address printed on the front in some stylized black font. I took my notebook and leafed through it. Nothing new seemed to be in there besides the entry I had no recollection of writing, the filled pages ending on the same one it had before, no comments added to the final entry, everything looking just the way it had.
Even with what Doc Bowie and Leon said, I still had no explanation for the entry, nothing I thought of could explain how exactly it appeared in there and when I was supposed to have written it. There was no doubt that it was my handwriting, words I’d clearly used, but we’d never been in Berlin. At least not that I remembered. So how and when did I write this, and why didn’t I remember doing it? What was its purpose? I had no idea how it fit into the picture, but it had to be a piece of the puzzle.
Also, considering Doc Bowie had asked about Berlin, what exactly was the purpose of it? Why would he ask it if he knew we never went? And why did they take our gun but leave behind the entry and the card? I doubted someone on the inside was helping us, after all, even my own brother was against us. No matter how I thought about it, I couldn’t figure out anything that made sense, and the entry wasn’t helpful in any way, either.
“Why do we have these anyway?” Fiona asked after a while, annoyance in her voice. It was as though she’d read my mind. “Not that it helps at all, the card is bullshit. There’s nothing helpful on it beyond what we already knew.”
“Same for the entry,” I said before handing it over to her. She gave me the card in exchange. I doubted I’d be able to see anything on it she didn’t, but what did I have to lose?
“Maybe the card and entry were part of whatever this test was actually about,” Fiona mused without taking her eyes off the text. “Leon said the implants will one day make soldiers believe life continues while they’re in a coma, or something like that, right? So, what if, while we were on the island, our minds somehow believed we were in Berlin as well?”
“If that’s true, maybe I wrote this while our minds were in Berlin like some kind of error or glitch? Doc Bowie said they haven’t perfected the implants yet, so who knows what other glitches could’ve occurred. So, if the entry were a glitch, maybe there’s something about the card as well?”
I raised the card against the light, but it was obviously much too thick, no light shining through like it would through paper. Running my fingers over the back and front didn’t reveal much, either; the name of the hotel was engraved into the card but nothing else, no scratches or hidden messages. The writing itself didn’t look special, either, just the address and phone number of the hotel, the room number, and a few other numbers.
Wait.
“Do any of these numbers make sense to you?” I asked and held the card out toward Fiona, my finger pointing at a few random numbers just kind of floating on the back of the card, not really belonging to anything.
“Maybe those are for whichever parking spot correlated to the room or something?” Fiona suggested. “You have that look in your eyes. What did you just think of?”
“I have a look for that?”
“Sure do, sparkles in your eyes and everything,” she said with a smile. “Seriously though, mind sharing with the group?”
“Give me a moment.” I pulled the notebook over to me and grabbed the only pen we had. Balancing the notebook on my leg, I tried my best to write out the numbers on the card, as well as the room number. “What if those numbers are connected to the entry, every number having some kind of corresponding word?”
“Didn’t know Sherlock was my boyfriend,” Fiona said and smiled. She moved across the carpet to sit next to me. “Well, one hundred eighteen is a bit too large to be a line number, so maybe it’s literally the one hundred eighteenth word?”
“Only one way to find out.”
We just arrived in our hotel in Berlin. The flight was all right, nothing special, slept through most of it. The hotel seems way too expensive for something rented for summer interns but, then again, I’m used to better. Anyway, turns out we got a double room with just one bed. Fiona is not amused and just stormed out of the room to go and complain at the reception desk. It’s hilarious to watch her get angry, turn into a fury. I’m just waiting for her hair to turn into snakes, blue ones. Though that angry frown on her forehead looks kind of cute, not that I would tell her. Even if I did she wouldn’t believe me. The bed itself is quite comfy, and I’m curious if Fiona will manage to get another room or if she’ll have to accept the fact that she has to share a bed with me. I can hear steps echoing from the hallway.
“So, we have a bunch of random words,” Fiona said once I wrote all of them down beneath the numbers.
“Not random,” I said and started to rearrange and write them out. “Actually, we have two sort of sentences. ‘Believe nothing; all is not right.’”
Fiona shook her head. “And what exactly is that supposed to tell us? Couldn’t the other you figure out something a little clearer?”
“Better this than nothing at all,” I said with a shrug, then pushed the notebook onto the carpet and turned to face Fiona. “There’s something else that doesn’t make much sense, either.”
“Being?”
“The clothes.” Fiona frowned, so I continued. “I checked the labels on mine, or Oscar’s, or whoever’s, and as far as I can tell none of them are knockoffs. That’s thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes right there.”
“Okay, but if we’ve supposedly been living here for hell knows how long, and don’t have a life outside of these walls, how would we even know about, like, Gucci or Louis?”
“Exactly. One of those jackets alone was almost two thousand.”
“I’m not even sure my entire wardrobe combined would’ve been worth as much as your single jacket,” Fiona said quietly, a small offhand comment I was sure wasn’t meant to be mean, and yet I couldn’t help but feel like an idiot for bringing up numbers, for making her feel bad about herself. Why couldn’t I just shut up sometimes? Fiona wasn’t one of my friends who I needed to impress with these things, but getting rid of old habits wasn’t that easy. “Who in their right mind would allow you to just go and buy all those expensive clothes of yours anyway, and why?”
Good questions. They were pieces that cost more than was reasonable or justifiable, but for me they were a good way to do something with my father’s money, especially since literally burning it hadn’t felt satisfying. I’d certainly tried. They were also feeble attempts at fitting in with my friends and the circles I used to be part of, those clothes something that was expected of you. And if I was honest, I genuinely liked some of it, how could I not? Who wouldn’t like Alexander McQueen, a perfectly fitted Armani suit, or statement pants?
Was some of it downright ridiculous and even hideous? Obviously. Did I really need some odd-looking four-layered coat that cost just over three thousand dollars? It did look pretty good, so maybe I did.
None of it explained why Briola would go through the hassle, though. If they wanted to make us believe we were Kellie and Oscar, two completely different people, they could’ve bought us clothes at Target and said it was our favorite store. But they hadn’t. Why?
“Maybe it’s a crack, a flaw in their plan or simply a mistake no one noticed,” I offered, “like the fact that they’ve indirectly told me they’ve killed my mother, that entry and the message it spells out, their questionable decision to have us share a room even though that means we can scheme together, and now also the clothes. We should make a plan.”
“Agreed,” Fiona said without hesitation.
“According to that entry we shouldn’t believe Briola, which shouldn’t be too hard of a task,” I began as a plan slowly formed in my mind. “Either Miles and Fiona or Kellie and Oscar are fake, but we have no way of figuring out who is and who isn’t with the few things we know so far. I think the best thing to do right now would be to just lie low and pretend, join their game but certainly not play by their rules.”
Fiona smiled deviously. “Following rules is boring anyway.”
“Exactly my thoughts as well. So, how about we just let them believe that we swallowed their hook, their threats scared us, act like maybe we’re even slowly remembering this life, but in reality we’ll watch everything, pay attention to everything they do and don’t do, what they say and don’t say, make a plan of this place and the staff. And somehow figure out a way to get to our files.”
“Are you suggesting we try to find a way to bring them down from the inside?” Fiona asked and raised one eyebrow.
“That is exactly what I’m saying.” I smirked. “They think they can just play with us? Well, two can play this game, and I always liked a challenge.”
“I knew there was a reason I fell for you,” she said, those few simple words enough to make me weak. Scooting closer, she threw her arms around my neck, her body crashing against mine. With a smug smile she leaned in and kissed me, the perfect way to seal our deal.
Game on.
Chapter Ten
Freighter
Leaving the bridge behind after we found nothing else of value, we made our way back onto the deck. We could’ve probably explored more on the inside, but it was too dark to see anything, and the doors we passed on the way were all locked. If I was honest, part of me was also worried about seeing a shadow again, a second time making it more real than if it were a one-time thing. I hoped it would stay that way.
Outside it seemed even hotter than before, the sun heating up the freighter like a floating tin can, which would make us two very unlucky sardines trapped inside. Instead of walking farther toward the back, we made our way toward the main attraction—the shipping containers.
Standing by the window in the bridge, it hadn’t seemed that far away, but as we walked, it was an endless distance we’d never be able to cross. The building alongside us stretched on, more metal walls, the shade it offered us miniscule.
“How could anyone work here? It feels like we’re walking across a skillet on full heat.” Fiona groaned as she gathered some of her hair up into a bun. A few strands stuck to her damp neck. I could feel some of mine do the same, though I wasn’t about to complain. My hair was much shorter than hers. I never understood why Leon liked having long hair. It just seemed so inconvenient in the summer.
“You’re an athlete from Florida,” I said. “I thought you’d be used to this kind of heat.”
“AC makes everything bearable, even kicking people’s asses when it’s one hundred degrees Fahrenheit or more outside.” Fiona grabbed the hem of her shirt and swiftly pulled it ov
er her head and then sighed, as though being shirtless immediately gave her some kind of relief.
Her skin was lightly glistening, pale and beautiful, despite, or maybe even more so because of, the scars marking it in several places. Some were smooth and small, others a little longer and puckered. The black ink of her tattoo stood out against her skin, divided by her bra in two unequal parts, the three whirling arms of her triskelion. But, as I looked at it, something about it didn’t seem quite right, though I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The position was correct, I was fairly sure of that, and the lines were just as thick as I remembered them…so what was wrong?
Eventually I followed her lead and took off my shirt as well, the relief minimal and the chances of us turning into severe sunburn victims only rising by the minute.
The metal shipping containers were huge, far bigger than they looked in movies or from the bridge. Their colors were faded, the lowest ones almost a little squished like they weren’t able to take the weight of those stacked on top of them. Just how long exactly has all of this been around?
“I want to know what’s inside them,” Fiona said, her hand on what I assumed were the handles that opened the containers.
“I have a feeling that’s a really bad idea.”
“Realistically, how much worse could things get? We’re already screwed and imagining things.” She had a point, not necessarily a very good one, but it was still something.
“If whatever’s inside there kills us, that’s on you,” I said, trying to make my words sound funny even though they weren’t. An A for effort?
Together we pulled down one of the handles, and then another, until eventually, it looked like the container was open. We exchanged a look. Fiona’s brow rose in challenge, curiosity in her eyes, but I felt dread. With all the conflicting memories in my head, the corpses and deception, how great were the chances that something positive would be in there?