by Shanon Hunt
“Keisha.”
“Well, well, if it isn’t the sister.” Keisha raised a perfectly defined eyebrow and gave her the once-over. “Look who’s crossed over to the dark side.”
She was too stunned to respond.
“What’s the matter? Did they cut that smug, condescending tongue out of your mouth?” Keisha took two steps toward her. She was at least six or seven inches taller than Layla, and she bent slightly and spoke in a hushed voice. “Or didn’t you realize that everyone, even the most poisonous among us, finds a home at the Colony?”
Her mind flashed to Vanessa Sykes, whose only offense had been to recognize the woman interviewing her. How many others in that underground room were there because Layla just hadn’t been feeling it that day? How many recruits had made the long journey to the Colony only to be sentenced to a life of misery at the flip of Layla’s wrist?
Seemingly satisfied with Layla’s disquiet, Keisha pivoted to the locker area and retrieved a pair of battered jeans with holes in the thighs and a black tank top. Layla felt a sharp stab of jealousy. Keisha was the Black Widow, with her tall, fit body and gorgeous features. She made Layla feel like a little white mouse, pale and weak.
Once dressed, Keisha sidled in next to Layla, gazing at their reflections. Her eyes dropped to Layla’s feet. “I wouldn’t wear those shoes if I were you.”
Layla glanced at her heeled ankle boots. “Um, why?” The question came out as a timid squeak, and she cleared her throat.
“When was the last time you wore three-inch heels to shank a two-hundred-pound dude? You need balance and agility. Wear something flat.”
Layla wasn’t sure what shanking was, but she got the gist of it. A nervous chill jittered down her arms, and she stepped back so Keisha wouldn’t notice.
Layla’s escort couldn’t stop jabbering about the Gallery, an enormous arena on the far side of the campus, recently built to simulate the poisoned world. It’s the spitting image of Las Vegas. You know, the Strip? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never been to the Strip. It’s so much fun.
He might’ve had some wisdom to impart, something that could have given her an advantage or at least soothed her trepidation a bit, but her fury at James, once again, clouded her head. Another secret he’d kept from her. Another lie.
But now she wished she’d asked more questions because it was clear she didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into.
Keisha rolled her eyes and clomped over to the walk-in costume closet, returning with a pair of knee-high riding boots with no heels. “These will go well with your schoolmarm image.”
What little confidence Layla had fizzled out like a doused candlewick, and she collapsed onto the bench, defeated. Where was her flaming fireball when she needed it?
Keisha took a seat next to her as Layla pulled on the riding boots.
“It’s not as hard as you think,” Keisha said. “Once you get out there, it all comes very naturally. You’ll smell the death first. You just follow the scent. There’ll be a lot of people, so you’ll have to find your mark within the crowd. The tricky part is eliminating them without being observed. We work in the background, never seen. Can’t create a panic. Once you’re within proximity of the mark, your vision will clear and you’ll know what to do. The prey and kill drive is in your brain stem, but the intuition is in your cerebral cortex, which takes in all your surroundings. It’s as if the environment is speaking to you. It’s what makes us different from the ragers.” Her bristly tone had softened by the time she finished. To Layla’s utter shock, Keisha seemed to genuinely want to help her. “Then once you get the feel of it, you’ll find your MO. Your signature move.”
Several seconds passed as Layla tried to think of the right way to respond.
“I think—” She swallowed. “I’m sorry. I misjudged you.”
Keisha slid off the bench and stretched her arms over her head as if loosening up her spine and neck. “You didn’t misjudge me. This is where I belong. You misjudged yourself.”
A whoosh of outside air blew in from the doorway with the entrance of two young women, a young white girl with jet black hair and a pierced lip, and a petite Asian woman. Layla didn’t recognize either of them. She wondered if they too had been among her rejections for the purification program, but neither seemed to recognize her either. The one with black hair pulled her hoodie over her head and reapplied some dark purple lipstick.
“All y’all ready to do some purifyin’?” She held out a hand to Layla. “I’m the Wasp.”
Layla was about to ask what that meant when two loud claps came from behind them, along with a heavy whiff of perfume. A third woman had hopped up onto the bench like a fitness coach and was gesturing for them to move in.
“Grab a hand. Let’s make a circle.” She spoke with an accent—French, maybe?—and was probably at least ten years older than Layla.
Layla took the hand of the Wasp on one side and Keisha on the other. She glanced at each of them. They were the most eclectic group imaginable. She could only assume that was intentional.
The French woman breathed in deeply and held her palms up near her ears as if she were praying. Layla glanced at the Wasp, who rolled her eyes.
“The role of a furo is to be the shepherd,” the French woman intoned. “A good shepherd knows how to cull the unfit from her herd to save it.”
“That’s a new one,” the Wasp muttered.
“You know who else was a shepherd? The Good Shepherd.” The French woman gave them all a knowing look.
“Who?” the Wasp asked.
The Asian girl slapped her sarcastically.
Layla chewed a hangnail, a nasty nervous habit that she thought she’d outgrown. She wished they would just get on with it. She wanted to get this over with, do whatever Stewart wanted her to do so she could begin planning her revenge.
The French woman scowled at the Wasp, then addressed Layla with a wide, warm smile. “Sister Layla, so great to have you join us. My name is Eva, and I’m in charge of the simulation.”
“It’s just Layla.” Her eyes darted to Keisha.
Keisha didn’t look back, but her mouth twitched.
“Okay,” Eva said, “the four boys have already been released. Our team of eight is the best of the best. We’ll be performing for a small group of US government officials. They won’t be drinking or enjoying the Gallery games—I understand they’re conducting some sort of evaluation—so be on your best behavior.” She handed each of them an earpiece. “Our demonstration today is extremely high profile. Therefore, I’m inserting myself into your heads to offer you guidance should there be an unsightly or untidy elimination. Please target your marks carefully. Quality over quantity. This is not a contest, it’s an exhibition.”
Layla observed the others first and inserted her earpiece into her ear, covering it with her hair.
“I realize it’s difficult to ignore your instincts, but if the setting isn’t right, move on. Don’t waste time waiting for the perfect moment. And please try to look for a chance to work together. That always impresses our guests. Tap the earpiece if you need guidance.”
Eva waggled a finger at the Asian. “Tara, no drinking. I’m serious. Not for this demo.” She looked from one to the next. “That goes for everyone.”
Tara rolled her eyes. “How else am I supposed to get a mark into a bathroom stall? No one wants to bang a sober chick.” She winked at Layla and spoke in a high-pitched accent. “You want fucky-fucky?”
Layla turned away. Despite waking up with a whole new outlook, despite her resolve to go through with this so she could earn that meeting with the council, she was obviously in way over her head. These women came from the poisoned world. They understood it. They fit in. But she didn’t have the luxury of life experience outside the Colony, not that she could remember. She would look incompetent. She had no idea what to even say to someone.
“Fake it,” Eva responded to Tara. “Layla, you okay? Any questions?”
She had a mil
lion, but her rattled mind didn’t know which to ask.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, as she tore the cuticle of her thumb off causing it to bleed.
“Make me proud, girls.”
Layla took a ragged breath and followed the others to the door. I am the shepherd. I will cull the unfit from my herd to save it. But the words did nothing to boost her confidence, so she upgraded it to something more convincing.
I am Allison Stevens. I am a killer.
59
March 2024, Mexico
“What. The. Fuck.” Eddie’s eyes were bulging out of his head.
Nick’s were too. They had stepped inside an arena of some kind, a massive indoor space unlike anything he’d ever seen, but they’d also stepped into a time capsule and been transported to Las Vegas, Nevada, circa 2010, back when Las Vegas was the epicenter of sin, money, sex, and booze. Before the virus. Before the Strip had become a desolate ghost town. It seemed impossible, a perfect replica, the only difference was the visible steel-framed walls all along the perimeter of the Strip, heavily lined with guards.
“Glitter Gulch!” Eddie slapped Nick repeatedly on the shoulder in excitement. “I’ve seen it on TV. Man, this is gonna be the best night of my life.”
Nick cowered from the slaps, but he was grinning. God, it felt so real, and he was flooded with happy memories of bustling, carefree cities.
“Where do you wanna start?” Eddie asked.
Nick was already heading toward Aces & Ales. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a beer.”
The street was packed with people and performers. Women in sexy gowns and high heels laughed and leaned into each other, sloshing booze from their martini glasses. Couples walked hand in hand, pausing to watch a man juggle fire sticks. Groups hollered and cheered from inside the casinos. Who were all these people? Were they all actors, hired to make this place seem authentic?
Nick and Eddie took a seat at the bar—a real tap serving what looked like real beer. He almost ordered a Guinness out of habit but caught himself. “Do you have a good stout on tap?”
The bartender swept a towel across the bar in front of him. “Sure do.” He pulled three taster glasses and set them in front of Nick. “Give these a try.”
Nick closed his eyes and sipped. The cigarette smell emanating from the upholstery, the electric warble of the slot machines, and the grainy coffee taste of his creamy beer so overwhelmed his senses that he nearly choked up.
He had to remind himself that he was working. This Disneyland ride was obviously a lure, a way to seduce the recruits into signing over their lives—or, more accurately, their bodies and minds—to genetic experimentation. As long as he kept his wits about him, he might be able to learn something about Allison Stevens and what really was going on here.
“Who’s playin’?” Eddie asked.
Nick’s eyes shot over to the TV.
The bartender dried a pint glass and restacked it. “New England, Dallas. Patriots leading thirteen–two.”
“Fuckin’ Patriots, I hate those guys.” Eddie was practically giggling with delight.
Several guys at the end of the bar yowled as Dallas intercepted a pass and returned it half the length of the field. The game had clearly been taped in some year back when the NFL was still a thing, but he couldn’t stop staring at the TV with childlike wonder. It was surreal.
He waited for Eddie to join the howling bunch and then leaned over the counter. “What gives, man?” he asked the bartender, careful to keep his voice low. “Is this, like, a movie set? These all extras?” He stabbed a thumb in the direction of the Dallas fans.
The bartender laughed and set down another pint in front of Nick. “Not at all. Everyone here is a member of the Colony.”
His confusion must’ve shown.
“Everyone’s here to enjoy themselves, same as you.”
Nick spun away on his stool as he sipped. By habit, his gaze slid across the corners of the bar. He wasn’t surprised to see a wide-angle camera there, and similar cameras in the other corners. Here to enjoy themselves? That was doubtful, not with an outlay like this. This had to be some sort of social experiment. The quack who’d locked him in the interview room was probably watching him right now. Something to do with selecting candidates for their genetic research. Angry drug addict Brother Zane had probably come through here at some point, and someone behind the camera had spotted something magical: That one. He’ll be the poster boy for the Olympic gymnast drug, or some shit like that.
As Nick turned back to the bar, his attention was drawn to a guy reaching over the bar for a napkin. Nick’s eye caught a flash of silver off his belt, just before his leather jacket fell back into place to cover it. Hey, now—that couldn’t possibly be standard issue Fremont Street garb for an inductee. That was a handgun, or possibly a Taser. Undercover security, no doubt. But why? What were they expecting to happen here?
The stout was starting to make him feel a little loopy. He was probably overthinking the situation. After all, he was no conspiracy theorist, always looking around the corner for some powerful bad guy. Big Brother is watching you.
“Yo, let’s go check out the rest of the place.” Eddie pulled him off the stool.
“Enjoy your night, fellas. I suggest dinner at Buddaka. Best Peking duck you’ve ever had. All the way at the far end.”
Just when he wanted to drop his guard, he stole a glance back at the bartender. His smile was too wide, his wave too chummy. It was like it had been rehearsed or … indoctrinated. The thought stirred his spider senses, and he cursed himself for drinking that high-octane stout.
Stay frosty Oscar Mike.
60
October 2022, Mexico
“See you around,” Keisha said as she cut in front of Layla and marched into the Gallery. Tara and the Wasp locked arms and galloped after her, laughing.
The door to the dressing room slammed behind Layla, and the security guard gave her a nod. “Ma’am.”
She took three tentative steps forward and halted. The sound stage that lay before her was so alien, she felt as though she were on a different planet. It really was a slice of the poisoned world enclosed in a massive dome. The stagnant air was already stifling, and the chaotic scene in front of her was a complete assault on her senses. Blinding, flashing lights shot from all directions; even casting her eyes downward didn’t seem to help. And the noise—beeps and chimes and people yelling over each other, loud music emanating from a dark room with a bright flashing strobe light that made her feel nauseated. So many people practically on top of each other.
Her chest tightened. She couldn’t pull in a full breath. She’d never experienced the poisoned world, not that she could remember, and—god, it was utter madness. She squeezed her eyes and covered her ears. Breathe in to the count of four. Breathe out to the count of four.
Her breath hitched, and she began panting heavily. Sweat dripped down her back. She couldn’t do this; she didn’t understand this world. The speed at which everything around her was moving made her dizzy. Her legs felt paralyzed, and her hands tingled, on the verge of becoming numb.
“Layla, dear. Are you okay?” Eva’s voice came from her earpiece.
“I have to get out of here.” She turned back toward the guard. “Please, I need to leave.”
“Wait, Layla,” Eva said.
She wrapped her arms around her torso and folded in half, worried she might faint.
“You can do it, you really can. Stewart’s counting on you. Don’t back out. I’ll help you. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
Stewart. She had to go out there and do her job. Find her target. If she didn’t live up to her part of the deal, Stewart wouldn’t grant her a council meeting. She clenched her jaw and tried to control her breathing.
“What is it? Tell me what you don’t like.”
“It’s mayhem in here,” Layla shouted over a group of squealing women. “I have no idea what’s even going on. I don’t know where to start. I l
ook out of place. They’ll all know I don’t belong here.”
“Pull out your phone.”
She put her hand on the exit door, but the guard moved in front of it.
“Come on, just try it. Pull out your phone and open the camera so you can see where you’re walking.”
She did as she was told.
“Now pretend you’re texting a friend you lost in the chaos. Keep your head down, look at your phone, and take a few steps forward. Don’t look at anyone or anything else, okay? Just try it.”
Layla gripped her phone with both hands. I’m just sending a text to Mia, who was supposed to meet me at the Strip. Mia, I’m at the Strip. Are you coming? She mimed keying the words into a message bubble and moved out into the middle of the road. People skittered past, cut in front of her, and even sloshed a drink on her, but she kept her eyes locked on the camera view and inched forward one step at a time.
A minute later, her camera landed on an A-frame sign advertising a caramel macchiato. She looked up straight into a coffee shop.
“Starbucks.” The word came from her mouth as if she’d said it a million times.
If there isn’t a Starbucks in this town, we’re driving straight through. I need a fix.
She dropped her arms and stepped inside the mercifully quiet shop. The bitter smell of freshly ground coffee and a tingle of spices filled her nostrils. She gazed into the glass case, stacked with baked goods. An old-fashioned glazed doughnut. What? I’m not on a diet. And a cranberry orange scone. Nope, dry and flaky, like they forgot to add the butter.
“Layla, you good?” Eva asked inside her ear.
She looked up at the … the…
“—barista!”
The girl behind the counter startled. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t see you.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”