“Ah, lucky guy, I’m sure.”
“He always thought so.” Her grin slowly changed into a smirk.
Chris frowned. He hated it when people smirked. But he had a strange sense that her comment and accompanying expression were somehow related to him. But before he could consider the idea further, he noticed Irene’s stance begin to weaken. She rested against the far wall as she put her free hand to her side.
“What’s your plan here, Irene?” he asked, trying to speed up the process. A dead Irene would be of no value to him.
“I have a little scratch. That’s all.” She yanked on her right sleeve a couple of times, eventually tearing it off. When she lifted the side of her shirt, she revealed a long bloody cut. She bent over in pain as she pressed the piece of garment to the wound.
“That’s more than a scratch. You’ll bleed out if you don’t take care of it properly.”
Irene straightened her posture. “It looks worse than it is.”
“They’ll be wondering where I am. You don’t have much time.” He kept pressing, trying to make her do something rash so he could get the advantage.
She pointed the gun more steadily at him. “Then I should just kill you now and keep running.”
He paused. “It’s one thing to know how to use a gun, but it’s an entirely different thing to use a gun to kill.” He looked her in the eye, challenging her. “Go ahead—use it.”
She returned his gaze and held it steady. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face. He shouldn’t have challenged her. She was like a wounded animal backed into a corner.
After a few more seconds and another bead of sweat, she looked away and lowered the gun. “I don’t want you to die in ignorance.”
He snorted an exhale and shook his head. “Ignorance?”
“What do you think you do for The Firsts?” she asked with renewed energy as if some unknown source had revived her.
He laughed. “I relocate people so that they can have a better life. I keep the peace by subverting people like you and your gang of wannabe rebels. The Firsts want peace. Why can’t you just get on board with that? You lived through the war. Surely, you don’t want to return to those days. You’re creating unnecessary conflict that could easily return us to that period.”
“There’s 'a time for war,’” she said.
“'And a time for peace'—what about peace? Surely, you want peace?” He realized he was nearly pleading his case. His emotions were getting the better of him.
“Yes, but at what price?” she shouted. “The truth is we’re already at war. You just don’t see it. And you don't know what's going on in your own life. Like how our meeting outside the hospital was not the first time we encountered each other.”
He cocked his head, trying to recollect meeting Irene Duncan in some other venue. Had he met her before the war? He couldn’t recall. She was a beautiful woman, so it was difficult to believe he would forget her. “I don’t ever remember meeting you before the incident at the hospital,” he said, giving up.
“That’s because you’ve been processed.”
Chris laughed once more. “Processed? The Firsts only do that on outsiders who are troublemakers. They don’t process their employees.”
“They process everyone! After you pluck people from their homes, The Firsts take them for processing. They then relocate them. That’s why The Opposition exists. We help people escape The Firsts’ forced processing.”
“What are you talking about?” He lowered his head. “Look, I don’t know what goofy notions you’ve been told, but I was hired because of The Discord. I relocate people safely, and I have to protect them from people like you. I do it for the money. I do it because I’m good at it. I do it for my daughter.”
The woman seemed to weaken at this, and she slid down the wall a little. “Your daughter?”
“Yeah, I have a daughter, Tia,” he explained, thinking that humanizing himself by telling this brainwashed woman that he was a father might help him get the upper hand. He watched as the gun in her hand began to shake. It was a curious reaction. “You’d better get yourself together, Irene.”
She glanced at her trembling hand, then hid it, along with the gun, nearly behind her leg. “You were once on our side.”
Chris snorted. “Your side? I don’t think so.”
“You found out where Roger Stein, the leader of The Opposition, was located. You saw how well he took care of people. You must have known then about the forced processing because when you witnessed people living in freedom without The Firsts, it affected you to such a degree that you erased the memory of what Roger accomplished from your mind to protect it.”
Chris breathed in heavily. “I’m beginning to think you work for my loony commanding officer, Lieutenant Wallace Cunningham, the way you’re trying to play head games.”
“This isn’t a game, Chris!" she shouted, her face turning red. "You erased the memories about Roger's location, about me, to keep us all safe. But The Firsts must have processed you themselves because after seeing me at the mill, you didn’t recognize me at the hospital. Sometime between the mill and the hospital, The Firsts had you processed. They must have done it as punishment for erasing your memories of Roger's location."
Chris looked away and thought about what she was saying. It did seem odd to him that he hadn’t been involved in the operation to capture Irene at the mill. He wasn’t even told about the incident until after she'd broken out of the hospital. "If what you are telling me is the truth, then why would The Firsts process their other employees?"
“I’ll admit I’ve not heard of them processing their employees. You’re a unique case. There’s a deeper reason for that, but I won’t get into that now. The Firsts want control. They want power over you, me, and everyone else. They believe the only way to maintain peace is if they are in charge, and they will crush anyone who gets in their way. Don't you see the hypocrisy of that?"
Chris remained silent. What she was telling him wasn’t entirely untrue. He’d heard of situations in which people had been tortured for information when processing could have easily extracted the data. He’d even heard rumors of Lieutenant Cunningham being behind those kinds of operations. The Discord may have learned of such incidences and took a hard-line view of The Firsts being power-hungry monsters set out to put anyone down who resisted them, all in the name of keeping the peace. “I get where you’re coming from. It may seem like The Firsts are—”
“When was the last time you saw your daughter?”
Chris didn’t answer.
“They’re using your daughter as a way to motivate and manipulate you.”
“We’ve been too busy relocating people, and more recently, fighting you guys to take any leave.”
She huffed. “So that’s what they tell you?”
“Do you mind if I sit down?” Chris asked, sensing this conversation would take a little longer, and his legs were beginning to ache from kneeling.
She gave him permission with a nod.
“Thanks.” He outstretched his legs, and the pain receded. “So it sounds like we have a stalemate. I can’t convince you that you’ve been brainwashed, and you can’t convince me that I’ve been processed.”
Irene gave him a look of disappointment. But perhaps the expression was just from the pain in her side, for she pressed more firmly on her wound and leaned over. “I know someone who could convince you,” she stated between short breaths.
“Who?”
“Mac Donaldson.”
“Mac Donaldson? You mean the rogue processor?”
“Yes,” she said faintly, her condition seeming to worsen. “Mac was the one you went to for processing after you found out about The Opposition’s location. Mac must have understood the good The Opposition had done and how valuable it was because he erased some of his own recollections of what he saw in your mind. But he kept some of what he witnessed since your lieutenant said his memories led your team to Kingston’s home. Fortunately, Mac is s
till being held by The Firsts with his memories intact. Apparently, The Firsts can now extract memories without erasing them from someone’s mind—another sign of their cruelty since they don’t need to remove recollections during processing. I’m thinking that because of those residual memories, you’ll be able to ask Mac about your time with him.”
Chris raised his eyebrows. “And once I talk to Mac, then what?”
“You admit I was right, and then we go and get . . . our daughter.” She slid down the wall and collapsed onto the dirt floor.
Chapter 15
Chris stood over Irene with his gun back in his hand. As he stared at her, a flash of light went off in his brain. The pain doubled in intensity, and he knelt to the ground, putting his hand to his brow.
An image of a woman appeared before him—so vivid and bright. He stepped closer, embracing the figure as sunlight streamed in around her, bleaching out the details of her face. A sense of love and passion surrounded him. He moved closer to her. A burst of light exploded, and he came crashing back to reality, finding himself holding Irene, her long blonde hair tumbling over his arm, his lips nearly touching hers. Reawakening, her blue eyes displayed bewilderment.
"Ah, gee whiz," Sims uttered from the doorway.
Chris scuttled away. "I'm sorry," he uttered softly to Irene, avoiding eye contact. "I didn't know what I was—" He peered up at Sims and Jerry, who were both wearing the same expression on their faces.
"What have we interrupted?" Sims taunted.
Chris ignored the comment and managed to get to his feet. He pointed at Irene. "She's badly injured."
Jerry nodded and rushed to Irene's side with his medical gear and began tending to her wound.
"We didn't know what happened to you," Sims said, doing little to hide his mocking tone. "Brought Jerry along, thinking maybe you'd been injured."
"No, I'm all right."
Sims stepped closer to him. "Best not let Lieutenant Cunningham see that she's gotten to you."
Chris turned away to conceal his anger. He knew Sims would gladly inform on him. He glanced down at Jerry, who was finishing wrapping Irene's wound with gauze. "How is she?"
"She'll survive. I gave her my last two painkillers to make her more comfortable." A thousand possibilities ran through Chris's head on what to do next. Should he let Sims take her back? If he did, Sims would surely tell the lieutenant what he'd witnessed, and there'd be repercussions. And what about all the things Irene had said? Were they all lies? That bit about Mac seemed plausible. And before passing out, why in the world did she say, ''our daughter." The questions kept coming, but one thought repeatedly returned to the forefront of his mind: he wouldn't find any answers if he and Irene returned with Sims.
"Okay, Jerry," Sims said, "help the combatant up and let's get back to the team."
Chris stepped away, lifting his gun at Sims.
Jerry clutched his medical bag to his chest. "What are you doing?"
Sims let out a laugh. "This is what they call sedition, Jerry."
"Move away from her, Jerry," Chris ordered.
Jerry stood firm as if he had the means to challenge a man with a gun.
"I know you're unarmed, Jerry," Chris began again, "and even if you had a gun, you couldn't hit a target five inches from your nose."
"That's a bit harsh," Sims argued.
Chris maneuvered in front of Irene as Jerry finally complied. "She's not going with you, Sims."
"You believed me?" Irene asked from behind.
Chris glanced at her. "I’m doing this because I don’t know what to believe."
"Believe what?" Sims asked, his tone revealing he was genuinely irritated. "She's messing with your mind, Chris. That's what The Discord does."
Chris motioned his gun at Sims's mid-section. "Draw your gun slowly from your holster."
Sims hesitated. "Do you have any idea what they'll do to you? I've heard of individuals who, for punishment, had everything erased from their minds except one painful memory. Do you know what happens when someone has only one disturbing memory? It just keeps playing over and over again until—"
"Give up your weapon!"
Sims shrugged as he exhaled from apparent frustration. He showed his surrender by lowering his gun to the ground. "What now?" he asked smugly.
Jerry continued to hold tightly to his medical bag. "Are you going to kill us?"
Chris looked back at Irene, who was working her way to her feet. He turned to Jerry. "Pull out the flex cuffs and fasten Sims to the frame of the wall."
Jerry dropped his bag immediately, seeming relieved by the decision. He repeatedly apologized to Sims as he dug out the requested items and moved toward his partner.
Sims did nothing but offer Jerry a scowl.
"Hold out your hands, Sims," Chris commanded as he took a step forward with his gun.
Sims slowly raised his hands for Jerry to finish the job.
"Now," Chris said to Jerry, "use the other to secure your hand. I'll do the remaining one."
Jerry obeyed, but Sims jerked his hands about that were fastened now to the frame of the wall. "You think this is going to stop us from finding you?"
Chris thought about it for a second or two. He motioned at Jerry with his gun. "Do you have any more supplies to fix a wound?"
Jerry appeared confused. "Yeah, but as I said, I've taken care of her."
"Not that wound, Jerry." Chris fired off a shot, grazing Sims in the leg. "That wound."
Sims barked a few swear words. "I will kill you for this," he threatened through a tight jaw that was racked with apparent pain.
"That should slow you down." Chris smirked and turned his attention to the medical bag. He removed several instruments that the two men could use to cut themselves free and slipped them into Sims's backpack. He kicked the medical bag toward Jerry, who began to do his best to wrap Sims's injury with his free hand.
Chris gathered Sims's backpack, the weapons, radios, and Irene and headed out the door.
…
Irene leaned heavily on Chris for support as they made their way across the back half of the wide-open field.
"What you did back there . . . was surprising," she said as the two struggled to walk in unison with each other.
"I apologize for being ungentlemanly."
"No, I meant about shooting Sims. I guess you're not exactly the peacekeeper you claim to be."
One of the radios crackled from Sims's backpack, and Lieutenant Cunningham's voice came through, "What's your status, Sims?"
Chris paused, took a deep breath, and lifted the noisy radio from the backpack. "Chris here. Sims is down."
A moment of silence occurred before Cunningham spoke again. "Sims is down?"
"Yes, sir. I'm afraid he got himself shot."
Another pause. "We'll send backup. Where are you?"
"Ah, not entirely sure, sir, and even if I knew, the terrain is too rough for vehicles. We'll need to come out by our own means. It may take a while since Sims is injured."
"Right," the lieutenant replied, sounding annoyed.
The radio crackled again and went silent. Chris returned it to the backpack. He looked at Irene, who seemed either impressed or still perplexed by his recent actions. "By the way, I'm not a peacenik. Obviously, since I served in the military, I don't have a problem using force when necessary. And it was necessary for that situation, so I used it. I couldn't chance going back right now with what Sims thought he'd witnessed."
"Yeah, about that."
"You're a beautiful woman, and it was a moment of weakness." He didn't look at her when he said it. He hoped the lie would place him in a bad light, and for that reason, he assumed she'd be more likely to believe it. The truth was, because of the visions, her story about him being processed was becoming ever more convincing, but he wasn't ready to admit it.
"A moment of weakness—really?" she countered.
“Yes."
"I'm sorry," she said with a quick laugh as she pressed her h
and to her injury. "I don't believe you. There was something more. It was as if you were looking at me, but you weren't really there." She paused and peered out at the field. "The Chris I knew would have told me the truth."
"According to you, that Chris no longer exists." He watched as a look of despair came across her face. "I'm—I didn't mean to upset you. You cared for him. I can see that."
"More than you know."
A sense of warmth seemed to pass between them, and Chris wished he were the person Irene had supposedly known. But he looked away. He couldn't allow the feeling to go any further. He had too many unanswered questions. "He sounds as if he was quite the guy," he decided to say, attempting to make light of the situation. "I'll try to be more like him."
Irene pointed behind her. "Back there, you kind of already were."
…
Daylight was fading, and as the pair made their way over a hill, a small town came into view. "Looks abandoned," Chris said. Hearing no response from Irene, he glanced down at her and saw that her eyes were nearly closed. She began to hang on him more with each step. "You need to rest. We can take up the journey in the morning."
Irene gave him a sluggish nod.
"Maybe," he whispered, "we can find some food in town."
"I like beef jerky," she mumbled, half-asleep.
…
The town appeared as if its inhabitants had evacuated with only a moment's notice. Doors to shops were left ajar, cars were abandoned in the middle of the street, and loose garbage blew in and around them. "What happened here?" Chris said out loud to himself.
The comment seemed to revive Irene, and she looked about. "Forced processing," she stated before going limp again on his arm.
Chris pulled her closer to him as he approached a sporting goods store. Lugging her inside, he found an inflated bed half-off the original price and laid her down on it. "Get some rest. I'll go have a look around town."
"Hmm," she said, curling up to the pillow at the head of the bed. "Come lay down beside me, Kent," she whispered.
"What?"
But before she could answer him, she appeared to drift off to sleep.
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