Irene stared through the pane of glass into the vast room filled with countless individuals being processed. Some laid perfectly still while others twisted about, seemingly experiencing the same pain she'd suffered. "How can you do this?"
Wallace pressed his hand into Irene's back.
She jerked away. “Don’t . . . touch me.”
"Keep moving,” he said coldly, allowing Melinda to again direct Irene.
After passing through a few more doors and hallways that seemed to guide them deeper into a dimmer, older part of the building, Melinda directed Irene into a theater of some kind, possibly once used as a classroom. A camera stood in one corner, along with its operator, while the tall rectangular-shaped processing device stood ominously in the center of everything.
There was a small TV placed off to the side. It showed a crowd standing outside headquarters in front of an oversize screen. The gathering of people watched an expansive view of the theater. The picture then shifted to a close-up of Irene as the camera in the room moved in front of her. The crowd cheered, and a technician standing near the small TV in the theater muted it, but Irene could still see their applause.
Dr. Landers entered the room and positioned himself alongside the machine. She pulled back, taking Melinda along with her. "That man—he wants to kill me," Irene cried to Wallace.
Wallace tugged her forward. "Just your memories—Dr. Landers is only going to kill your memories."
The comment offered little reassurance, and Irene frantically looked around for Chris. She glanced up at the theater seats. They were filled with individuals dressed in fine attire. She found Chris among them in a black tuxedo. He gave her a slight nod.
Wallace moved behind Irene. "Remove her handcuffs."
As Melinda unlocked the cuffs, Wallace leaned into Irene's ear. "They're sending you to the same location that Chris is relocating to." Wallace paused, seeming to notice Melinda listening. "That's how confident The Firsts are about their ability to wipe out memories."
A surge of strength, seeming to come out of nowhere, gave way to Irene's fear, and she faced Wallace. "At least I won't remember you."
Wallace's face buckled as if he'd not expected such a retort, but the moment of satisfaction was short-lived as Landers came over to Irene.
She peered up at Chris again. He was leaning forward in his chair, gripping the handrail in front of him. She imagined the questions going through his head. They were likely the same ones she'd asked herself after he shared his plan with her. Would Ollie come through for them? Would the memories he'd edited from Mac's mind be convincing enough?
As she replayed those questions in her mind, one nagging inquiry, from long ago, stood out from the others. Why did her husband grow that mustache? Had he done it to please another woman? The odd question wound its way around her fertile, troubled mind, causing even more questions to grow. And if he’d been disloyal to her once, couldn't he conceivably be again? And if that were the case, was his so-called gift even real, or was it an act just to keep her compliant?
The notion caused Irene to take a single step backward. Landers, not anticipating such a move, allowed Irene's arm to slip from his hold. With that, Irene sprinted for the door.
The audience gasped.
Nearly at the entryway, Irene reached for the door handle, but something jerked her back. "Where are you going?" Wallace's hot breath hit her face. His face burned red from either embarrassment or frustration.
He pulled her toward the machine as the spectators clapped politely. Chris clapped as well. As he did, he shook his head at her, looking wide-eyed. It was seemingly the stunned expression of a man watching his wife lose faith in him.
"Let me go," Irene yelled, and Wallace surprisingly did as something sharp jabbed her in the neck.
"That should relax you."
Irene grabbed the offending area and spun about to see Landers standing behind her with a needle in hand. "Put her on the platform."
Wallace hauled her toward the machine as her legs went weak. He dumped her limp body on the machine's flat metal bed. He leaned into her again. "That drug may help with the pain. But not entirely."
She groaned a cry as Wallace coldly fastened her wrists and ankles. He cleared his throat, apologizing to the audience for the delay. Composing himself, he read Irene's crimes.
Landers clicked on the machine, and the unassuming black rectangle split in two. The machine's secondary panel lowered itself into place over Irene. Its ominous hum rose steadily in volume until it hit a high piercing note. Irene glanced at the plate over her as it turned to a shocking color of crimson red. That and the nearness of it, which felt almost claustrophobic, was enough to cause panic. But unlike before, she felt no pain. Chris had come through for her.
The machine then blurted out an unfamiliar whistle. The overall sound flattened and steadily decreased as if air were exiting a balloon. Irene watched as Landers glimpsed about, seeming to seek assistance. A technician standing by started toward him. Irene heard a single pound overhead, presumably a strike caused by Landers' impatience. The machine powered on again. But once more, she felt no pain.
She looked about, knowing she needed to begin her performance. Through her frailness, she struggled as best she could against her restraints. Her feeble attempts, however, seemed to loosen the real emotions within her. She rolled back and forth as an authentic rage came over her. She screamed for her husband, her daughters, for a life stolen, and for a world turned upside down. Her voice cracked as the color of the panel transformed from bright red to black again.
It slowly lifted away, forming again into a single, seamless rectangle. Feeling both emotionally and physically drained, she glanced up at Landers and drew some strength from the half-formed smile she found there, which suggested he did not suspect anything.
She turned to the audience. Oddly enough, some of the women were holding their hands to their mouths. Others had turned their backs entirely. Had her performance been that good? Irene looked over at Chris. His body language suggested it had. He was nearly coming out of his seat. She realized she needed to signal him.
Landers released her from her restraints, which allowed her to sit up. She stood but clung to the side of the platform for support. The room was silent except for two women excusing themselves from the theater. One tripped on a step, and everyone but Chris turned in her direction.
Irene let her hand drop to her side. There, she crossed her fingers. Chris slowly slid back in his seat. A hint of approval curved his mouth ever so slightly.
All eyes returned to Irene once the woman who'd fallen was provided assistance. "Where am I?" she asked Wallace. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Irene glanced down at her hands and turned them over several times. "Who . . . am I?" she asked Landers.
Landers stuttered something unintelligible as if he'd not fully anticipated the result of his actions. He looked to Wallace, seemingly for an answer. But before Wallace could respond, a man rushed noisily through the door. He nodded excitedly at Landers and disappeared back out the doorway.
"The information has been downloaded successfully," Landers announced to the crowd, seeming to regain his composure. He repeated the statement into the camera.
"Who am I?" Irene asked Wallace, wanting to know, at the very least, what her name would be going forward.
Wallace took hold of her arm. "You are H29537." He drew her close, moving his mouth to her ear. "You do know that Roger Stein will be more than processed. He will be executed." Wallace shifted away, seeming to inspect her reaction.
Anger surged within Irene, and the impulse to strike Wallace was nearly overwhelming. But she wouldn't be so easily tricked. It was a test, of course, probably one of many to come. She looked blankly at him.
Wallace allowed her arm to drop, but he didn't let go, as the same kind of half-smile, similar to that of Landers', played out on his face.
"Sir," Chris said, coming up to them, "I've been selected to escort her to our new location
."
Wallace kept his focus on Irene. "Of course you have."
Chris looked to where Wallace was still holding onto her. "Sir?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Wallace mumbled, releasing Irene's arm. Wallace looked to Irene and then to Chris. "Nothing like a clean slate, right?"
Irene gritted her teeth. It was another comment meant to test, but Irene held steady and followed Chris out the door.
Chapter 21
From the theater, Chris guided Irene down a vacant hall. He'd heard there'd been a mob earlier. Thankfully, everyone had scattered, returning to their workstations, perhaps ashamed or confused by what they'd witnessed.
Chris understood the confusion. He pulled his wife in closer. "What was that about back there?"
She swallowed noticeably as if she was struggling for something to say. "We'll talk about it later," she finally said.
He paused to see if she was serious about wanting to wait to explain to him why she'd tried to escape from the theater. But she said nothing more.
As they walked, he tried to sort out his own lack of trust in her. She was his wife. He understood that now. But why had her memory, along with those of his other children, been taken from him? Did he ask The Firsts to remove their identities from his mind to illustrate his loyalty to The Firsts? Did he do it to perform better for them? Or had The Firsts taken those recollections forcibly, and by doing so, turn him into a loyal subject by reeducating him? He knew what Irene would claim. But she had her own allegiances, didn't she? She had her reasons for why she wanted him to believe The Firsts were malevolent.
The truth was he still wasn't convinced that The Firsts were evil. From the reaction of those in the theater, it seemed they would most likely decide to end the cruel practice of non-sedative processing. If The Firsts were nothing but a nefarious entity, then they'd never reform themselves in such a way.
Chris peered over at Irene again as they kept a steady pace. Maybe there had always been a split between them on the matter. Possibly that was why he requested having his memory erased—their differing opinions were too great for either of them to overcome.
He glanced away. One thing he couldn't deny was how learning that Irene was his wife put many of the pieces into place. His passion for her, along with the once thought strange sense of familiarity and comfort that could only come from knowing someone so intimately for so long, now made perfect sense.
But in other ways, the recollections produced more questions. He was still asking why his memories were erased initially. If he could remember why, he might know how to move forward. Right now, however, there was something more pressing to deal with. He stepped closer to her as they walked. "I need to tell you something."
Irene continued to look ahead. It seemed she was in character again.
"The news will be upsetting." He reached down and took hold of her hand. "Your friend Charlie has passed away."
It appeared to take a moment for the information to hit Irene, and when it seemed to do so, Chris watched as she swallowed noticeably, as if she were trying to push down her emotions.
"After we get our passes for the new location, you'll meet with Donatello. I just found that out. Don't ask how. Donatello is going to make sure your processing was truly successful. He'll inform you about Charlie, I'm sure. He'll use it to try to get a reaction. I wanted you to know beforehand to prepare you." Chris let go of Irene's hand. "I'm glad I did. I can see it all over your face, Irene. You need to pull it together."
Up ahead, the passageway spilled out into an open area where a few lucky workers of The Firsts' waited in line for passes to the new locations. Chris had heard there was a growing need for such workers on the other side with the increase of evacuations occurring in the city. Thankfully, he was going to be one of them.
Irene gave him a quick, seemingly reassuring nod before they made their way into the space.
"Irene Duncan," Lieutenant Cunningham shouted from behind them.
Irene stopped dead, and Chris nearly gasped.
But on the floor was their salvation—a toy car crossing in front of Irene's path. She bent down and picked it up. As she stood, a young boy ran to her side. "Sorry!"
Irene inspected the car as if she'd never seen one.
The boy peered up at her inquisitively. "Can I have my car back?" he grumbled after a few seconds.
Chris reached for it. "Let's give the kid his car back."
"Thanks." The boy said with a deadpan tone. He glared at Irene before skipping away.
Chris looked back and noticed the flat smile on Wallace's face. It was clear he was still suspicious. But surprisingly, he stood still as Chris led Irene to the ticket desk.
"We just have two more steps," he whispered to Irene. "We'll get our passes, and you'll go see Donatello." Chris knew the last step would be the most challenging and probably the reason Wallace was so at ease.
…
The woman behind the ticket counter smiled as she looked Irene over. "We were expecting you, of course," she said, "but I'm so delighted you chose my counter to request your passes."
Chris squinted at her, slightly confused. "There wasn't a line for your counter, so that's why we chose—"
"I can't wait to get home and tell Mr. Hughes. He won't believe it." The woman leaned in toward Chris. "He'll be thrilled to hear who I had at my counter today," the woman whispered as if to bar Irene from hearing. "Mr. Hughes and I have been together for so long, but I don't recall anything so exciting happening to either of us."
"Then I'm sure your husband will be excited," Chris said, glancing about.
"Husband?"
"Yeah, Mr. Hughes."
The woman cocked her head. "Mr. Hughes is my cat."
Chris loosened his bowtie, growing impatient. "Can we just get our passes?"
The woman ignored him and aimed a finger at Irene. "She don't look so scary now, does she?" the woman said, lowering her voice again. "Thank goodness for The Firsts, though. We'd have nothing but war without them. Am I right?"
Chris looked at Irene, who seemed to be doing her best not to respond. It was likely the ticket counter woman would be more of a challenge than Donatello. "Can we just get our passes, please?"
"Hold your horses, dear." The woman hit a button on a machine positioned to her left. Two consecutive passes zipped out. She tore them off with a single motion. Slipping Chris the passes beneath the glass, she straightened her posture. "It was my pleasure to serve you today. We welcome you both to your new location. May you both find peace and comfort in your new life."
Chris forced a smile and directed Irene away from the counter.
"That was—"
"You don't even have to say," Chris said under his breath.
…
Donatello's office was just as Irene remembered, with one exception. The books that had once cluttered his shelves were now piled high in boxes scattered about the floor.
"Excuse the mess," Donatello said as he entered. He was breathing hard as if he'd just completed some hurried task. "I'm being relocated to a new location. My office there is even smaller than this one, so I need to give away a lot of my books." He glanced at Irene as he made his way to his chair. "But you probably have no idea what I'm talking about." He paused, inhaled, and sank into his leather seat.
"I suppose you also don't know who I am," he said in between audible breaths. He reached out his hand for Irene to shake it. "You can call me, Mr. Donatello."
Irene didn't respond in kind, thinking that social gestures would have been one of the many things deleted from her memory banks.
"Oh, you probably don't remember how to do that either. Here, lift your hand and shake mine," Donatello instructed.
Irene slowly raised her hand to his.
"There you go," he said, taking her hand in his. "That's the way we greet each other. Okay, you can let go now."
Irene did as he asked. But she felt like crying, thinking of her grown daughters going through a similar demeaning pro
cess of reeducation. "Who am I?" she asked in an attempt to move past the emotion.
"Well, let's find out." Donatello flipped open a file on his desk and scanned a sheet. "It says here that you're Irene Duncan," he stated as if he didn't already know.
Irene paused and pretended to think about the name. She then grimaced. "Why don't I remember that?"
Donatello studied her for a moment. "You were in a car accident."
"A car. . . accident?"
"Yes, a car is a machine we use to move quickly from one place to another."
"I know what a car is," Irene responded, acting frustrated. "I saw one in the other . . . place. A boy was playing with it."
"Oh? Oh, I see. Well, that was probably just a toy. It's a smaller version of the real thing. You and I could fit inside a real one."
Irene stared at him, pretending to digest what he was telling her. In actuality, she was thinking about how well suited Donatello was for such a task. He certainly had the patience for reeducation. "So I was in a car—"
"Accident. You were injured. That means you were hurt. That is why you didn’t remember who you were. You kept the barest of information, though. You understand simple words and ideas. That is all."
"But that place I woke up in?"
"Yes, that was a room where we, The Firsts, try to fix people like you who were hurt." Donatello reclined into his chair. "I'm afraid we couldn't do the same for Charlie."
"Charlie?" Irene spoke his name without her voice breaking. It surprised even her.
"Charlie was your friend. Like you and I are friends." Donatello gestured back and forth within the space between them. "Charlie was in the car with you, but he was hurt far worse." Donatello leaned forward, placing his arms on the desk. "He's passed away." Donatello seemed to scan Irene's face for some sign of emotion, but Irene just blinked. "Dead means you will never see him again," he said, seeming pleased with the results of his test.
He swung his chair about to face his now empty bookshelves. "You must understand that The Firsts did everything they could to help you and Charlie. They couldn't save him, but you are alive because of them." He glanced her way. "You're going to be sent to a new location as I am. When you arrive there, you must do what The Firsts tell you to do. Being obedient will be the best way to show how thankful you are for their kindness. Do you understand?"
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