Born and Raised

by R A Doty

  Calla glanced at April. “So, what were you talking about?” Sarah started to answer, but Calla interrupted her. “Did you tell your father?”

  “No. I decided not to.”

  Calla smiled and hugged her friend. “Thank you, Sarah.” She pulled away and faced her. “What made you change your mind?”

  “I don’t know. I just got thinking about April, and I realized that you’re right; she is something special. There has to be a reason, other than pure coincidence, that she’s so intelligent.”

  “So what do we do now?” Calla said. “How do we stop them from finding out about her?”

  “I don’t think anyone would ever find out as long as we three keep this to ourselves. But there is one thing I may be able to do to ensure that she won’t be harves— I mean, relocated.”

  Calla’s eyes widened, her hands forming a praying motion in front of her chest. “What is it?”

  “I may be able to permanently remove her from the kennel’s database. If I could, it would be as if she never existed and therefore, she would never be harves— well, you know what I mean.”

  Calla gleamed with excitement. “That’d be incredible, Sarah. Do you think you can do it?”

  “It won’t be easy with Briggsy watching over everything. My father appointed her to inventory, because she’s a stickler for details. I remember one time I accidentally entered a wrong I.D. number to one of the new births, and she tried to have me terminated. She probably would have succeeded if not for my father.” Sarah remembered the moment and how angry she felt. “God I hate her. There’s just something about her I don’t like, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “When can you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Remove April from the database.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ll try later today. Briggsy usually leaves a little earlier on Fridays to catch a movie at the Visualplex. She usually meets one of the younger male interns there. She’s such a tramp.”

  A FEW HOURS LATER, Sarah stood next to an entire wall of file cabinets, pretending to study the contents of a folder. She periodically glanced at Carla Briggs who was standing behind her desk, gathering some personal belongings to take home with her. Five other women were seated throughout the room, each tapping on keyboards and staring at monitors filled with numbers. Each number represented a nutrimen, and all had to be categorized by their stage of development. The women had been putting in extra hours going over the numbers at Bill Weston’s request. But no matter how many times they re-calculated their findings, it always came back to the result that angered Weston. They never even noticed Sarah, as they desperately searched for a flaw in their calculations.

  With an overstuffed briefcase clutched in her right hand, and a canvas bag hanging from the opposite shoulder, Carla pushed her chair under the desk and headed toward the exit. She stopped when she noticed Sarah. “So, Miss Weston, how do you like your new task of taking care of the nutrimen?” Carla hated Sarah from the moment her supervisor, Bill Weston, ordered her to train his daughter. Instead of Weston’s attention, and praise, going to her when things were running smoothly, he seemed to always give the credit to his little girl. The breaking point for Carla was when Weston promoted his daughter to a position equal to hers. She was elated when she found out Sarah had been sent to the kennel crew and rubbed it in whenever she had the chance.

  Sarah pulled her attention from the folder. “Oh, hi, Carla. I don’t mind it at all. Father says I should learn every aspect of running the kennel if I’m to oversee it someday.” Her father never said that, but she always jumped on an opportunity to make Carla squirm.

  Carla had never considered that as the reason Weston demoted his daughter. She had just assumed he finally opened his eyes. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said, feeling somewhat ignorant and betrayed. She couldn’t leave it at that, however, and would never accept defeat, so she had to get in one more jab. “Surprisingly, things have been going rather smooth around here without you. And, I might add, with very few mistakes. Well, gotta go. I have to catch up on a few things, and I wouldn’t want to be late.”

  Sarah watched as Carla walked away. “I bet you do,” she said, under her breath. When the office door closed, she inserted the folder back into the cabinet and rushed over to one of the vacant desks. Her fingers raced across the keypad, and files of various colors appeared on the monitor. Red files represented nutrimen that had already been harvested, pink contained the youngest—aged to six years, green listed the ones ready to be harvested, and the yellow files represented the remaining bulk of the nutrimen. Sarah opened the yellow files and immediately punched in the number 04302131.

  Each year on the day they were born, an updated photo is taken of each of the nutrimen and added to their profile. When Sarah punched in the number, April’s most recent photo appeared. She stared at the face staring blankly back at her. What makes you different from all the others, April? A cluster of freckles covered April’s cheeks, and her red hair was parted in the center and framed each side of her face. Her upper lip held a small scar just to the right of center. Sarah wondered what caused the scar—a smack from the back of a hand to quiet her down when she was an infant, perhaps? She stared at the other hundreds of files and wondered if they all had a story to tell that no one would ever hear. With a slow nod of her head, she hit the delete key and April’s face disappeared, along with her file.

  “What are you doing?” A voice said from behind.

  When Sarah turned, Carla was trying to look over her shoulder. “I’m just checking to see if any of my nutrimen are almost ready to be harvested.”

  “That’s not your concern anymore.” Carla reached over and powered down the monitor. “You feed them, bathe them, clean out their pens, and let us handle the rest. Like I said earlier, we are managing quite well without you.”

  Carla walked back to her desk and grabbed a small lunch cooler she had forgotten. “Go, Miss Weston,” she yelled, glancing at Sarah.

  Sarah rolled out her chair and headed to the exit. She rewarded herself with a smile, believing she had just saved April’s life. Even if it was only temporary.

  APRIL FOLLOWED CALLA as she walked to each of the nutrimen’s pens to lock the doors for the evening. When they arrived at her pen, she stepped inside and stood next to her bunk, staring back at Calla.

  Calla sensed her sadness. “I wish things were different, April, and I didn’t have to lock you in, but for now things have to be this way. Please understand.”

  “I understand, Calla.”

  They both turned toward the yard when they heard the kennel door open.

  Sarah rushed inside and headed right to April’s pen when she noticed the door still open. She was excited to see Calla and April together. “Well, I did it.”

  “You deleted her from the database?” Calla said excitedly.

  “Yup. And just in time before Briggsy caught me.”

  Calla grabbed Sarah’s hands. “That’s great, Sarah. Did you hear that, April? You’re no longer in the system.”

  April smiled, but she wasn’t quite sure what that meant. “Does that mean I don’t have to stay here anymore and I’m free to go?”

  “Well, not exactly. You still have to stay here, but we don’t have to worry about them ever taking you away.”

  “Take me away to where?” Calla and Sarah stared at each other, neither wanting to answer. April continued. “What was the point of removing me from the database if I still can’t leave?”

  “Maybe you can,” Sarah said.

  Calla stared at her, the look of confusion covering her face. “But how can she?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but the first thing we’ve got to do is get her a full name. I like April, but she needs a last name. Maybe something old-world.”

  After a few minutes of scanning names through her mind, Calla blurted out, “how ‘bout Hemingway? April Hemingway.”

  Sarah repeated the name in her head. “I like it. April Hemingway, it
is. Now we just have to figure out a way to get her out of here.”

  “I have a few ideas,” Calla said. “To be honest, I’ve already been thinking of ways.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  COLE STOOD ON THE EDGE of the woods with an opened map in his hands. This has to be it, he thought, staring at the large mansion in the distance surrounded by a chain-link fence. The house was three stories tall, with the third story being a tower jutting up from the center like the last layer of a wedding cake. The exterior of the house was adorned in white beveled siding, and the shed-type roof was covered with black solar panels. A balcony with glass railings cantilevered out from the tower. Cole folded the map and tucked it back into his pack.

  He followed the fence, searching for a gate or a door, or some other means of entry. After walking about a quarter mile, he came to an eight by ten sliding gate, which crossed a blacktopped road leading to the front of the mansion. He searched for a buzzer but saw none. About ten feet farther, he noticed another gate about three feet wide. When he got to it, there was still no buzzer. He searched the grounds for any sign of human existence, but saw no one. He considered climbing over the fence, but he knew the odds of him making it over the razor wire without losing a limb were slim to none. “Damn it,” he said.

  WHEN LUKE SHOT THE head clean off the woman trying to infiltrate the compound, his brother, Dan, thought it was the coolest thing he had ever seen. It took a steady hand to keep the laser on the target until the trigger was squeezed, releasing a jolt of energy strong enough to bring down a bull elephant. Dan prayed that he, too, would someday have the opportunity to try his hand at relieving a person of their head. When he noticed the strange man walking along the fence, looking for a way in, his heart raced, thinking he’d finally had his chance. He pointed the rifle at the man and placed the red dot right in the center of his forehead.

  And then the man moved.

  “Come on ... hold still,” Dan said, with one eye closed and the other pressed against the lens of the scope. When the man stopped and faced the house, a slight smile rose in the corner of Dan’s mouth. This time he placed the red dot on the tip of the man’s nose and stroked the gun’s trigger as if he were caressing the cheek of a woman. “Sorry old codger, but your time is up.”

  “Who’s that?” Luke said, looking out the tower window from behind Dan. Monica entered right behind Luke and walked up to the window.

  Dan lowered the gun. “Dammit, Luke; I had him in my sights.”

  “You don’t even know who he is, so why do you wanna kill him?” Luke said.

  “For the same reason you killed that woman.”

  “I killed her because she was gonna kill Josh. You saw the knife she had.”

  Monica turned toward Luke. “You mean, you saved Josh’s life?”

  “Yeah. I had to. Why?”

  Monica hugged Luke. Every bad thought she had ever had about him vanished. “Thank you.” She noticed the man down by the fence. “Who’s that,” she said, releasing Luke.

  “I don’t know,” Dan said. “He’s been pacing back and forth trying to find a way in. That’s why I was gonna kill him.”

  “You can’t just kill him for no reason other than looking suspicious,” Luke said.

  “Maybe he’s from Ancada and Tom sent him to get me,” Monica said. She rushed from the room and raced down the stairs.

  Luke chased after her. “Monica, wait!” Dan followed.

  Monica made it halfway to the man before Luke caught up to her.

  He grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop. “Monica stop. We don’t know anything about this man. What if he has a gun?”

  Luke was right, and Monica knew it. It was stupid for her to run up to a complete stranger after all the lessons on survival that Tom gave her and Josh. She felt embarrassed for being so careless. “You’re right, Luke. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Looked grabbed the rifle from Dan, who had just caught up to them.

  “Hey! I wanna shoot him.”

  “Nobody’s shooting anyone,” Luke said, walking toward the fence. “At least not yet.” He stopped in front of the man. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “Name’s North. Colton North. I’m looking for a man named Thomas Steinberg.”

  Monica rushed up to the fence, her face beaming with hope. “Are you the man he was talking to?”

  Luke glared at Monica, and then turned back to the man. “There ain’t nobody here by that name.”

  Colton stepped closer to the fence. “Look, son. I need to speak with Mr. Steinberg. It’s important. Do you understand?”

  “Why do you want to speak with my husband?” Monica said.

  Colton turned his attention to the woman. “Because he just might be the only man alive that can save mankind.”

  Monica studied Colton: his long beard, the bow and quiver of arrows hanging on his back, the knife on his waist peeking out from his unbuttoned, long leather coat, and the wide-brimmed hat shading eyes that probably had seen their fair share of horrors. Every fiber of this man screamed danger, but she saw something in his eyes that made her think otherwise. A sincerity that made her go against what common sense was telling her, and she had no choice but to believe him. “Let him in,” she said.

  Luke glanced at Monica. “We can’t let him in. I mean, look at ‘im. Who knows what’s hidden under his coat. He could kill us all.”

  “Not to sound cocky, son, but if I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead by now.”

  Luke raised his weapon.

  “He’s not gonna kill any of us,” Monica said. She walked to the gate and entered the combination. Colton stepped back as she pushed it open. “Come on in, quickly,” Monica said. As soon as Colton was inside she slammed and locked the gate.

  “Why a bow?” Dan said, studying the man, who looked like everything Dan had always wanted to be.

  “It never needs bullets, and it’s quiet as a mouse,” Colton replied.

  “Do you know my husband?” Monica asked.

  “No ma’am. But I know of his work. I read a lot of his articles in the medical journals.”

  “Hey,” Dan said. “Are you some kind of doctor, too?” How awesome would that be, Dan thought, if he not only looked cool, but was real smart, too.

  “Not hardly. But I was once in the same line of work as Mr. Steinberg.” Colton scanned the property. “Speaking of which, is your husband around, ma’am?”

  Monica hesitated. “My husband and son, Josh, went to make arrangements for us to relocate to an island named Ancada. They were supposed to come back for me, but they never did.” Monica looked into Colton’s eyes. “I don’t think they made it, Mr. North.”

  “Did you say your son’s name is Josh?”

  Monica’s eyes widened. “Yes.”

  “Does your husband ever go by the name of Gabriel?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “I came across a man named Gabriel with a boy named Josh that he said was his son. They were headed south along the coast.” Colton thought for a second. “There was something odd about the two, though. Like they didn’t belong together.” He looked at Monica. “Does your boy have dirty-blonde hair?”

  “Yes,” Monica said. Her voice rose with excitement. “He’s a little on the small side and not very talkative.”

  Colton nodded. “That sounds like the boy I met. But who was the man he was with? Is your husband balding on top?”

  Monica shook her head. “No,” she answered, her excitement replaced by disappointment and concern. If it was Josh, then who was he with if not his father? Cole’s next question grabbed her attention and forced her to wonder if she had heard him correctly.

  “Does your son have a small scar under his eye?”

  Monica covered her opened mouth with her hand. She remembered the day Josh tripped and cut his eye on the coffee table. “Can you take me to him?”

  Colton sympathized with the woman’s desire to find her son, but a family reunion was the last
thing on his mind when the human race was on the verge of extinction. He came too far to turn around without at least reviewing any information pertaining to Steinberg’s work. That, above all else, had to come first. “I’d love to, ma’am, but first I’d like to see if your husband has any journals documenting his studies.”

  Monica grabbed Colton’s hand. “Come on then,” she said, leading him to the house. When they arrived at her husband’s lab, Monica stood in the center of the room with her hands on her hips. “Everything Tom has been working on for the past ten years would be in here.” She looked at the tidy rows of test tubes all standing neatly in their holders. “As you can see, my husband was somewhat of a neat-freak.” Having said was made her realize she accepted her husband as dead. The thought angered her, and she hated herself for thinking that way. “Is,” she said, correcting herself. “My husband is a neat-freak. In fact, he’s probably the tidiest man I’ve ever met.”

  THOMAS STEINBERG STUNK. He smelled his arm and quickly pushed it away—a foul appendage that didn’t belong to him, but rather the homeless he had once ignored. And then he scratched at his chin where the makings of a scraggly beard had started to grow. He hadn’t felt this disgusting since his college days, and even then he would only go a day or two, at the most, without shaving. To stink with body odor was unheard of in his world.

  In the darkness, he imagined the dirt was so thick on his arms he could scratch most of it off. So he tried, clawing and scraping until the pain became unbearable and his fingers were sticky with blood. Only then would he move to the other arm to repeat the process. He would stop, occasionally, to lift his head. Are those footsteps? His ears rang with silence. He lowered his head as if he could see his arm, and continued scratching. After the other arm had been scraped clean, he pressed his fingertips to his nose—a sour, pungent smell mixed with the metallic scent of blood. He took deep breaths, savoring the odor. It was something to do. It tasted tangy. He raised his head. Are those footsteps?