“You do?”
“Had a feeling.”
“Fallon,” Clarence clears his voice, “you’re… special. I’m happy I came upon you when I did. If not, we wouldn’t know what the Vermix are doing. In a way… it’s a good thing you were brought here.”
I want to cringe. Everything in that last statement is wrong but some truth rings from it. If I hadn’t been brought here, I would have died. I wouldn’t have helped here and met the people I did. If he didn’t save me, I would’ve been wasted a while ago, serving no purpose.
But can I take all the credit? I had help. Loads of it. “I’m sure someone else would’ve discovered what was happening.”
“But they hadn’t. Not until you. They should owe it all to you,” he takes another step closer, offering his open palm invitingly. I walk toward him, extending my pointer finger as he takes it gently, placing the whitish square device above it. “And now my dear, your turn.”
The object begins to spin above my finger, faster and faster until it turns a deep, enchanting turquoise. Suddenly, a vial lights up to the same hue, glowing on the wall behind Clarence. He turns and selects it, bringing it back around to offer me. In this tiny little vial of blue and green, my memories are contained. My life. My identity. All I have to do is drink it and I’ll remember.
“Try not to focus on the moment leading up to your awakening,” Clarence advises, handing me the vial. “It’ll be tough, since it’ll be freshest but do your best. You already know you can’t return.”
I squeeze the vial in my fingers, watching the bluish-green liquid drip like syrup as I flip it over. My life. Everything leading up to Clarence in that house. My house?
“Take it upstairs and give yourself time,” he nods me on. “You’ll be alright.”
I want to say something but I’m too enraptured with the tiny bottle of liquid in my hands. Of what it means and what will happen when I drink it in a few minutes. “Thank you,” is all I manage to get out before turning and heading for the evibola.
“Fallon,” Sampson calls before I reach it. “Give yourself time. Give others time as well. You never know what history they’ve discovered.”
His words hold a heavy truth but I don’t care to listen for it now. The only thing that matters is getting upstairs, drinking this and turning the lights back on. Nodding without a return glance, Vix escorts me to the evibola and I head up to my bunker. As I pass the doors to get to mine, loud sobs break into the hallway, some heavy, some light, while others remain eerily quiet.
I get to my bunker quickly and close the door. Sitting on the bed, I grasp the tiny vial in my fingers, watching as the liquid drops from one end to the other. I lift it to my mouth.
This is it.
Shutting my eyes, I pour the entire vial’s contents into my mouth, swallowing quickly. It doesn’t have much of a taste. In fact, I wouldn’t even call it liquid but rather, a smoke or gas that expands in me once passing my lips. It balloons up inside and I can feel it coursing through my veins, reattaching itself like a twin to its pair. And then, they hit me all at once.
Snapshots.
Converse kicked off by the front door. My volleyball jersey slung across my bed. Pink Floyd and The Black Eyed Peas posters tacked to the wall and between them, mom’s old vinyl record player past its prime. My beat-down Cadillac and the dented locker where I keep my purse stashed at the restaurant where I waitress. Granny Ruth’s casserole dishes and the wind chimes clinking against her porch, the brown shag carpet and the yellow wallpaper she’s refused to change since the seventies. And her yelling at me.
“Put down that book!”
Books.
My books.
In the cedar chest at the foot of my bed. Reading them on a soft bed of grass in the forest behind our country house. Falling asleep there until Granny Ruth comes looking for me. She gets so angry. She knows where I am. Where I’ve always been. Tucked away in that forest—my forest.
I remember it all. Everything. Everything from my life. I remember the way Granny Ruth smelled—a mixture of soap and lotion, like just coming from the aromatherapy store, even when she never left the house. I remember the green suede journal tucked beneath my mattress, fantasies of Han Solo scribbled in the pages. I remember it all. Everything. Including my name. Francie.
I’m Francie Fallon.
Tears flood as the sound rings in my head. Francie. I’m Francie Fallon, I repeat to myself again and again. Francie Fallon. Francie Fallon. Now it seems silly I couldn’t remember something so seemingly obvious. I’m Francie Fallon, twenty-three years old with no family other than Granny Ruth.
My eyes shoot open as an insurmountable pain threatens to explode inside my chest. Clarence said not to focus on it but now that the door’s open, I can’t look away. From the scene. From those last few moments when it happened. Walking into her bedroom and finding her body on the floor, bloodying the shag carpet I played on so many times before. How long had she been like that? And what happened?
Anger and fear swelled inside me for only a moment—because that’s all the time I had. Pain like I’d never felt before ripped through me, as if something had literally reached in and pulled my organs loose. And then I was stumbling back, crashing to the floor, still aghast at the image of her body. And then, just when the pain began to ebb into numbness and the light to fade, he was there, calling my name.
Clarence.
Tears gush like a broken faucet. I’m too livid or depressed or crushed to really understand which emotion is causing them. I’ve been given back my life only to have it brutally taken from me at the end.
I can’t be alone right now.
Rushing for the door, I head for Reid’s. I need to tell him what happened—that Granny Ruth was murdered and if not for Clarence, I would have been as well. I need to hug him right now, to hold him. Racing for his room, I pass more sobs and screams. Now they know. Now we all know. I knock on Reid’s door.
“It’s Fallon.”
When he opens, my stomach wrenches. Something’s wrong. Drained of all color, Reid is lost in an expression of shock that frightens me to the core. What could’ve caused this? Is he one of the five percent too? Did he see his own near-death?
“What?” I glance between his eyes, my words are barely whispers. “What happened?”
Shaking his head, he’s lost somewhere, desperate confusion sweeping his face.
“I’m engaged.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Preparation
It takes me a moment to hear it.
Part of my brain dismisses the word, first because of pure impossibility. I must’ve misheard. It’s the only reason. But I replay it again, matching the statement to the paleness of his cheeks and his utter refusal to look me in the eye.
I can manage only one word. “Oh.”
Reid shakes his head, “I’m sorry, Fallon. I just—I can’t.”
Pain courses through me like burning oil, choking out all my air. I can’t breathe. I need to get somewhere where I can breathe. I’m not sure what happens next but I’m not at Reid’s door anymore. I’m flying down the corridor, back toward my room, trying to keep the tears from gushing down my face.
I reach my room, rush in and collapse on my bed, diving into the navy rags. I just need to block it out. All of it. Everything I learned tonight. I’ve lost Granny Ruth, my whole life and now, in the promise of a new future, the one person I wanted to keep. Sobbing into the blanket, images of Granny Ruth’s body lying in a crimson puddle take over. I push them from me, finding Reid’s sullen face as his two words play over and over again in my head. My tears dampen the pillow as these interchanging images carry me off to sleep.
***
“If you’ll please report to the Auditorium. We’ll begin here shortly.” Sampson’s voice rings overhead, forcing my eyes open.
I kick my feet out of the blankets and sit up, running my fingers through my hair. A stray strand sticks to my cheek but I wipe it clean, inhaling the scent of a new day�
�the first one waking up as Francie Fallon. It’s the first day I won’t have to wonder about who I was because now I know what came before this—before all of this.
People will be sharing their stories, describing things to one another and offering details of their past. I can’t let what happened last night affect what needs to be done today. Last night was just a bad memory—one I can pocket with my last day on Earth and never think about again.
Forcing myself from the bed, I head for the Bathing Bubble like usual but find it mostly empty. People have either passed through or are still in their bunkers, trying to make sense of a world stolen from them. I take my time, enjoying the sensation of hot water against my skin as it washes me clean of yesterday. Of the take-over. Of the horrors in the laboratories. Of the final images the vial revealed. And of course, of Reid.
Granny Ruth would know what to do. What to say. It’d be the exact thing to hear to make sense of the world and its backwards way of working sometimes. One tear ventures forward, slipping down my cheek and joins the ocean of water at my feet. Granny Ruth would definitely know what to say. About it all, everything that’s happened… even to her. She’d come out with some one-liner that’d wrap it up in a bow, one that would give me something to think about for a while.
Except I can’t ask her. Not this time. And that’s what sears more than anything. Closing my eyes, I summon her face, drowning in it. Large round red frames over golden spheres that had a way of looking into you, through you. That long nose and her thickly lipped mouth covered in laugh lines. That mischievous grin, like she could hear my thoughts, like she already knew what I was going to ask before I did. But I can’t ask her this time. What if I could?
This one, she’d say, you’re on your own, kiddo.
I was prepared as Fallon and ready for it all, ready to conquer it all. But an unsure Francie isn’t the best thing for the group. I need to do this without Granny Ruth and I can. I can do it as Fallon. She’d understand. I know she would.
I miss you, Granny Ruth.
I push her from my mind only to have Reid pop in again, an alternate wound to nurse. I close my eyes, trying to forget it, but his words flash over me.
I just—I can’t.
I really am alone.
Out of the Bathing Bubble, I’m heading for the Auditorium when I feel a light bump on my hip. “June Pratt. Nice to meet you.”
“Francie Fallon,” I bow my head in return, happy to find a friendly face.
“Francie?” she finds this humorous. “I think I prefer Fallon.”
“Oh really? And what about you? Don’t think I’m going to start calling you June—I’m already set on Pratt.”
“You can still call me Pratt.”
“Yeah?” We’re almost to the Courtyard, to the place we first met a few weeks ago. “Not a fan of June?”
“Well, there’s no point getting used to that name.”
I stop immediately, turning to her. How is this possible? She’s so young—she deserves a future, a future other than this. I want to say something, to comfort her, but I’m not sure what. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Turns out I didn’t have much of a life to return to… it’s better this way.”
What happened? During her life and in those final moments? And how is it automatically better this way? Reaching out, I squeeze her shoulder. She deserves a hug but I’m afraid the tears will start flooding and they’ll be no turning them off. I drop my hand and we continue down the stairs.
“Well… at least I’ll have good company.”
“You too?” she’s surprised. “You’re a five percent?”
“One of the lucky few.”
“Is Reid?”
Without looking at her, I shake my head.
“Oh… well he’ll probably stay anyway.”
It stings me with hope but I shut it out quickly. She doesn’t know. What the truth of the matter is. That he’s built a life with someone else, a life he’ll be given back as soon as all of this ends. I don’t have the energy—or the stomach—to tell her so I offer a quick shrug instead.
We reach the Courtyard with the others and descend into the Auditorium. Sampson and Clarence—both in human form—stand atop the glowing trunk in the middle of the half empty room, large pockets of bodies occupying all corners of the room. A few singles wait, arms crossed and concentrated on the glowing trunk where Sampson and Clarence chat quietly. But even with the thick clusters of conversation, there can’t be more than two hundred people here. Where are the rest? Lingering in the Bathing Bubble? Or have they not been able to pry themselves from bed?
Pratt’s at my side again, gesturing up a bit. I follow her aim and find a few of the Rogue Commanders in a tight circle near the trunk. The rest of the Rogues meander nearby, talking amongst themselves, with their Scouts and others. Pratt takes off for their area.
“Fallon,” Able smiles widely as I’m slow to approach. “Or should I call you…?”
“Fallon’s fine,” Pratt grins, winking at me before redirecting her attention, “and you, Mr. Able? What do we call you now?”
“Matthew.”
“No nickname?” I try the name on for size. He’s just not a Matthew. “No Matt? Matty?”
“Just Matthew,” he laughs, “although with two years under my belt as Able, maybe I’ll just stick with it.”
“Are you one of the five percent?” Pratt asks, an undeniable hopefulness in her tone.
Able—or Matthew—shakes his head, “Haven’t talked to anyone yet who is… wonder how many there are.”
“None of the Rogues?” she gestures behind us and then to the other Rogue Commanders who’ve started a new thread of conversation.
“If they are, they haven’t told me,” he glances between us. “What about you two?”
Pratt and I exchange looks. Able’s expression changes and just when I’m sure he’s going to ask, Tucker breaks into the tight circle of Rogue Commanders, followed by Reid.
My heart stops.
The two head Rogues keep their conversation going as they join their crew, neither bothering to look around. Harrison, Jace, Chief and Kelly all offer the proper greetings, Able doing the same. Reid nods, scanning… then sees me.
Our eyes lock for an intense moment, my heart about to explode from the surprise in his. But he breaks the connection instantly, looking down. A pain ignites but I ignore it, focusing on Sampson and Clarence atop the glowing iridescent trunk. They end their conversation at the same time, looking out at those of us here, those of us bothering to show up.
“I know this must be difficult for you,” Sampson begins, silencing everyone, “I cannot begin to understand your pain as you have felt it, to know what has been taken from you by those who wish to seek your harm. But,” and his voice strengthens, “do believe me when I say, I know the agony of being separated from the ones you love…” his words trail off for a moment, the same despair rising in them. He blinks his eyes clean, finding focus with the half-filled audience, “…So it’s my intent to have you returned to them. But we can’t do it alone.”
He scans the sparse crowd. “There are more here than I’d hoped—which is good. But still,” he shakes his head, “it’s not enough. Not for the force Beshib will be bringing back. Not for the hoards of Vermix—heavily armed, I might add—that’ll be pouring through the gates, waiting to round you up for ‘routine check-ups.’ Once they come it’ll be too late. Your death will be imminent and there’s nothing any of us,” he glances to Clarence, “can do about it. If you want to return home—if you want to rejoin your lives—we’ll need everyone to fight.”
Sampson paces. “Beshib should be gone for a total of ten days—nine now. In that time, we need to be training… preparing for their return. Vix, Clarence and I will train everyone on various Dofinike weaponry. Rox and the other Rogue Commanders will assist on human defenses. We can return you home but only if we’re ready. Only if we’re prepared to fight our way out.”
***
Sampson has everyone outside where an array of Dofinike weaponry has been laid out in a single line, following the curve of the trench and reaching from one end of the Castle to the other. Vix, Clarence and Sampson break the two hundred or so of us into three groups, each focusing on different weapons. I’m grouped with Pratt in Sampson’s section, to the far right side of the lot, where the Kings chased and eventually cornered me. Reid is with Tucker, Able and a few of the other Rogues in Clarence’s group, which hugs the Water Pole. Vix and the others are straight across from us, on the left side of the Castle.
We’re all crowding around Sampson who’s holding a black device over his head with both arms. He projects his voice so everyone can hear him, turning the object in various angles so all can see.
“This is a Chaisle. Similar to a standard pistol and works about the same. In lieu of bullets, it holds a capsule of tiny blades that, when triggered, release in a spiraled path, literally carving their way through the target. If you want someone stopped dead,” he holds the Chaisle up high, “use this. Be warned—it does not do well in far ranges,” Sampson illustrates aiming out toward the openness. “More than thirty feet and the spiral fails, the blades falling before they reach the target. Use as backup for close defense,” he sets the Chaisle on the ground at his feet, picking up a silver, similar looking object except this one has a longer barrel. Like before, Sampson holds the item over his head, making sure we can all see.
“This is a Fiminer. One of my personal favorites, it penetrates the target first, then pins the capture to the ground. A Fiminer is a non-lethal option to suppress your opponent if you need them alive later. It can reach far ranges but don’t fall fool to its arrogance. The magnetism of the clip,” Sampson points to the barrel’s black, triangular tip, “only holds to the metal in the ground for so long. If strong enough, your opponent could pull themselves free—the mere wound being your only advantage. Now,” he sets the Fiminer next to the Chaisle and looks back to us, narrowing his eyes as he glances from face to face. “We have plenty for everyone to practice with both. Get used to them. To their weight. To handling them. Practice. Find your aim,” he motions to two giant piles laid out on either side of him. On the right, a heaping stack of Chaisles and the left, a mound of Fiminers. “I’ll be walking around to help anyone who needs it…”
Escape from Harrizel Page 38