Outbreak

by Christine Fonseca

  “Nothing more?” The woman’s gaze narrowed.

  Seven shook his head, too weak to speak.

  “We have additional orders for you. The Assassin is never to return to LeMercier. You must kill her.”

  Seven felt the color drain from his face. “But—”

  “Kill her or we kill you,” said the leopard-like woman.

  “I won’t betray him. I can’t.” Seven’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

  “We know about your past, Seven. The time before you came here.” The low voice came from the wrinkled man. His voice sounded thin, papery. Like his skin. “We can tell you about your childhood, give you the reason you need to get away from LeMercier and serve us. Or we can kill you.” The man smiled and Seven’s skin turned to gooseflesh.

  The screens faded, all but the center one. The woman, the leader. “Kill the Assassin. Kill her and we will give you the information you want. The memories you crave. We will fill in the missing pieces of your memory.” The screen began to fade. “Fail us and you will die.”

  The grip around Seven’s skull released as the screens returned to their hidden alcoves. Seven slunk to his knees. Kill her or we kill you. We know about your past. The words looped through his thoughts. We can give you your memories.

  Seven swallowed hard. He left the office and stowed away his emotions deep within his mind. Forming a picture of the Assassin, he embraced his mission.

  Both of them.

  The Solomon Experiments 3.0

  The Order

  Dr. Benjamin LeMercier’s Personal Journal –

  March 5, 2015:

  The experiments are progressing nicely. Seven continues to make progress. He reminds of the Assassin, though I remain unsure whether or not he will ever match her skills. Regardless, he has something the Assassin does not—complete loyalty to me. I am his family, the only one he has ever known. He does whatever I ask. He always will.

  The Order is on board with my plans for Seven and the Architect. They believe it was their idea. Just as I had orchestrated.

  They don’t see the larger goal. They never have. They can’t. Their minds are too concerned with the status quo—their power and wealth. They don’t see that there is more at stake, more to gain. Through these experiments we can change the balance of power in the world. Forever. Their short-sighted views of power are insignificant compared to my larger goal. They lack the vision to see it. They lack the trust to let me guide them there.

  So, I will play along with their ideas for now. I will allow them to dictate terms and manipulate them into giving me what I want. I will let them order me to use the Architect to bring the Assassin home. I will follow their plans to groom Seven. I will be . . .

  Weak.

  My true vision is never far from my thoughts. Seven and the Assassin will learn to combine their skills and fight as a pair. Together, they will form the foundation of the army I have longed to create, the one I envisioned in the wake of the Cold War. Together they will train more warrior teams. My army will be an unbeatable force.

  The Order would never approve. They made their funding contingent upon their ability to control Seven and any others I create. As if explosive devices, even those placed in the temporal lobe, could ever stop my warriors. I need the Order for now. So I have complied with their requests. Seven and the others have been tagged.

  The Order doesn’t know that Seven will never be controlled by them. He can beat that device. His loyalty to me is above question. He will be controlled by no one but me. The Order is naive to believe otherwise.

  But they will learn soon enough.

  The Assassin will come. She and Seven will link their powers and learn to fight as a team. And they will receive their first mission—

  Kill the Order.

  Not at once, however. Not a simple assassination.

  First they will eliminate the Order’s wealth and power. Eradicate the control they think they have over me and these experiments. The Order may think they are in control right now. But the days of their power are limited. I am in charge.

  Only me.

  And one day I will remind them.

  Our old SUV bounces along the road as I stare out the window. I know Mom and Dad are disappointed in me. Again. Their voices blur together and I tune them out. I can’t bear the idea of yet another conversation about what to do with me. I don’t know how many more times I can apologize for freaking out and almost landing in Mountain View.

  The car speeds as the landscape blurs at a faster rate. Voices grow louder. Mom turns and yells at me. I can’t understand what she’s saying.

  “What?” I ask. She opens my car door, throws me out. I scream. Roll along the pavement. Stop.

  Two black SUVs overtake the car. Men pour out of open doors. Some come after me. Some go to our now-destroyed car, mangled in a collision with several trees.

  I open my mouth to scream. Hands, my hands, cover my mouth before the sound escapes. Men with guns run faster and faster toward me. I push into the shadows, my focus divided between the men and my parents.

  The world spins away too fast. Guns ignite. Men scream. My parents scream. Faster and faster the images come. Part of me knows this is only a dream, the nightmare that changed my life. Part of me is lost in the scene, reliving a horror I can’t shake even during the day.

  I shut my eyes to the onslaught. Cover my ears. Wake-up! Wake-up! I push against the dream, desperate to prevent the world from spinning. Come on Dakota. Wake-up!

  My eyes open. The world stops. No more gunmen. No screams. No sounds at all save the subtle inhale and exhale of my breath.

  I tentatively stand, my ears straining to find my parents. One step toward their car. And another. The landscape sharpens as the dream world appears to become more real. More steps. Closer and closer to the vision I never wanted.

  The front end of the SUV weaves with the pines that line the highway. My father—no, not my father, the man who raised me—slumps over the steering wheel, a half-deflated air-bag sagging against his face. Large gashes cut into is skin. The hair on my neck stands as I reach in to feel his neck for a pulse. Nothing but death.

  I glance at the passenger side, realizing that my mother is not there. Her car door is open. I run to that side of the SUV as I search for evidence that she somehow escaped. No footprints lead me to her. No broken vegetation gives away her fate.

  “Mom!” I yell, hoping this is more than a dream. “Please. Where are you?”

  The images shift and move. I grab the door, not wanting to fall as the world rearranges itself around me. The landscape scrolls forward and I am in front of my house.

  “Mom,” I yell again. “Mom!”

  My body shakes. My mouth dries, lips crack. “Mom,” I sputter across a parched throat.

  “Are you okay, Miss?”

  I push against the unfamiliar voice. The scenes fade. My vision brightens.

  “Miss?”

  I blink and light fills my eyes.

  “Are you okay?”

  The voice orients me this time. I turn my head and blink again. A young woman dressed as a flight attendant bends down next to me. “I think you we dreaming,” she says. “Not very pleasant dream by the sounds of it.”

  Heat flushes my face. “I’m sorry,” I mumble.

  “Don’t worry. Did you lose your mother recently? I had nightmares after I lost mine. All the time.”

  I pull myself up in my seat, keenly aware of the eyes fixed on me, not to mention the wave of thoughts from the other airline passengers as they speculate about the depth of my insanity. Nothing like making yourself look crazy in front of a crowd. Again.

  So much for a covert trip home.

  The voices swell. I mentally create a shield between myself and the sound. The noise begins to mute. The flight attendant asks something, what I can’t be certain. I nod, mumble more apologies and she finally walks away.

  Dakota? David’s voice pushes through the invisible barrier. Where are you
?

  I should’ve know he’d try to find me. The shield becomes metal in my mind—something strong enough to keep David out. I have no idea if it’ll work. It should, since David is the one who taught me this trick.

  Come home, David’s voice continues. Ple—

  The sound leaves as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. A sob wells in my throat. It pains me to have left him. I need him right now, need the way he can always chase away the demons that visit each time I close my eyes. But I can’t ever risk being with him again—can’t risk him getting caught in the crossfire, a pawn to be used by my father. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Or me. I don’t know what I would do if I was the reason for his death.

  I expel a deep breath and release the idea of seeing David. I focus on the present. I’m on a flight bound for San Jose and Cambria.

  Home.

  I don’t know why I chose to come home. Especially since I’ve spent most of my life trying to leave. Now it’s the only place that feels safe.

  The plane lands shortly after my nightmare and I debark without looking at anyone. I want as much distance as possible between myself and my shame. I go to the car rental desk, pull out my fresh ID—Janice Jones—and secure a car. I will change my identity again. Once I figure out what to do. Where to go.

  The drive is peaceful. The leaves are a mix of green and gold as the central coast slips into an early fall. Clouds dot a bright sky. With each mile, the stress of the past few days eases. My chest begins to open, my breath no longer labored.

  I clear my mind and enjoy a moment of peace while I can. The miles tick by and I realize that I need to train. LeMercier will find me again. David will continue to search. I must block them both and hide myself away. Secure my dreams. Memories of David start before I can prevent them. Hours spent arguing about training and using my abilities. As much as I hate to admit it, David was right. If I want to survive, I must embrace my skills.

  At least some of them.

  I’ve never spent much time training. Josh talked about it when we first left Cambria, briefed me on subtle ways to resist attacks. How to maintain a shield to block out the noise and hide my thoughts. I wish I had paid a more attention to him.

  “It’s natural for you,” David would say every time I expressed frustration about learning the skills. “Learn to let go and trust your instincts.”

  My instincts are what got me into this mess, I think. My willingness to kill. How am I supposed to learn to manage that instinct and still practice? I don’t know where to start.

  As soon as the thought forms, Mom’s voice fills my mind. A smile involuntarily spreads across my lips. It fades with the tone of her voice. “Go home, Dakota. Everything you need is home.”

  Not everything. Not Josh. Not Mom.

  My house looks exactly as it does in my dreams. I climb the steps and push down on the door handle. Locked. Reaching deep into my backpack, I retrieve the key I haven’t needed in months. A quick turn and I’m inside.

  Everything is different than I expect. Clean. Gone are the upturned pieces of furniture, smashed picture frames and scattered remnants of my life. The house is exactly as Mom would’ve want it—neat and organized.

  I walk through the living room and up the stairs. No dust coats the railing, no pictures are askew. My mind flashes to the last time I was here. The time with Josh. The house had been destroyed, room after room searched by those who cared nothing for our lives.

  For the third time in as many days I think about my mom, wondering if she could have somehow survived the attack in February and returned home. Impossible. If she survived she’d come for Josh and me, right? She’d search for us and made sure we’re safe. She’d find me and tell me about my past. She’d fill in every missing piece.

  She’d have done these things, wouldn’t she?

  I reach the top of the stairs and walk toward my room. The door is closed. My breath catches in my throat as my heartbeat roars in my ears.

  It’s okay, I say to myself. Relax. I center my mind and open the door slowly, unsure of what I’ll find.

  My room is perfect, cleaner than I’ve ever kept it. My clothes are neatly arranged in my closet. No papers litter my desk. It looks like a showroom, staged and lifeless.

  My brow creases. Who did this? How?

  I open the drawers of my desk and dresser. Everything seems right, exactly as it should be. And yet, I can’t help but think that something is terribly wrong.

  I go through the rest of the house in shock. There is no evidence that anything bad ever happened here. Nothing that proves the events of the last six months ever happened at all.

  But they did. I know they did.

  I wander to Dad’s study. It looks like the rest of the house, unnervingly perfect. Walking to the massive desk, I look at the floor. Deep scratches poke out from one corner of the desk and disappear under a rug.

  I stoop down to take a closer look. The scratches are darker than I remember, like someone had tried to fix them. I move the rug and give the desk a strong push. The wood creaks and moves less than an inch. Again I push. And again.

  It’s no use, I’m not strong enough to move the heavy desk alone. I trace the scratches with my thumb, satisfied that they prove that my life wasn’t a complete illusion. The past six months really did happen.

  And someone else came and cleaned the evidence away. Someone who didn’t want the truth of what happened to be discovered. But who?

  Mom? Dad?

  —I won’t permit myself to indulge in the fantasy that they survived, not when I can still here their screams.

  LeMercier?

  —he is the best choice. He probably sent a team to clean up after Josh and I left.

  WITSEC?

  —another good choice. Wouldn’t want anyone to know exactly how much they screwed up, even if it was my fault.

  I go back upstairs, contemplating every option. A picture of Josh catches my eye, my heart. My chest grows heavy. Tears fill my eyes. “Why aren’t you here?” I ask the picture. “You promised you’d never leave. Why did you leave?”

  Because you died. Protecting me.

  I run to my room and close the door. The tears come before I reach my bed. I flatten my face against my pillow and scream. Months of pain pour from me, every feeling of guilt or shame, every loss and betrayal. I empty it all within the safety of my room. Raw, empty, and exhausted I roll over.

  And allow the world to fall away

  I wake to the sound of the front door opening. Instantly, my senses are on fire. Long shadows spread across the floor of my room as day slips into dusk. I close my eyes and listen. The heavy front door creaks as it closes. Lights turn on and someone moves through the house.

  My instincts take over and I travel from my room to the hall in a series of fluid motions. I slip into the shadows and picture myself blending into the walls. Josh sneaks into my thoughts. He was so much better at camouflage than me. Focus, I tell myself.

  More sounds float up and surround me. I slink toward the stairs and peak around the corner. All I can see of the intruder is her back as she rifles through papers before placing them on the small table near the door. She turns and my instincts take over.

  In moments, she grabs her throat and gags, unable to breath. I take a tentative step down the stairs. Our eyes meet as her face begins to redden.

  “Elaine?” I snap to my senses and release my hold on my best friend.

  She coughs and collapses to her knees.

  “Elaine,” I say again. Taking the stairs in twos, I race toward her.

  What have I done?

  Elaine reaches for me as she sucks in great gulps of air. I rub her back, tell her to relax, breathe.

  Silently, I berate my carelessness. This is why I can’t be trusted, why I shouldn’t be near anyone that I love.

  “Dakota? Is it really you?” Elaine whispers. Fear colors the lines of her face.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nods. “I don’t kno
w what happened. One minute I’m looking around and the next minute my throat closes and I can’t breathe. It felt like I was being choked from behind.”

  Guilt coats my mouth. I fight off the urge to confess my sins and beg her forgiveness. “Do you feel better now?” I ask instead.

  “Much.”

  I help her to stand and she fixates on me. “I can’t believe you’re here. When did you get back?”

  “A few hours ago,” I say. “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve been watching the place. I got a letter from your mom a few days after you went to the . . .” Elaine hesitates.

  “Hospital.”

  “Yes, after you went to the hospital. She asked me to keep an eye on the place while the family was gone.” Elaine’s eyes meet mine and I’m touched by the concern I see reflected there. Her voice drops to a near whisper. “I wasn’t sure if I would see you again. You never called. Reached out.”

  More guilt flows through me. I know how she feels, how I felt when David left. The betrayal and pain.

  “I’m sorry, Elaine. I wanted to call you, write. Something. It’s been . . . hard.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here now. Where are your parents? Didn’t they come back too?”

  My brain struggles to process the words. What can I say that will make sense of everything? I don’t know where to begin so I do the only thing I can think of and change the subject. “The place is really clean. Did you do that?”

  Elaine lets her question go unanswered. “Yeah. After I got the letter and the key I came over. The place looked like something out of a horror movie. The furniture was turned over. Drawers were smashed and tossed around. It was a mess. I thought someone had robbed the place, but after I cleaned and put everything back it didn’t seem like anything was missing.”