In the Afterlight (Bonus Content)

by Alexandra Bracken

  The last time we’d seen them use this screen had been our first week here. The camp controllers had set up the projector to scroll through the list of camp rules. No talking during work duties. No talking after lights out. Do not speak to a Psi Special Forces officer unless spoken to first. On and on and on.

  Rather than have us line up to get food, the PSFs signaled for us to sit down and remain seated. The energy in the room was unsettling; I couldn’t get a read on any of the camp controllers or PSFs.

  “There have been some recent developments,” O’Ryan said, his natural voice loud enough to carry through the building, “regarding your situation. Pay attention. You will only be shown this once.”

  The move, I thought. They were finally going to tell them about closing the camp.

  O’Ryan stepped back as the lights were dimmed slightly. A computer was hooked up to the projector, giving us a glimpse of a desktop before the video window expanded and the PSF hit play.

  The video wasn’t about the move.

  Next to me, Sam actually recoiled, her hand reaching for mine. I blinked in horrified disbelief.

  It was a sight I hadn’t seen in eight years: President Gray standing at a podium in front of the crest of the White House. He smiled so generously that dimples appeared on his cheeks. He waved—beckoned—to someone out of the camera’s frame and, this time, the room full of reporters and cameras in front of him burst into sound as a pale-haired woman stepped up beside him, dressed in an immaculate suit. Dr. Lillian Gray.

  “I’ve never been one to bury the lede, have I?” President Gray laughed. The First Lady disappeared into the fevered flashing of the cameras; the furious clicking of camera shutters would have put any machine gun to shame.

  “It’s good to be home in Washington again, to be back in this room with all of you, and with my beautiful wife. She’s alive and well, contrary to wild speculation.”

  Nervous laughter in response.

  “Her appearance here means that, at long last, I can tell you that our prayers have been answered and we now have a safe treatment that will rid American children of the psionic disorder forever,” he said.

  More rumblings from the press, more camera flashes. The kids around me had been trained too well to react outwardly beyond startled gasps of their own, or quick, covert glances at each other. The majority of them just sat there in disbelief.

  “For years, Lillian has stayed out of the public eye so as to conduct research on this exact subject. It has remained confidential only to avoid interference from the former terrorist group, the Children’s League, and other domestic enemies. While we are continuing to seek out the cause of this tragic affliction, please rest assured that all children will be able to undergo this life-saving operation. Detailed information about the procedure is being distributed to you now.”

  A few reporters tried to leap in with questions, shouting Lillian’s name; trying, I guess, to coax her to the microphone. Instead, she found a patch of carpet to stare at. Whoever had dolled her up had also managed to vacuum the life out of her.

  “As you’ll see from the footage and reports we’ve included, our own son, Clancy, was the first to receive this procedure.”

  A wave of dizziness passed over me as another form was walked out onto the stage beside them by a man in a dark suit. His head had been shaved and covered with a baseball hat decorated with the presidential seal. He kept his face turned down and out of sight, denying the cameras in front of him a shot until the president leaned away from the microphone and said something to him. His shoulders hunched, Clancy finally lifted his head. He reminded me of a horse on the ground, leg broken under it; never able to stand again, let alone run.

  With all of the terrible things he’d done, and all of the terrible things I had imagined doing to him, never had this come to mind. I was shocked by the swell of emotions that rose in me, all of them too close, too wild for me to distinguish one from another. I felt sick.

  He trembled, looking smaller by the moment as his parents kept their smiles plastered on their faces, giving the reporters what they wanted: a family portrait. How perfectly, I thought, have these people drawn Clancy into his own worst nightmare.

  “You’ll remember that he came out of the camp rehabilitation program several years ago. Unfortunately, like with any disease, there are relapses; and this is one of the reasons why we have not felt comfortable releasing the children from these camps. We needed a more permanent solution, and we believe we have found it. There will be more information to come in regards to a timeline of when the procedure will start being performed, and a likely end date for the camp rehabilitation program. I ask you, knowing already how much you’ve sacrificed and suffered these long years, for more patience. For understanding. For your belief in the future we’re about to enter—one that will see the reemergence of our prosperity and way of life. Thank you, and God bless the United States of America.”

  Before the first avalanche of questions could sweep up and knock him off his feet, President Gray hooked his arm around Lillian’s shoulders, gave a friendly wave to the cameras, and guided her off the stage and out of the room before she could get a single word in.

  The video ended, frozen on that last image. I felt trapped in that moment, too.

  No, I thought. Remember why you came here. Now. Do it now.

  Our PSF escort signaled for us to stand and begin re-forming our line to receive our meals, her face creased with impatience. The surprise video had put me off my original plan, but it was easy enough to pick up the pieces and reassemble them in working order. We were near the kitchen, shuffling forward, when I felt the eyes of the PSF on me.

  I shoved Sam, knocking her to the ground. And if that wasn’t enough to dry up every small sound around us, me shouting, “Shut up! Just—shut up!” to her did. My voice whipped through the silence, landing like a blow across her confused face.

  Play along, I begged, flashing her a look. Please.

  A small nod. She understood. I lifted my arm, as if to strike her, ignoring the way Vanessa tried to catch my wrist to prevent it. The hardest thing was not reacting to our PSF as she came toward me, crossing the distance between us in furious strides. This was more than enough to get me punished.

  More than enough to get me ejected from dinner.

  The girls around us kept their heads down, but their fear and confusion polluted the air around me as the woman caught me by the collar and hauled me away. O’Ryan and the other camp controllers disassembling the projector and screen didn’t even look up at the scuffle.

  I didn’t have to suggest anything to the PSF to get her to drag me into the kitchen. The Blue kids scrubbing the pots and pans under blistering water jumped. Several that were sorting the ingredients for the next day’s meals turned, momentarily distracted from their work. I searched the ceiling for the black cameras, counting them off as I went—two, three. One above the serving window; one near the large pantry; another over the long stainless-steel work table, where several of the kids were peeling the potatoes we’d only just pulled from the Garden.

  The back of the Mess Hall faced the forest, providing maybe ten feet of walking space between the building and the fence. The cameras never recorded what happened there, but only pointed out into the woods. It was one of the “blind spots” we’d learned to be afraid of very quickly.

  She pushed the back door open with her shoulder, and I had a second to react.

  I yanked the PSF around, twisting her arm behind her to the point of snapping the bone. She let out a choked noise of surprise that cut off sharply as I entered her mind.

  She unfastened her uniform, ripping off her boots, the black camo shirt and pants, the belt, the dark cap, and let them fall to the ground. I kicked off my tennis shoes, trying to match the frenzied pace I’d set in her mind. She took my uniform as I passed it to her, tugging it on with a look of blank obedience. Too calm. I floated the image of her as a young child, standing at the heart of the camp, soldier
s moving around her, closing in. I only eased up when she started to cry.

  The flash drive fell out of my shoe into the frostbitten grass and I quickly palmed it, squeezing it tight to reassure myself it was really there.

  The swap had taken no more than two minutes. Two minutes too long, maybe. I couldn’t tell—the PSFs were allowed to walk us into dark, unmonitored corners, rough us up a little bit before actually carrying out the punishment. If those missing moments had played that way to the camp controllers watching in the Control Tower, I’d be fine.

  I walked the PSF toward the Garden, my breath fogging the air white with each sharp exhale. I kept my eyes on the thin chains hooked around one of the fence posts.

  I wanted to say I was a good enough person not to feel some satisfaction as I sat the PSF down in the cold mud and locked her into place facing the fence, her back to the cameras on the nearby cabins and the soldiers patrolling the platform on the Tower. I wasn’t. After watching so many kids left out for hours on end, simply for talking back or looking at them sideways on a bad day, I wanted at least one of them to know what it felt like. I wanted one of them to see what they had done to Sam each time they brought her out here.

  It wasn’t until I was walking back, passing the red vests posted along the path to the Control Tower and Mess Hall, that the first touch of nerves found me. Somehow, as I came closer to it, the brick tower had grown to be twice its original size; its crooked walls seemed to lean even more sharply up close.

  This is an Op, I reminded myself. This is no different than any other Op. I would finish it and go home.

  The PSF stationed next to the Control Tower’s door peered at me through the darkness. Searchlights from the watch platform above crisscrossed in front of me, sweeping around the camp, into the dark pockets where other lights couldn’t reach.

  “Houghton—that you?”

  I nodded, adjusting my cap down lower over my eyes, one hand straying to the rifle I’d slung over my shoulder.

  “What’s—” His mind unfurled in spirals of green and white and red. I needed him to tap his security badge against the black pad behind him, so he did. I needed him to step aside, so he did. He did everything I asked, even holding the door open for me as I stepped inside.

  I crossed the threshold into the warm heart of the camp. The heat from the vents sank through the layers of borrowed clothes, straight to my skin and bones. As I looked down the hall, toward the stairs leading up to the platform two stories overhead, I don’t know when I had ever felt so powerful in my life.

  The door to my right opened, and a camp controller came out, holding a mug of coffee between his hands. The room behind him disappeared as the door slowly swung shut, but not before I saw the TV, the couches and chairs. His black button-down shirt wrinkled as he brought a hand up to yawn. The look he gave me was a friendly What can you do? Half embarrassed, half unapologetic. Like the whole thing was one big joke.

  I smiled, letting him pass by to get to the door propped open a short ways down the hall. After a beat, I followed. The left half of the building’s lower level was little more than an enormous monitoring station. Screens large and small lined the far wall, each showing a different angle of the camp. One was simply set to a satellite image of the weather; one showed a news channel on mute.

  There were three rows of computers in total, though only half of the seats seemed to be occupied. It looked as though they were starting to pack this room up as well—working from left to right, slowly removing the nonessential stations.

  This is why they needed the Reds, I thought. The draft was up for so many PSFs, and the ones that remained, along with the newer recruits, were tasked with moving the files and supplies in advance of the camp’s closure.

  Focus.

  I stepped down to the second row, sliding into the seat. The monitor flickered to life, waking up to reveal a basic desktop. Blood pounded in my ears, but my hands were surprisingly steady as I inserted the flash drive.

  The folder opened and I transferred the program file over onto the desktop; I thought I’d misread it at first, my mind half-consumed with anxiety, but JUDE.EXE transferred quickly and appeared on the screen’s black background, next to the trash icon, just below a black triangular outline labeled Security.

  When it finished, I erased the original file from the flash drive and dropped it to the floor, crushing the plastic shell under the heel of my left boot. The clock on the lower right-hand corner of the screen read 19:20.

  I opened the COMMAND PROMPT window, typed START JUDE.EXE, and the icon disappeared from the desktop.

  Nothing else happened.

  Shit, I thought, glancing at the small clock again. Was that right? Why would—

  The blow cracked against the back of my skull so hard I was thrown halfway off the seat—caught, at the last second, by a hand that wrenched me back and slammed me against the table, hand at my throat, gun in my face.

  “Here!” The PSF’s face split into two. I blinked, trying to clear my vision as more shapes flooded in through the open door. “Here!”

  I was pulled off the desk and shoved onto the floor, the pistol inches from my forehead, to make room for a camp controller to take my seat and begin typing. Someone had finally noticed something, then. It was over, but I’d done what I needed to.

  I’d gotten this far.

  I’d done this, at least.

  The others in the room stood, alarmed, but backed off when O’Ryan’s familiar voice barked, “Stay clear.”

  He typed something else, opened the COMMAND PROMPT window.

  “What did you do?” he snarled.

  I focused on his face, ignoring the warm trickle down the back of my neck. My line of sight solidified again and I shrugged, a smirk working its way onto my lips.

  O’Ryan pushed the other soldier away, back into the ring of PSFs and camp controllers who stood nearby with their weapons drawn. My teeth clacked as he threw me back up against the wall, demanding, “What is your purpose here?”

  I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and said nothing. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do to me now that could make me feel afraid, or small, or helpless.

  The camp controller turned back to another woman sitting nearby. “Key up the Calm Control.”

  “Group C is still in the Mess Hall,” she said. “Should they be ordered back to their cabins first?”

  “Key. It. Up.”

  She turned back to her screen and typed furiously, ending with a stroke of her pinky against the return key. “Wait—”

  One by one, the monitors on the wall winked out, then each computer screen, the images blacking out with a sinister electronic hiss.

  “Start the fail-safe protocol,” he said.

  “Sir?” she said, startled, but tried—she tried. “I’m locked out—”

  “Of what?”

  “Everything!”

  “Me too—”

  “—Same—”

  I knew it was pointless, even as I got my feet under me, but I didn’t want to admit it—I wasn’t done, I wasn’t ready for it to be over. The guns around me were a dozen different ways to die. I was boxed in on all sides by black uniforms. My ears rang and the ground rolled beneath my feet, but I let the invisible hands in my mind go streaming out to the minds around me, I sent them sailing in every direction like arrows seeking targets.

  O’Ryan pulled his arm back and punched me in the face.

  I couldn’t get my hands up fast enough to block him. Couldn’t get them down fast enough to catch me. I slammed into the ground, my vision bursting with static as my skull cracked against the tile. He leaned over me, unclipping a small device from his belt, holding it next to my right ear. I spit in his face and he only laughed, switching on the White Noise.

  The world shattered around me. Hands seized my arms and hauled me up from the ground, dragging me through the tangle of legs and chairs. I couldn’t see straight, couldn’t clear my brain from the sounds polluting it. Eve
ry muscle in my body was seizing up, making me jerk, my feet thrash against the floor, and inside I was screaming, I was screaming I’m not done, but I couldn’t hear myself think. The White Noise took me by the shoulders and shoved me down beneath the darkness, holding me there until I drowned.

  The slap whipped across my face, ripping away the shroud of unconsciousness. My vision blurred as my eyes flew open, squinting against the light. My mind felt swollen and tender, as wrung out as the rest of my body. I was half-conscious of the fact that my arms and legs were still spasming, the muscles twitching. The residual pain left me dumb and slow, and I couldn’t remember why, how it had happened.

  The noise blistering my mind shut off abruptly. Slowly, slowly, the room solidified around me. Tile floor. Four dark walls. One lamp. Two figures in black, moving in and out of the shadows, speaking in low tones. I heard a faint metallic clicking as one of them came closer. I smelled the mint as he smacked his gum.

  “Little bitch…”

  And just like that, memory slammed into me.

  Tower.

  Out.

  Run.

  I twisted, trying to pull out of the chair they’d put me in, but my hands and ankles were zip-tied to the metal frame. The jolt of fear-induced adrenaline cleared my mind just in time for O’Ryan to backhand me.

  “Now that we have your attention…” he snarled, rising to his feet. Cold air bit into my shin, and I looked down to find that he’d rolled both of my pant legs up to the knee. They’d stripped the PSF uniform jacket off me, taking the knife, the weapons, anything I could have used to fight back. The boots, too, though I didn’t understand why, not until O’Ryan motioned for the baton the PSF behind him carried.

  The other man took that as his signal to hold up the handheld White Noise machine. I reared like a wild horse, trying to escape it, the way it blanked out my mind. I can…I can do… what could I do? What?

  “Who sent you?” O’Ryan asked. “What was your purpose here?”

  “To…to tell you…” The words didn’t sound nearly as furious coming out of my mouth as they did in my head. The camp controller leaned forward, eyes narrowing into slits. “To go…fuck yourself.”