Eminent Silence

by Tristan Carey

  I didn't have a lot of options. I didn't have the energy to fight. Much less think. The vibrations of the jet, the dull roar of the engines left a ringing in my ears that I couldn't shake. My hearing got funkier the higher we got and the more they popped. Voices turned muted; the cabin went dark as we headed west and the sun shifted behind us. I felt like I was floating — it wasn't an unfamiliar sensation. I've woken up like this in hospitals. A part of my mind was convinced I was lying in a soft gurney, pillow and blankets covering me, muffling all the harsh reality of the world.

  I must have drifted, because I was woken by another sharp pinch, this time inside my elbow. I looked down to see Brandt inserting another needle in my skin, deftly hidden by a well-placed bag in her lap. To the uninformed observer, it looked like Brandt was rummaging around for something.

  For three whole seconds, I was fully alert. The last dose had worn off. How long had it been? An hour? Two?

  Then the lullaby of ketamine dragged me under again, and I sagged back into my seat.

  Awake again, I uttered a curse. For a second, I had this crazy idea that I could break away while the drug wore off. But the idea came too late, and Brandt was far more lucid than I could ever be.

  'Language, cupcake,' Brandt cooed, patting me on the arm as if I were having a tantrum. As the world turned fuzzy again, I watched as her scars blended into the rest of her face. 'Remember what I said about misbehaving?'

  I rolled my eyes, my head falling back against the seat, groaning quietly. 'Just shoot me.'

  'Don't think I don't want to,' Brandt sighed. 'But apparently you have a record of surviving double-taps to the back, so why waste the effort? As much as I'd love to throttle you, you're still useful to the guys who give me my paycheck.'

  I took me five minutes to process that. Or it felt like five minutes. My conception of time wasn't exactly on the up-and-up, among other things. 'So...you're saying you're a mercenary? Not KGB?'

  'Do I sound KGB to you?' Brandt scoffed, then shook her head and laughed. There was no humor in it. 'I used to be U.S. Army.'

  'Army…' I murmured, mulling over the word. 'W-what happened?'

  Brandt tilted her head at me, a line forming between her brow. 'Why do you care?'

  I just shrugged, making a face. It felt weird. Half of my face was numb. 'Dunno... Curious. You can just g-go back to threatening me, i-if you want.'

  She snorted, but apparently that was good enough for her, so she said, 'You're a real smartass, you know that? Fine. I served. Lost an arm for the trouble.' She wiggled the fingers of her left hand at me. 'Honorable discharge but no compensation. Then someone came up to me, offered me money and my arm back — I said yes. A few years later, and here I am, babysitting an overgrown child.'

  'I assume... you turned into a psychopath somewhere d-during that time,'

  'Who said I wasn't one the whole time?' Brandt whispered, cocking an eyebrow. She grinned. 'Now I just get paid for it.'

  It was hard to argue with that. I turned my head away, facing the window, unable to look at her anymore. I wanted to think. Instead, I fell asleep again.

  Nine hours was fairly long for a flight. It felt a lot longer with ketamine and a constant fear of your life (along with everyone else's). In the twilight stage between drugged wakefulness and drugged sleep, I tried to formulate a way to tell the flight crew that they were in trouble. But in every scenario Brandt found out, and each one ended with everyone dying.

  I couldn't do anything on this plane. I had to wait.

  I didn't have a watch, and drugged I couldn't refer to my internal clock. The sun remained behind us almost the entire time. We left London in the morning, to arrive to morning in America.

  The only way I could tell time was when Brandt gave me another injection. As far as I could tell, she gave them at regular intervals. I drifted off a few times, but when I felt the needle again, I remembered my count. Seven. Seven shots of ketamine. At least six hours. We had passed the halfway point of the trip a while ago. I was only vaguely aware of my growling stomach, but I couldn't even lift my arms.

  'Aren't you going to do something?'

  My head snapped up, breath catching in my throat. The voice came from my left. To the empty aisle seat next to Brandt.

  Only it wasn't empty anymore.

  Peter leaned over to give me a quizzical look. 'Come on, Mia. You're in danger. Brandt's going to kill someone if you don't do something.'

  'I can't,' I told him. Couldn't he see the state I was in? Didn't he understand how dangerous Brandt was? 'I can't do anything. What are you even doing here? Shouldn't you be home?'

  Peter tilted his head, his smile too serene for the current situation. 'I got those messages you sent, remember? Did you really think I wasn't going to look for my wing-woman?'

  'B-but how…?'

  'Don't worry about it, Goose.' Peter said. 'You gotta come up with a plan. You always have a plan. So how are you going to get out of this one?'

  A headache was forming behind my eyes. Closing them, I frowned. A part of me knew it wasn't possible that I was seeing Peter right now, but he looked so real. The silly geek shirts, the black-frame glasses, the messy hair. His voice was like it was right next to me. He was the one person I needed right now.

  Opening them again, I was both relieved and concerned to see him still sitting there. Peter cocked an eyebrow. 'Well?'

  I shrugged helplessly. 'I'm sorry, Peter. I-I got nothing. I really want to go home, but I c-c-can't think through this fog…'

  Peter just shook his head. 'Come on, Mia, you're not trying hard enough. What would Ferris Bueller do?'

  'Ferris Bueller?' I repeated, utterly bewildered. I squinted, trying to follow Peter's line of thinking. The...the movie? We had watched it sometime last year. I was having a hard time remembering what even happened in it. Referencing Eighties movies wasn't weird for Peter, but I didn't see how it was supposed to be helpful. 'Peter, I don't think that's really applicable —'

  'Ferris Bueller's Day Off is always applicable!' Peter said brightly, still smiling. 'Think about it! What starts off the whole plot of the movie?'

  'H-he skips school to hang out with his friends.'

  'And how does he manage that?'

  'By pretending to be sick…' My words trailed off as I finally figured out what Peter meant. 'Oh, I get it now!'

  'See? That wasn't too hard,' Peter said, grinning now that I understood.

  'Hey!' Suddenly, fingers snapped in my face, making me jolt. Brandt leaned forward, blocking Peter from view. She was scowling, looking me up and down. 'What're you mumbling about? There's no one there.'

  'W-what?' I blinked, startled and confused. When Brandt moved back, I saw that the aisle seat was empty again.

  Peter was never here. 'O-oh…'

  'God, you're hallucinating,' Brandt just rolled her eyes, shaking her head. With one hand, she shoved me against the cabin wall. My head conked off the fiberglass. 'Just go back to sleep and stop bothering me. We're almost there.'

  My head spinning, I decided not to argue. Peter's words still rang in my head, and a part of me was still debating what I saw. Had he really been there? Did he really think I could get out of this?

  It wasn't even noon when we landed.

  Brandt supported me, one arm at my back, one holding my elbow, like she was just ushering her sick niece off the plane. Her coat and bag deftly hid the needle she held just under my ribcage, a silent threat in case I acted out. I barely remembered to grab my own bag before she pulled me out of my seat.

  The world tilted oddly beneath me for a few minutes before I finally found my balance. By then, we had left the plane, and were heading through to the baggage-claim.

  I didn't think Brandt had a weapon on her — how would she have gotten it through the initial security check in London? Of course, maybe it was made of plastic or something. She got that ketamine through somehow; I was pretty sure it was illegal to bring control
led substances across borders like that.

  Of course, Brandt herself was a weapon. It probably didn't make much difference to her whether she blew up a jet or an airport.

  There were so many people here. Noise echoed, tinny, off the high walls and ceilings. We passed white columns and rows of benches, kiosks and service desks. A garbled voice filtered through the PA system. Every twenty feet there seem to be a security guard on watch.

  I made eye contact with one of them, then quickly looked away again.

  I wondered if SHIELD was still monitoring me right now. They probably weren't watching that closely, if this happened and no interference had occurred yet. They probably thought I was still fine.

  It just told me what I already knew. That I shouldn't get too comfortable with having back-up. That I was on my own again.

  It took about five minutes to reach baggage claim. Brandt took her time. There was no rush, and I had no idea what she had planned for once we reached the outside. If she didn't get me with another needle, and if we got through customs without incident, then that would be the best time to get away. There would be a lot less people in the parking lot.

  If I made it that far.

  I was finally on American soil, and I was in more danger than ever. The irony didn't miss me.

  Baggage claim was on the floor below. We took the escalator. Half-way down, I glanced behind me.

  About twelve people behind, just getting on, was the security guard I saw earlier.

  I swayed unsteadily as I turned around again, gripped the rubber railing of the escalator. It was fairly high, could make someone dizzy. Annoyed, Brandt jerked me back, hissing a warning, before we stepped off the elevator.

  I ducked my head, said nothing. We passed through baggage-claim without stopping. Not surprisingly. I didn't think Brandt was the type of person to bring checked luggage.

  Customs was straight ahead. People lining up, sacrificing their bags for search of illicit materials. It occurred to me that Brandt couldn't keep the needle on me forever. She'd have to let go for the security check. And an empty syringe was much less suspicious than a full one.

  I realized I couldn't wait until I got outside. I'd be under ketamine again before we reached the doors. I had to do something now.

  But could I risk it? Anything I did could provoke Brandt into turning red-hot. But maybe she was bluffing. She kept me alive this long, after all. Whoever she was taking me to now must have considered me valuable.

  Valuable enough not to blow up.

  I spotted another guard ahead, maybe ten meters. Glanced up at domed security mirror in one corner. The first guard was still following us.

  My gaze dropped down. Customs were close. Too close. We'd reach the line in less than a minute.

  Brandt still had the needle at my side. She didn't know the last dose had worn off thirty minutes ago.

  It wasn't hard to fake being sick. I had spent my entire life with the real thing. Maybe Ferris Bueller was onto something.

  I stumbled again. Tripped over my own feet. Brandt grunted, caught my weight, hefted me back.

  I used that momentum to slam the point of my elbow into her gut.

  'Oof!' The sound of air leaving Brandt's lungs was audible, loud in my ear.

  I lifted my arm up and around her right shoulder, grabbing her wrist. In one move, I snapped her arm straight and twisted — the needle in her grip went flying.

  But she recovered fast. I still had her arm in a lock when Brandt drove her fist under my right arm, at the base of my ribcage. Something cracked and I gasped, reeling away. I stumbled for real this time, the world spinning wildly for a moment. Maybe the ketamine hadn't worn off as much as I thought.

  I saw Brandt's foot a second before it came for my face. I ducked just in time, raising up my hands to protect my face. I absorbed her next blow.

  She snarled something I didn't catch. Probably cursing me again. Brandt lunged at me, grabbed me by the shoulders and tried throwing me to the floor. I kept my arms up against my chest, trying to push out against her hold as she scrambled for another syringe in her bag.

  Remembering there were dozens of eyes on us and figuring it couldn't hurt, I cried out, 'Help! Help me! I don't know her! She's trying to kidnap me!'

  'Shut up!' Brandt hissed, jerking me back.

  Shouts came from either side of us, people crying out in alarm. The security guards I saw earlier were rushing in fast, hands on their radios. More were organizing at the customs station. Pushing people out of the way, to safety, when they realized how violent it was getting.

  My back was pressed against her shoulder. I couldn't throw her off. The first security guard reached us. He was pulling a taser from his belt.

  At the same time, Brandt finally yanked a syringe out of her bag.

  Before she could jab it into my neck, I lifted both my legs. The security guard had gotten too close, trying to get an angle on Brandt. But it was close enough for me.

  I slammed my feet into his chest. He cried out, thrown back — Brandt and I went in the other direction, unbalanced by the sudden force of my kick.

  I fell hard on top of Brandt. The second syringe skittered across the tile. I rolled over, recovered first. Scrambled for it as it bounced off a potted plant.

  My fingers were an inch away before Brandt grabbed my ankle and yanked me back. 'No!'

  I twisted around as Brandt's other hand clawed my shin — her face was completely open for the heel of my other foot. Her head snapped to the side, then the other when I kicked her again. Her grip loosened just a smidge.

  But I wasn't fast enough. Her hands were burning now. Eyes glowing red. I tried to get up, but she was faster, jumped on top of me, pinned me down.

  A scorching hand gripped my face, pressed my cheek into the floor. I was shaking all over, adrenaline burning through ketamine. I tried to buck her off, crying out when her skin burned mine.

  She leaned over, and whispered into my ear. 'Бунтарь Колумбия Cтремящийся девяносто —'

  Buntar Kolumbiya Stremyashchiysya Devyanosto

  'No!' I cried again, struggling against her, panting and whimpering, doing whatever I could to stop her. 'No, please! Stop!'

  She was speaking so fast. My arms were pinned. Couldn't move. Stop stop stop

  '— баюкать марионетка четыре —'

  Bayukat Marionetka Chetyhree

  But it wasn't working. I couldn't drown her out.

  Panic. Breathing hard, pulse racing.

  ' — Начало желтый —'

  Nachalo zhelty

  World spinning again. Going numb. That's not me that's not me that's not me —

  The last word.

  Brandt smiled. 'Завод.'

  Zavod.

  My breath stopped. Everything went cold.

  Brandt's smile ended with a shriek.

  She convulsed, recoiled, rolled off. Two strands of thin, curly wires were attached to her back. Directly behind her stood the second security guard, hands gripping his taser, eyes wide and teeth gritted.

  But then Brandt picked herself up, raised her arm over her head. With a grimace, she yanked off the electrified barbs, as the guard was still pulling the trigger. He gaped, horror dawning across his face, as she slowly stood up, the veins in her arms and face glowing bright.

  'What the fu —'

  Brandt lunged for him.

  The guard stumbled back, throwing up his arms when she smacked the taser right out of his hands. A second guard rushed in to his aid — only for Brandt to take him by the front of his shirt and send him flying against a column. He fell to the ground in a heap.

  The tiles at her feet started to melt beneath her. Stop her.

  People screaming. Civilians rushing in every direction, running for their lives. Luggage abandoned. An alarm blared overhead. It seemed sudden, but perhaps it had been there the whole time, since the fig
ht started.

  Brandt delivered a kick to the guard's knee. He dropped, received a blow to the face, falling back. Somehow, still conscious, nose bleeding, he scrambled back, as Brandt loomed over him.

  She had a wicked smile that said she would enjoy the next part.