Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1)

by RJ Crayton

  “But what?” I demand.

  “He thinks he knows what happened to Susan.”

  1

  SUSAN

  ~ FIVE DAYS AGO~

  I learned a little more than a year ago that regrets aren’t worth having. It was obvious after a surgical error left me paralyzed from the waist down that regrets don’t change anything. So I’ve stopped indulging in them.

  Therefore, it would be wrong to say I regret helping Kelsey.

  However, I did miscalculate. I thought switching places with her so she could escape the holding facility would lack consequences of significance. I thought claiming I’d been drugged and taken against my will would get me deemed an “innocent bystander,” and I’d be sent home.

  I wasn’t. Two months later, as Kelsey enjoys freedom in a new country, I am trapped in a government facility with no clue why I was brought here or when I will be released.

  My captors say they believe I wasn’t involved in the escape. They tell me I was used by Kelsey and will not be punished. But they don’t let me leave. Instead, I have been subjected to therapy where I have to talk about my life with a psychiatrist. I’ve also had a couple of medical exams and been told it’s important for me to stay healthy.

  I am given three meals a day plus a snack, and allowed to go into the courtyard to get fresh air. I can watch certain recorded programming, but nothing live. I was given an electronic reader and a tablet to keep a journal in. I believe the journal is monitored, so I write nothing meaningful in it: what I do each day, how I yearn to be home. I do not write my true feelings. I do not write about Kelsey or Luke.

  It is frustrating and lonely here. I want to see someone: my uncle, my cousins, hell, even my aunt. Yet, I’ve had no visitors. I received a note from Sen. Lewis Reed, Kelsey’s father. It had almost a dozen words: “Trying to get you out. Stay strong. You are not forgotten.”

  That was it. Enough to inspire both hope and despair. Sen. Reed has lost the bulk of his clout since Kelsey fled after being marked. Being the father of someone so entirely antithetical to the Life First doctrine tarnished his name so much that I’m not sure he has any political favors left to call in. As “not forgotten” as I am, I fear he can’t help me.

  That means I’m stuck here, even though I don’t know why. If they said they didn’t believe me, that they were prosecuting me for helping Kelsey escape, I would at least know what to do. Know I was entitled to a hearing, an attorney. Something. Now, I know nothing, except that I am not free to leave.

  I am less bothered by being here than I am by not knowing when they intend to release me. If I knew there was an end in sight, I could simply bide my time and wait it out. The surroundings are more than comfortable. I’m in a suite. Furnished like a fancy hotel, it includes a living area, kitchenette and bedroom. It’s inside a villa-style building: a completely enclosed rectangle with an inner courtyard. While the architecture style is Romanesque, I’m pretty confident it’s a government building, as evidenced by the men in FoSS military uniforms who stand sentry at the exits.

  The villa is surrounded by an eight-foot high stone wall. Out front, there is a driveway with a wrought-iron gate in the center. I suspect the property is secluded on several acres.

  When I first arrived, I was allowed out front. One day, I screamed as loud as I could. The guards looked put-out, at most. They didn’t rush me back inside, and there was no evidence that anyone on the other side of the wall heard me. Not even a less-than-neighborly, “Shut up; you’re making a racket.” Since then, I have not been brought to the front of the villa again. Based on the fact that no one can hear me scream — or that no one cares when they do hear — my prospects of outside help seem dim.

  The only place I have been allowed to roam freely is my suite, which is on the first floor. I’ve been taken to exam rooms on the first floor, as well. While I have passed a staircase that leads to a second floor, the upstairs is a mystery to me because no one has taken me there. I’d try to check it out myself, but I’m sure my captors would notice if I attempted to heave myself up the stairs, my paralyzed legs flailing behind me.

  As I was brought here while unconscious — transferred from the holding facility while still drugged — I’m still not certain where I am exactly. The people who work here are taciturn, but when they do utter a few syllables, they are laced with Southern accents. It is also warmer here than when I left Maryland, so I suspect I’m somewhere further south of the Mason-Dixon Line, perhaps South Carolina.

  While their accents suggest I’m due a certain amount of down-home hospitality, the people I’ve encountered have provided almost no information. The guards say nothing. I asked the man who took me to the medical exam room, “Why am I here?”

  He flashed an apologetic smile and said, “I really don’t know, Ma’am. I’m just the advance technician.” An advance technician? That’s the most meaningless term I’ve ever heard.

  In my time here, I’ve only seen one other person who didn’t look like a worker: a woman being wheeled on a gurney. It was about a week after I arrived, and the woman had olive skin, a trim physique and long black hair that mainly lay pressed beneath her. A handful of glossy black strands rested on her arm, stopping just beneath her elbow. She wore a hospital gown and was covered from the waist down with a blanket. She turned toward me, deep brown eyes watching me curiously, probably the same way I was looking at her. When the man pushing her gurney caught us staring, he told her to close her eyes, and quickly rolled her down the corridor.

  When I play the memory in my head, it seems like the exchange — our eyes locking as we examined each other — was lengthy. In reality, it was probably no more than a few seconds. Had I not been so surprised to see her, had I been thinking clearly, I would have called out to her, shouted something to see what response she gave.

  Instead, as I saw her gurney turn the corner out of view, I asked the technician with me who she was and why she was here. “I can’t say, Ma’am,” he sputtered.

  Useless. No one here is willing to explain anything. It is frustrating beyond belief. Barbara, the woman who cleans my room and brings me food, is willing to talk a little. She always smiles and asks, “What are you reading?” Probably because whenever she comes, I pick up my reader and act like I’m completely enthralled. I do read. There’s not a whole lot else to do. The reader came loaded with thousands of books, and it bothers me that there are so many. How long do they intend to keep me?

  The reader is in my lap now, as I sit in my wheelchair looking out a window facing the courtyard. In the center of the courtyard is a large magnolia tree with hefty white flowers blooming. The surrounding lawn is so well-manicured, I am certain that even if there were another side to see, the grass wouldn’t be any greener over there.

  I hear an electronic click, a sign that someone is about to come in. The suite door is always locked, so I cannot leave unless someone lets me out with an electronic keycard. I have considered trying to steal a card, but the keycard reader is conveniently about six feet off the ground, next to the door. I cannot reach it from my wheelchair. Barbara assures me that if the fire alarm is pulled, all doors in the building will unlock, and I’ll be able to wheel myself to safety. I’m not entirely sure I trust that. I’m sure Barbara believes it, but anyone inclined to hold me against my will is probably inclined to let me perish in a fire so I don’t talk about it.

  The door opens just a crack, and in slides a man I’ve never seen before.

  He is tall with dirty blond hair, and wears blue jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt that hugs his muscular torso. He gives a backward glance at the door as if afraid he’s being followed, then scans the room until he sees me.

  His eyes widen slightly once they settle on me, like he’s shocked to find me here. Though I can’t imagine what he thought he’d discover here, if not me.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  His warm hazel eyes fix on me, and he parts his lips slightly, as if he intends to reply. Instead, he clo
ses his mouth and takes long, purposeful steps toward me. Some part of my brain is telling me I should be alarmed. I mean, a strong, furtive stranger just snuck into my room and is coming straight at me. But, another part of my brain — the part that’s winning — says to stay put, this will be worth my while. My heart quickens in anticipation until he stops right in front of me. “Rob,” he says, tipping his head respectfully. His voice is strong, self-assured and kind. “My name is Rob.”

  He doesn’t reach for me, make any sudden movements or do anything that makes me think I should be afraid. I offer a nod in return, but not my name. I am intrigued by Rob, whose eyes seem to have flecks of green in them, and whose hair is sun-streaked in places. His skin is smooth, he has a strong jaw and his expression and demeanor say, “Trust me.” Only I know I can’t trust anyone here, because no one is telling me anything. However, he is the only person here I’ve even been tempted to trust.

  “You’re Susan,” he says, half question, half statement.

  “Yes,” I respond, not sure if I’ve given into this urge to trust him, or if I’m simply unable to break the habits of polite society.

  He kneels so he is on eye level with me, and while the movement has brought him closer to me, I don’t feel a desire to move away. Rob’s face is a mix of curiosity and distress. “Do you want to be here?”

  It is the first time anyone has asked me this, and though I know I don’t want to be held captive in this place, I feel an intense need to clarify his question. “Do I want to be here with you right now? Or do you mean in general, in this place?”

  He raises an eyebrow, and one corner of his mouth ticks upward into a half smile, but it melts away momentarily. “Here in this facility. Did you come here of your own free will, or are you kept here against your will?”

  “Against my will,” I say fervently. He nods, rises, then heads back to the door as quickly as he came. He lifts his arm, waves his key card at the reader to the left of the door, waits for the click, and opens the door slightly. He peeks into the hallway, then turns back to me.

  “I will help you get out of here. I will come back for you. I promise.” With that, he slips out and gently pulls the door shut. I am alone and dumbstruck. I feel certain of one thing, though. He spoke the truth: he will come back for me.

  2

  SUSAN

  It has been two days since Rob was here. Each time the door opened, I hoped it was him, but he hasn’t been back. I am desperate to find out who he is and what happened to him.

  I worry he was fired because someone saw him come in here. Or worse, that he was hurt by whoever’s keeping me here. Or locked in a cell of his own, though probably not one as nice as this suite.

  I’ve made up my mind to ask Barbara when she comes today. I’ll just ask her if she knows a guy named Rob. I’ll pretend I saw him on the way to an exam and heard someone call his name. He can’t get in trouble for having me overhear his name, can he?

  Well, that’s my hesitation. I would have asked Barbara who he was that day, if I was sure my questions couldn’t get him in trouble. Given how little I know, I don’t want to risk it. Rob, Rob, Rob. Who is he? When he left, I was certain he’d return. But will he? And even if he does, can he help me?

  I look out the window to the courtyard. I’m on one of the long sides of this rectangular building, and directly across from me, I can see the other long side. Those windows have drawn curtains that no one ever opens or peeks out of. I have no idea what goes on over there, as I’ve never been. The exam rooms are on the short ends of the building.

  I wheel backward at an angle, pivoting myself so I can turn around. My wheels feel a bit grimy. I think the floor cleaner they use makes the wheels stickier. I suppose a motorized chair would make this a non-issue. But, ever since I’ve been like this, I’ve wanted to be independent. I don’t want to rely on electronics to do basic things. It is bad enough I have to depend on this chair. No need to add a motor to the mix.

  I wheel myself to the kitchenette where I wash and dry my hands. I am heading through the living area to my bedroom, where I left my reader, when there is a knock at the door. I am in the middle of the open room, about twenty feet from the bedroom door, and the same distance from the suite door. It is odd to have knocking as Barbara tends to announce her entrance as she walks through the door.

  “Come in,” I call, positioning myself so I am facing the door directly.

  The man who enters is dressed in a FoSS military uniform, the standard dark green, but with a silver bird insignia on each shoulder, probably to indicate his rank. There’s also a collage of colorful medals there, another sign he’s considered important by somebody in our military. The man has dark brown hair cut short with a few dollops of gray mixed in. If I were a betting woman, I’d say he’s in his late forties or early fifties. Striding toward me, his shiny black shoes clack gently on the floor, and he smiles when he reaches me. Giving a polite head bob, he says, “I’m Col. John Parker.”

  I return his smile but say nothing. His rank implies he is in charge, but I’m not sure why he’s here. Part of me wonders if Rob sent him. I have been here two months and had no contact with anyone who appeared to be in charge. Yet, two days after Rob appeared, I am meeting with a colonel.

  “Do you mind if I sit?” the colonel asks, looking briefly at the room’s seating options: a sofa in the center, a chair cattycorner to it, or a desk chair in the corner. To his credit, he waits still as a statue until I flash a polite smile, point to the sofa, and say, “Go ahead.”

  I follow him to the sofa, where he sits so he is facing me. “Ms. Harper, you are as you’ve been described.”

  Though a bit surprised by this remark, I don’t let it show. When you don’t know who the players are, it’s wise to never look like anything has caught you off-guard. I arch one eyebrow ruefully. “What exactly is it you’ve heard about me?”

  “That you’re bright, independent, spirited.”

  Worse could’ve been said. But, he’s clearly attempting to flatter me, so I smile like this is wonderful news. If I hadn’t been stuck here for the past two months, I might be in the mood to play this little game with him. However, I have been here far too long and decide to cut to the chase. “Are you in charge here, Colonel?”

  “Yes,” he says, quickly, firmly, almost as if he is expecting me to challenge him.

  “You are holding me against my will. Why?”

  He purses his lips, leans forward slightly. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  I stifle a snort. He’s got to be kidding. After two months, this is the first he’d like to talk to me! It’s a struggle, but I manage a neutral tone when I say, “I’m listening.”

  “Who have you told you are being held against your will?”

  Crap. Is Rob in trouble? I believe I’ve managed to look indifferent, despite my racing heart. The colonel is watching me intently, like he’s waiting for me to give away my secrets. I’m experienced enough to keep my face under control, but his words have made me panicky inside. Has he done something to Rob? “I haven’t told anyone. I haven’t had anyone to tell,” I say nonchalantly, then add, “Except for you.”

  He sits up straight and gives an accepting nod. “No, I expect you haven’t. I believe your friend, Sen. Reed, is the culprit.”

  “I haven’t spoken to Sen. Reed,” I tell him, matter-of-factly, keeping my eyes on his face at all times, looking for even the slightest clue as to what is going on. Clearly, the colonel is also very good at not giving away secrets.

  “No, but he’s been trying to infiltrate my staff, find out what we’re doing here with you, and how to get you out.”

  I am overjoyed to hear this, though I suppress the smile that wants to emerge. Instead, I cock my head slightly. “Why not give him his way? Why not let me out?”

  His eyes are dark and admonishing. “Ms. Harper, you are not here as a punishment. You have been brought here for your own good.”

  At this, I am unable to hid
e my incredulity. Coming from Barbara, who is making the best of her duties, I find this lie palatable. Coming from him, a man whose picture you’d find next to the phrase “no nonsense” in a dictionary, it defies logic. “You’ll beg my pardon if I don’t quite understand how this,” I wave my arm around at the surroundings, “is in my best interest.”

  “Ms. Harper,” he says, undeterred, as if I’ve not just mocked his explanation. “I want you to brace yourself; I have news that you aren’t expecting.” He reaches out and touches my knee with his hand. Even though this is the one emotion I have worked hardest to control, it is the one I cannot master. I grimace as I see his hand on my knee, yet experience no sensation there. I stare at his hand, wishing I could feel what I’m supposed to: his soft fingers exerting a small but comforting amount of pressure. But I will never enjoy the familiarity of human touch on my legs again. My paralysis is permanent, unfixable.

  The coldness and emptiness coursing through me resonate in my voice when I tell the colonel, “I am braced, and I’ll be ready to hear your news as soon as you remove your hand from my knee.”

  We both stare as he retracts his hand. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

  I want this over. “You were saying,” I prompt. “Your news?”

  “Yes, right,” he says, and clasps his hands together. His face stiffens, and he takes in a gulp of air before speaking. “Ms. Harper, I believe we can reverse your paralysis.”

  If you enjoyed this peek at Second Life, you can order that book here, or if you’d like to read the entire series, you can order the Boxed Set here.

  Book Club Questions

  1. The book’s title is Life First, the mantra of this futuristic society. Having completed the book, what meaning do you take from the title?

  2. In the book, there is much discussion about body rights, and whether a person should have their healthy body operated on for the sole purpose of saving the life of someone else. What is your opinion on body rights? Would you donate an organ to a friend, a family member or a stranger?