by Jim Kroepfl
“Have they determined why he can’t … breathe?”
“They think he contracted a parasite while visiting relatives in Mexico. He went before he came here, which is why at first they thought it was caused by the procedure.”
“It had crossed my mind that whatever is happening to him might start affecting the rest of us,” I admit.
“You can take that worry out of your head. Merging is perfectly safe.”
Between Deborah’s and Jules’s assurances, I’m feeling more carefree. I start eating my embarrassingly large slab of meatloaf. “Has Stryker been here today?”
“No, I’ve only seen Anna when she grabbed something to eat between dream sessions. She was barely awake and didn’t have a lot to say, which wasn’t such a tragedy.”
I smirk conspiratorially. “I think Marty’s the only one she talks to anymore.”
Marty!
The image of him huddled in the library comes rushing back. I was going to ask Deborah to check on him. And I didn’t. How could I have forgotten something so important? Fear grabs hold of me like a magnet.
“Have you seen Marty today?” Please, please, please let him be okay.
“First thing this morning. He said he’d finished writing a new chapter.” Jules’s eyes shift to study Orfyn’s painting.
I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. He’s fine. But this memory lapse was far more serious than forgetting a word. I slide my journal under the table and write, Tell Deborah I forgot about Marty.
He wouldn’t want everyone to know how he was acting in the library, especially the Gossip Girl. “Did he seem all right to you?”
Her perkiness plunges a few notches. “It won’t be a secret for long. He’s being moved to the Darwinians’ wing for observation.” She leans in closer. “He agreed to undergo treatment for depression, which I find so admirable. I mean, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a disease.”
If Marty had done something to hurt himself—I shove away the thought. My failing wasn’t as disastrous as I feared.
Jules pats her flat stomach. “I’m stuffed. I’ll be right back. I’m in serious need of caffeine.” She picks up her barely eaten lunch and heads to the kitchen.
I hurriedly eat my meatloaf before she returns, feeling like I’m doing something wrong by consuming calories. A drip of gravy flies off my fork and lands on the worn cover of Jules’s book. I carefully wipe off the gravy with a napkin, and luckily it doesn’t leave a grease stain. What is so fascinating about this particular book?
I flip open the cover. Glued to the inside is a manila pocket that once held a log of borrowers and due dates. Stamped in red on the pocket is The Flemming Academy Library. It was here long before this building was remodeled into the Darwinians’ secret laboratory. I notice a slight impression in the pocket and pull out a crystal rectangle. Why would Jules have a keycard when the rest of us don’t?
Something occurs to me that should have occurred to me sooner. How does Jules know Marty is being treated for depression? I just finished debriefing with Deborah, and she didn’t mention it. Or tell me about Alex’s diagnosis. I can’t see Cecil being so cavalier with my classmates’ medical information.
According to Jules, she’d seen Marty this morning, and he told her he’d finished a new chapter. But he was distraught because he couldn’t get the first paragraph perfect. How did I not catch that earlier? And what else has Jules been lying about?
Out of nowhere, I get this feeling that something is wrong with Marty, more than just him being depressed. I have no logical reason to believe it, but even though I keep reminding myself that a competent researcher relies on facts, I can’t shake the feeling. Is it Mom or Sophie warning me?
I see Jules returning and grab her keycard, slipping it into my back pocket.
“Back to slicing dead human brains.” I stand to leave.
“Gross!” Jules squeals.
As soon as I’m out of her sight, I write in my journal, Verify that Marty is okay.
Lake
I don’t know why Jules lied about Marty’s writing. But considering how he was acting in the library, there is the possibility he’s clinically depressed. Jules didn’t lie about that part, so she may be telling the truth about him being moved to the Darwinians’ wing. In a restricted area.
When I first arrived, Deborah had explained that certain areas are restricted because it’s where the Darwinians live. She’d chuckled and admitted it’s the only place they can get away from us. I’m not sure how many restricted areas there are since I’ve never had a reason to test which doors are locked. I wouldn’t be surprised if Stryker knows. I should get him, but I may not have long before Jules discovers I swiped the keycard.
My heart is pounding in my ears. Why am I so nervous? I’m not planning to steal their secrets and open my own you-too-can-live-in-someone-else’s-brain business. But I will be where I’m not supposed to be.
I open my journal and review my sketch of The Flem. I turn down what I think is the right hall and come upon the person I’ve been avoiding. Before I can back away, Orfyn looks up and smiles.
My carefully-thought-out apology vanishes as my eyes glom onto the wall covered in gruesome, devilish creatures. One is hacking at a human as others watch in glee, and another is vomiting up smaller monsters. It’s truly disturbing.
“Is there a reason you’re painting this?” I ask, wondering if I’ve been intuitive about avoiding him.
“A lot of Catholic churches have paintings of demons to show the congregation that their actions have consequences. I thought the Darwinians could use a reminder.”
“Orfyn, why do they need a reminder?”
The mischief in his eyes evaporates. “It’s complicated.”
I edge closer and whisper in his ear, “Are we in danger?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
Why do I continue to allow Stryker’s distrust to influence me? For all I know, Orfyn is retaliating because they forgot to order his art supplies.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I tighten my grip on the stolen keycard. I’ve seen Orfyn paint often enough to know he’s not leaving until his work is finished. I could abandon my plan, but I owe this to Marty. The problem is, there’s not a semi-believable lie to explain how I got the key, and why I need to sneak into the restricted area.
I open my hand. “I’m looking for Marty,” I mouth, then shoot my eyes to the Darwinians’ wing.
Orfyn’s brows meet. He leans down and whispers, “What’s he doing in there?” His breath tickles my neck, sending shivers down my spine.
“I’ll explain later,” I whisper back.
He points to his chest, then to the doors.
I can either lose precious minutes whispering protests, or give in. Honestly, it would be a relief to have someone come with me. If only Orfyn didn’t look so cute with that streak of yellow paint on his forehead.
I wave the keycard over the panel and hear a click. I’d been hoping I was wrong about what Jules’s key unlocks. I open my journal and add, Jules’s key unlocks the Darwinians’ wing.
Orfyn looks at me curiously.
I just confirmed to him that I can’t trust my own memory. I’ll have to deal with that later.
After the door closes behind us, Orfyn says at a normal volume, “I doubt they have bugs in their own wing.”
“Good point. If we see anyone, we’ll tell them the door was left ajar.”
He nods. “We need a reason for being here.”
“We’ll say we heard someone crying out in … in pain and we were concerned.”
“Works for me.”
I finally notice my surroundings. I expected the Darwinians’ wing to resemble the Sanctuary’s décor, but it’s the standard white walls, white tile floors and no embellishments. Our wing is vibrant now, thanks to Orfyn’s paintings.
“Tell me what’s going on with Marty,�
� he says.
“Jules told me he’s being treated for depression and he was moved to the Darwinian’s wing. I saw him last night, and I can believe that part. But she lied to me about his writing, and then I found this kite, I mean, key in her book. So now I’m questioning everything she’s told me.”
“Why would Jules lie?”
“I don’t know. That’s why we’re here.”
If I tell him about forgetting to ask Deborah to talk to Cecil about Marty, Orfyn’s going to lose any respect he may have had for me. I opt for a different truth. “I have this feeling I can’t shake. I think something is wrong with Marty.”
Instead of questioning my sanity, Orfyn simply says, “Let’s go look for him.”
We make our way down the hall, reading the name plates as we pass. There’s actually quite a few Darwinians I don’t know. It’s the afternoon, and they all must be working. Even though I’ve devoted three minutes of thought to my plan, the timing couldn’t be better.
It feels as if there’s a liter of adrenaline running through my veins. I make myself say, “What are those double doors near the end of the hall?”
As we get closer, we hear muffled voices coming from behind the plaque labeled Conference Room.
“We sure could use an invisibility cloak,” Orfyn whispers.
“If only I brought propylene and triethylene glycol.”
He gives me a quizzical look.
“It creates an instant dense fog.” For the thousandth time, I wonder if chemistry joke is an oxymoron.
The conference room doorknob turns, and the door opens a crack. We press ourselves against the wall, which doesn’t do much to conceal us. I suddenly really do wish I had my chemistry kit on me.
“I have to say it again,” we hear from the room. “It’s not the results we anticipated, but it’s a true game changer.” I don’t recognize the man’s voice.
“As you both suggest, I’ll give some more thought to my decision,” says a woman who begins to cough violently.
I point to an elevator at the end of the hall, and we rush past the conference room. Orfyn pushes the button, the elevator doors slide open, and we step in without being seen. My heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s.
The elevator buttons are labelled -1, 1, 2, and 3. “The elevator in our wing doesn’t have a button for the third floor.”
“Nope. There also aren’t any stairs that lead up to it.” Orfyn hovers his finger over the 3 and looks at me questioningly. “If we go up there, our excuse that we heard something isn’t going to cut it.”
“Then let’s not get caught.” I push the button labeled 3, hoping this isn’t one of those times when bravado is synonymous with stupidity.
The elevator doesn’t ascend.
“Try the keycard,” Orfyn suggests.
I pass it in front of the black panel above the buttons, then press 3 again. I hear a sound behind me. We turn to see the rear wall sliding open, exposing a stone staircase.
“That’s not what I was expecting.” My voice sounds like I inhaled helium.
Orfyn stands straighter. “We’re doing this, right?”
I give him the nod. I have to see this through for Marty. My eyes follow the worn stairs leading up. The walls are covered in dark wood paneling, and it’s well-lit by a large hanging lamp with six round globes. Why is this place designed so we have no access to the third floor?
As we make our way up the steps, Orfyn says, “Why didn’t they keep the rest of the The Flem looking like this?”
That’s what he’s thinking right now? I’m trying not to pee my pants.
“Look at this.” Orfyn points to the banister. Carved into the wood is: Ashley Chambers 1916, Lest We Forget. “World War I.” Orfyn runs his fingertips across the hundred-year-old tribute. “They called it the ‘war to end all wars.’”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Stryker and … Bjorn can create a more peaceful world?”
A look of annoyance flashes across Orfyn’s face, and then it’s gone. “We’ve got to believe they can.”
We reach the top step and are met by a hallway going off in opposite directions. The same globe lamps extend down the ceiling, casting a soft, yellow glow. This floor hasn’t changed since the last class let out who knows how many years ago. I’d expect it to be musty, but it has a sharp disinfectant smell.
When a phone rings, my heart skips a beat. We’re not alone. After a few seconds, a woman’s voice says, “I’ll be right there.”
Orfyn opens the nearest door and pulls me in. The room contains whirring and beeping mainframe computers, which is an anachronism next to the blackboard that still has chalk smudges on it. The woman’s shoes click-clack on the tile floor in the hallway. The sound grows closer, passes us, and then fades as she descends the stairs.
Orfyn looks at me questioningly.
“The cleaning ladies I know don’t wear high heels.” I take a bracing breath. “We need to see what’s down there.”
Orfyn takes my hand, and it feels like I’m touching a bare electrical wire. I know I should let go, but it’s giving me the courage to do this. As we creep down the hall, I hear the sound of squishes doing a body’s breathing, and blips monitoring a beating heart.
Please, let me be wrong.
I peer into the last room. A row of hospital beds line the far wall. My stomach drops when I recognize the face nearest the door.
It’s Marty.
Plastic tubes snake out of his nose and arms, electrodes are attached to his shaven head, and he’s hooked up to a number of machines. As he lies unconscious, he barely looks ten years old.
“This isn’t how they treat depression,” I whisper.
Orfyn touches Marty’s shoulder and shakes it, but he doesn’t wake up.
“He has a … a feeding tube,” I say with a shaky voice. “They must think he’s going to be here for a while.”
The memory of Marty’s keening rings in my head. He was sleeping when I returned from Cecil’s. What happened to him?
Orfyn gestures to the other six kids. “Who are they?”
Lake
One of the machines begins beeping rapidly.
Orfyn says, “We need to get out of here.”
I gaze at the unconscious kids as frustration replaces my shock. I need to help them. But how? Oryfyn is right, though. Putting our positions as Nobels at stake will only prevent us from being able to figure out what’s going on.
We sprint down the stairs and enter the bizarre elevator. After the doors on the other side open, Orfyn peeks down the hall. “We’re in the clear.”
We fast-walk it until reaching the conference room, where we begin to tiptoe, but no voices come from behind the double doors. I don’t breathe until we reach the door leading to safety. Orfyn pulls it open a crack, peeks through, and waves for me to follow. Seconds after the door shuts behind us, a man with black, glistening hair rounds the corner from the unrestricted area.
“What are you two doing here?” His eyes shoot to the wall of ghastly creatures. “And what the hell is that?”
“It’s a classic theme,” Orfyn says with a straight face.
“I don’t want to see that dreck every day. Get rid of it. Now.”
“I don’t keep that much white paint in my bag,” Orfyn says with a shrug.
I keep my mouth shut since he’s handling the situation far better than I ever would.
The Darwinian studies Orfyn as if he’s a parasite. “I’ll get Maintenance to take care of it. Both of you, get out of here.”
Orfyn methodically packs up his supplies while the Darwinian glares at him, then slings the canvas bag over his shoulder. He puts a lot of thought into what he paints. I still want to understand why the Darwinians need to consider the consequences of their actions. And I have to remember it until I have the opportunity to write myself a note.
The Darwinian says, “You’d better believe I’ll discuss this incident wi
th your Guardian.”
“I don’t have one,” Orfyn says.
I ask, “Why not?”
“Good question,” Orfyn says.
I’d just assumed Cecil was Orfyn’s Mentor since I know Deborah oversees Alex, Anna and me.
The Darwinian points. “Go. Now.”
We reach the exit door and simultaneously press the bar that releases us to the outside. Fake schoolyard air never smelled so restorative.
“Let’s go over to that tree to talk,” Orfyn says.
Before finding Marty, I would’ve rejected his suggestion because I do my best thinking alone. And Orfyn is far too distracting. But discovering a row of unconscious kids with shaved heads changes one’s perspective.
We head over to the same tree that Stryker and I had huddled under in the rainstorm. Orfyn grabs a branch, pulls himself up, and settles on a thick limb four feet off the ground. “Want some help up?”
“I can do it, but first I need a minute.”
I open my journal and document, Elevator. 3rd floor. Marty unconscious. Shaved head. Feeding tube. The thought of that room makes me shudder. I add, Six others.
I glance up at Orfyn, who’s intently watching me create reminders. I’m glad he came with me, but I need to ask him to keep the news about my journaling to himself. I don’t want the others to start questioning my competence.
I stare at the page. There’s something else I was going to document, but now I can’t recall what it is. Deborah believes my memory glitches are temporary, but it’s happening more frequently. A flutter of fear ripples through me, and I try to dismiss it. I’ll be better as soon as the pills Deborah prescribed me start taking effect.
I prop my journal against the trunk and attempt to lift myself into the tree. I end up looking like I’m having a seizure. Orfyn grabs my arms and easily hoists me up. His touch sends sparks through me. I scooch down the branch to create space between us so I can think more clearly.
He leans his head back. “Aren’t clouds amazing?”
After what we just discovered, he wants to discuss condensation? “Can we focus on—”