Again I dig the end of my key into the crease and soon the container pops open. I’m careful not to spill the contents onto the floor, but panic fills me when I see at least ten depressors that I’ll need to open to get to the vial inside.
My heart thrums in my chest. I’m terrified I’ll be caught at any moment, but I twist the first depressor open. It releases a low hiss, and I’m careful not to touch the prickly edges at the bottom. I recognize the drug label as a simple sedative, and lay it aside with a groan. One after the other I pull them open and find nothing but sedatives.
Activity stirs outside in the hallway.
I check the remaining depressors. Two more to go. Just two more.
“Can I help you?”
I almost drop the depressor as my eyes dart up. Nobody is there, but I recognize the voice as Nurse Brown’s. She must be just outside the door.
“We’re here from the Empire to check on Mrs. Walsh’s progress,” a man’s stern voice replies as I forget how to breathe.
Somehow, I manage to move. I take the remaining two depressors and place them in my pocket.
I need to hide.
Sliding the sharps container closed with a low click that I’m sure will give me away, I bite my lip until I almost draw blood.
Voices still rumble outside and I release a breath. I know at any moment they’ll come in and find me. Me, the childhood friend of the escaped convict Darian. Me, the girl caught talking with said convict on the tram last night and, if I’m caught, me, the girl with a secret medication in my pocket.
It’s more attention than one person should ever bring on themselves and more than enough to send me straight to the Terrorscape. Maybe it’s only more sedatives in my pocket, but it’s proof that I’ve been snooping.
“She’s should be sleeping now,” I hear Nurse Brown say. “One of the nursing students was—”
“Nursing students?” the man growls. “There were to be no nursing students caring for Mrs. Walsh.”
Nurse Brown clears her throat. “I was going to say that one of the nursing students was mentioning to me how quiet she is today.”
Thank God for Nurse Brown’s self-preservation. But soon it won’t matter about her lies because the head officials are going to find me in Mrs. Walsh’s room.
My heart beats so hard it hurts. I search for a spot to hide, my eyes darting instantly to the bed. It’s too low for me to fit under. And the window isn’t an option. We’re on the psychiatric ward and bars line the windows for the patient’s protection.
Then I see it.
Above Mrs. Walsh’s bed is a grate. It looks wide enough for me to fit through. Not wasting another second, I jump up on her bed and carefully step onto her night stand. Stretching up, I ease the grill open. It takes all of my strength, but I manage to pull myself up into the dark, cramped space. A cool breeze flutters the thin fabric of the cap covering my hair.
When my knees meet the flexible metal, it heaves and moves under my weight with a crackling, thumping sound. Easing the grate closed, I then move away from the grate an inch and lie flat on my stomach as quickly and quietly as I can. The space is just big enough to accommodate my size. Now, all I can do is wait. Sweat beads on my lip as I clench and unclench my hands.
From my vantage point, I watch two men stalk into the room and flank Mrs. Walsh’s bed. Nurse Brown follows closely behind.
“I told you she’d be resting,” she says. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Can you excuse us, please.” It’s a statement, not a question, from the blond-haired guy. His short, spiky hair isn’t a natural color either. It’s ultra-blond in a neon yellow kind of way. Both men wear the uniform of The Protectorate. Five small gold stars stitched into their gray uniforms directly below the owl logo indicates they are high-standing officials. But all I can think of is why aren’t they wearing the precautions garb? Aren’t they afraid of catching whatever she has? I search Nurse Brown’s face for some kind of reaction, some indication that she’s thinking the same thing, but there’s nothing.
She nods and leaves the room in silence.
The blond official leans in, checking the time setting on the Syncro-Drifter. “It’s good,” he says.
The other official, tall and stocky with brown hair, jabs at his data port with the stylus wand. “Says here her husband and daughter have been treated as well. The little girl is at a hospital in James Town and the husband…” He taps the screen again. “He’s in Flannery.”
“And the neighbors? Friends?” asks the blond guy as he scans Mrs. Walsh’s wrist. His scanner beeps and he reads the scroll across the top. “Just making sure,” he says to the other guy. “No room for error on this one.”
“It’s good to see you’re thorough. Never get too comfortable on the job. You’re keen now because you’re new, but don’t ever lose that edge. And as for the friends and neighbors? They’ve all been questioned thoroughly. The Walshes thought they hid the baby well. Nobody seems to know anything. And now, neither does she,” he says with a laugh.
I cover my mouth as a gasp seeps from my lips. Jax does exist! And I know that means Sophia does too! The medication obviously erases memories somehow.
“And the medication will engage more, adapting to her cells the longer she sleeps under the Dreamscape,” he continues. “The Dreamscape’s sonic pulses are the active ingredient that disperses the medication.” A sly smirk crosses his face.
Anger spikes in my bloodstream. I want to jump out, rip the Syncro-Drifter from the wall, and wrap it around their necks. I need to find Darian—and tell him he’s right about everything.
“I wish it didn’t have to be like this. It seems kind of cruel.” The stocky guy scowls at the blond man in a warning, and the blond guy quickly changes the topic. “So, who was the informant?”
Stocky Guy taps at his data port again. “You won’t believe it. It was a co-worker of hers. Davis Tate. And once somebody in the public is aware, we need to move in immediately.”
I can’t believe it. I know of Davis Tate from the news. He’s Ellery Walsh’s co-anchor. This is crazy.
Blond Guy rubs his fingers up and down his chin. “And you’re sure she won’t forget her life other than everything to do with Jax? If we have to do this, it has to be done right. We don’t want her to suspect something is up with Mr. Tate, either. You’re positive we’re good?” He inclines his head toward Stocky Guy. “Because Prime Minister Vega personally warned our class that he won’t take well to any mistakes. He said it might call for a run in the Terrorscape.”
Of course Prime Minister Vega is in on it, but it still makes me ill to hear that the man I’ve always looked up to and respected is really just evil.
Stocky Guy sticks the data port back into his jacket pocket. “Relax, Max. I checked it myself. The highest scientists at The Empire’s labs have gotten it right down to every axon, neuron, and delivery path throughout the body. It’s worked in with each person’s specific DNA to make it an exact science.”
This guy sounds anything but stupid. I can’t help but think that if they’re in here without wearing the required precautions garb, that Mrs. Walsh is not contagious. It hits me that it’s just another way The Protectorate instills their fear into us. They would want us to believe that someone spouting things the way Mrs. Walsh was talking about stolen babies is clearly ill—and infectious.
I roll my eyes as Stocky Guy lifts a shoulder. “The only thing that will be wiped from her memory will be everything and anything to do with the child.”
Just hearing them talking about Jax, as if he’s an inanimate object instead of a child, makes bile rise in my throat.
But where’s Jax? I will them to talk about it, wanting to rescue the boy and, with any luck, find Sophia, too.
Stocky Guy lowers his voice until it’s a whisper I can’t quite make out. I lean in closer to the grate and the metal buckles underneath me, accompanied by an odd thumping sound that echoes.
Their heads simultaneously sna
p up in my direction. I grit my teeth.
“Hello?” Stocky Guy says. He nods toward Max. “Check it out.”
“What the hell?” Max hops onto the nightstand so quickly, I have no time to gasp.
I twist around, teeth chattering. Now there’s no mistaking the loud bending and heaving of the metal beneath my knees as I race through the cramped space. I wish I could stand and run, but there’s no room. Darkness surrounds me. All I know is that I need to move.
I vaguely hear the grate open behind me, but I don’t look back.
“Get back here!” Max yells. His grunting tells me he’s having trouble fitting through, but I don’t look back.
After several feet, the space divides into a fork. Left or right. I try to think of where it could lead, but the heaving of the metal alerts me that Max has wedged in.
Quickly, I turn right. Panting for breath, hot air soon fills my mask, suffocating me. I tug up the end of my gown, freeing up my legs to move faster.
Hands, knees, hands, knees, moving swiftly, pounding into the darkness.
Max’s heavy breathing looms behind me. “Relax,” he says, “I just want to talk.” But I know that being caught in these circumstances will get me much more than a conversation.
I reach a dead end and peer through the grate that locks me in like a prison. The room below looks empty except for a bunch of bots plugged into receptacles on the wall. They’re stacked on shelves three stories high. Surveillance cameras are secured around the room, peering eyes at every corner. My heart leaps, but then I notice a trash can below the grate. It looks like it’s filled with parts for the bots and won’t make for a soft landing, but I have no choice.
I bash the grate with the palm of my hand, but it doesn’t move. Shit, shit, shit. It takes a moment and I curse my long limbs, but somehow I twist around, using up valuable time, and kick out the grate with a gratifying thud.
More heavy breathing comes huffing behind me. Closer, so dangerously close, but his breaths are raspy like he has asthma, which I pray will slow him down.
There’s no room for me to sit up and jump. I’ll have to go feet first. I look at the hole. If I don’t go now, I’ll lose my chance. My stomach lurches, but I shove off from my hands, propelling myself forward. Down, down, down. Every muscle in my body tenses for impact.
Whatever I hit is hard, knocking the wind out of me. I’m trying to suck in air, in deep, hollow, raspy breaths. Surrounding me are bot limbs, old and used. They engulf me on all sides until I feel like I’m drowning. Still gasping for air, I drag myself to the top and push myself over the side of the large receptacle, keeping my head low, thankful, so thankful for the mask and cap concealing my identity.
I burst through the doorway, stumbling out, and realize I’m in the front entranceway of the hospital. I press my back against the wall beside the door, doubling over, panting. I need to keep moving, but I can’t breathe.
A firm hand grips my shoulder and I bolt upright, a small squeal escaping my lips before I clasp my hand over my mouth.
It takes a second, but then I realize it’s Mr. Williams. “What’s wrong, Desiree?” he asks, worry etching his face.
“Someone’s…someone’s,” I gasp, and point to the door I just ran through, unable to finish my sentence.
Mr. Walsh eyes a surveillance camera, then resumes mopping. He whispers without looking at me, “Is someone following you?”
I nod once, lower the mask just beneath my nose, and inhale cool, blessed air. I know I can’t just leave the hospital and run home. If I do, they’ll for sure know it was me. I need to get back up onto the floor and find Sage before he reports me missing. “I need to get back upstairs,” I breathe out. “And fast.”
Behind the door I just bolted from comes a loud crash. I imagine Max has found his way into the container of bot parts. He’s coming for me.
Mr. Williams spins around, spits on the floor just outside the door. Within seconds, Diesel spins into action. “Carcinoma,” Diesel drones out and wedges his strong, metal foot up against the door.
Carcinoma? I know that word from my studies. My stomach does a flip as I register that Mr. Williams has cancer, but before I have a chance to say anything, he grips my arm and gives me a gentle shove. He mops the floor where I just stood as though it was the reason he moved me and I know he’s trying to protect me from prying eyes. Coughing into his elbow, he then says in a barely distinguishable voice, “At the end of this hallway there’s an industrial elevator. Get on it and you go on and get back up to class, you hear?”
“But—”
“Now, go on,” he says. “Don’t you be worrying about an old man now,” he says in a soft, kind voice.
I race toward the elevator, Max’s voice booming from around the corner. “Out of my way.”
“Don’t move,” Mr. Williams says in a stern voice, “or you’ll need a trip to the CDC for a hose down.”
I find my way to the elevator, filled with a mixture of relief over my getaway and sadness, knowing Mr. Williams is sick. Mostly, I’m hysterical, trembling all over, still in shock over what I just did, adrenaline rushing through me.
I pull the two decompressors from my pocket, desperate for it to be something other than a sedative.
The first one I open reads: Falnesia.
I can’t help but pump my fist into the air as tears wet my lashes. Just to be sure, I check the second vial, and, as suspected, it’s nothing but a sedative. I slip the empty Falnesia vial back inside its depressor casing and tuck it into the side of my bra.
Of all the drugs I studied in pharmacology, Falnesia is definitely not one of them. This must be the empty vial of the mystery drug brought by the Empire. My one small victory lights me up, sending a buzz rocketing through my veins.
I may never find Sophia or the other Unwanted, but what I do have is proof. Proof that everything is not what it seems. And if The Protectorate is altering people’s memories and stealing children, I can’t help but wonder what other corruption is going on all around us—while we remain oblivious under the powerful effects of the Dreamscape.
Chapter Eighteen
After tossing my gown and other precautions garb in the trash, I quickly get back to my patient and find Sage. He tells me that Mrs. Walsh’s room has now been put under guard. The officials are asking the staff questions, patrolling the floor, and otherwise looking completely annoyed. I’m grateful the tunnel was dark and for the gear that helped conceal me, making it impossible to identify me, but I still stay out of their way the rest of the day. I’m even more thankful that Sage is a good friend and, even though he suspects I had everything to do with the commotion going on, he doesn’t say a thing. Still, I think it takes an hour for my heart rate to go back to a normal rhythm.
On the way home I decide that somehow I need to find Darian. I have no idea where to start, but I remember he mentioned something about heading into the metro part of Tower when he broke into my house that one time. I wonder if that’s where he hides out.
His last poetic words are mixed up in my mind, but I remember it was something about shimmering mist. I don’t know if he meant to look for him on a foggy night, or what his mystery lingo means, but as hopeless as trying to find Darian in the metro streets seems, I have to try. And if I can’t find him in the metro, I’ll check the tree house, otherwise known as the Dungeon.
First, though, I plan to talk to Coral. She’s the one who gave me the hair comb, and I’m convinced she has to know something.
My parents left a note on the kitchen counter reminding me they’re working the night shift for the next two weeks, and that leftovers are in the fridge. Because they work alternating twelve-hour shifts—two weeks of days and two weeks of nights—for now, I gratefully can avoid them. Keeping up a happy façade around my parents is growing more difficult as the days pass.
I grab the hair comb from my dresser, slip it into my hair, carefully tuck the paper napkin holding the hair strand into my pocket, and head next door.
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When Owen lets me in, I notice Coral chopping vegetables on a cutting board in the kitchen. The scent of something tangy tickles my nose and my stomach grumbles. I realize that, with all the craziness at the hospital today, I skipped lunch.
“Oh, hey, Desiree,” Coral says, glancing over her shoulder. “What a great surprise.” She pulls out a seat at the kitchen table and gestures for me to sit down. “Shia’s having a nap and I’m cooking up a stir-fry. Why don’t you stay for dinner?” She smiles, pops a piece of celery in her mouth, and mumbles, “I know your parents are working the night shift.”
“Thanks. That would be great.” I stroll past the chair and slide up beside her. Anything is better than leftovers. “Need some help?”
“You can help me set the table if you’d like,” she says as she grabs a red pepper from the fridge.
Owen heads down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “I’m starving, so let me know when dinner’s ready.”
I laugh. Owen is always starving. The first thing I do is grab the horseradish from the fridge and place it on the table. Owen eats the burn-your-face-off stuff on absolutely everything. I’m surprised the lining of his stomach hasn’t dissolved.
I’m not sure how to bring up the topic of the hair comb, so I just blurt it out in my usual style. “So…” I say. “Where did you get this hair comb, Coral?”
Her back stiffens for a second, then she turns to me and smiles. “At the Grange, honey. Why, you like it?” She twirls back around and starts chopping the pepper, dumping the pieces into the pan. Puffs of smoke billow up as the ingredients sizzle. Coral lowers the setting on the stovetop, then resumes chopping.
“But you told me it belonged to somebody special that you knew,” I shoot back.
She places the knife on the cutting board. Twisting around, she presses her back against the counter and grips her fingers around its edge. “Right. Well, it originally came from the Grange. It belonged to someone special…a friend.” She shifts to the kitchen cabinet and begins pulling plates from the cupboard. “Why are you asking, hon?” she asks, her voice quavering a bit.
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