This Strange and Familiar Place

by Rachel Carter

  “When did you get here?” Wes demands.

  “I, um . . .” LJ blushes even more, though I’m not sure how it’s physically possible. “I was here the whole time. In there.” He points behind him, toward his room. His body is holding the sheet back from the doorway, and I can see the harsh light from his computer monitor.

  Wes opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s clearly shaken; it’s not like him to be unaware of someone’s presence when they’re that close, even if they are as quiet as LJ.

  Wes is many things, but easily fazed is not one of them. I take a small step toward him.

  “I, sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . you know.” LJ moves his hands awkwardly in front of his body.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “We had a question for you anyway. Could we borrow your computer for a minute?”

  “Sure. But, um . . . there’s something I think I should tell you.”

  “What is it?” Wes sounds impatient, which also isn’t like him; he must be really rattled.

  LJ’s face falls, and his large brown eyes make him look like a kitten that just got kicked. “I uh, did something that you might not like. I think you two need to know about it.”

  I tilt my head, watching him carefully. “What did you do?”

  He bites his lip, hesitating. Then his brow furrows and he stands up a little taller. “It’s in here.”

  Wes and I exchange a glance before following him.

  The bedroom is small, with two mattresses lying on the ground and a sliver of a window. A makeshift desk dominates the back wall, made of plywood and milk crates. LJ’s computer rests on top in a tangle of wires. It is clunky and overly large, with a dull, black screen.

  LJ stands over his monitor, his back to both of us. “Tag asked me to keep an eye on that stuff you left here. And, um . . . I looked inside.”

  I feel a twinge of panic, and I turn to stare at Wes. Tag was supposed to keep the information on my grandfather safe.

  What did LJ do?

  Unaware of our reaction, or maybe hiding from it, he sits down at the desk and starts to type something. The computer screen in front of him is black, with a bright blue cursor that blinks at the top of the page. “Those letters and numbers that were written in that book, The Metamorphosis, I recognized them.” He says the words slightly robotically, and I realize he’s only half paying attention to us. Funny how he forgets to be embarrassed when he’s caught up in his digital world.

  Wes’s cheekbones are more pronounced, like he’s gritting his teeth together hard. “So you’re saying that you stole our personal property when you knew we didn’t want anyone to find it.” His voice is deceptively calm, and the sound of it breaks through the computer spell around LJ. He turns to look up at Wes, but when he sees his face, he cowers back down in his seat.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “But I found something I think you’ll want to see.”

  “What was there to find?” My voice isn’t much friendlier than Wes’s was, but maybe LJ found something we can use. “Wes and I thought they were just a random pattern.”

  “But they’re not.” Despite the glacial freeze emanating from Wes, LJ is beginning to sound excited. “They don’t make much sense the way they’re written, it’s true. But then I realized they weren’t just letters, they were elements, and it all came together.”

  “Elements?” Wes sounds curious, though the coldness never leaves his tone.

  LJ ducks a little lower, but his excitement is clearly outweighing his self-preservation. “It looks like nonsense, but when you arrange it in a different way . . .” He holds out a sheet of scribbled-on paper, and Wes peers at it.

  “It’s a molecular formula,” Wes finishes.

  “A what?” I lean over Wes’s arm, and see: SO4N2H11C9-O-C9H11N2O4S. I remember seeing formulas like that in chemistry class.

  “It’s a serum of sorts. It looks like it could be a type of medicine or something.” LJ drops the paper back down on his desk. “The strain isn’t that far from the makeup of penicillin. That’s how I recognized some of the numbers in the first place.”

  “Why did you do this? Why do you care?” Now Wes sounds suspicious, and I tense. I feel like I should be prepared for something, though I’m not sure what it is. But if Wes thinks that LJ might be involved with the Project, then we have a huge problem on our hands.

  “I like solving problems. Stuff like this makes sense to me.” He sees our expressions and sinks down again. “I was just curious. I’m really sorry I went through your stuff, but I thought you would want to know what it meant. That’s all.”

  I don’t know why, but I believe him: the only time LJ seems to come out of his shell is when he’s talking about codes and computers. It’s easy to believe that he saw a problem in front of him and he ignored our privacy in order to solve it.

  “Okay,” I say, “but what does—”

  I stop speaking as the computer screen lights up. Words appear on the screen in a steady stream of blue light.

  For Lydia.

  “Did you just type that?” I ask LJ.

  “No.” LJ’s eyes are glued to the blue light. “I’m in a chat room with this guy. He’s sending it.”

  I suddenly feel cold. “What guy? Why does he know my name?”

  “I don’t know. He calls himself Resister.”

  “Resister?” I look at Wes with wild eyes. “I met someone with that same handle back in Montauk. He told me he was on the conspiracy message boards. He said he was working on a rebellion to take down the Project.”

  Wes takes a step toward me. “When was this?”

  I quickly tell him about the man who came into my father’s store back in 2012. I don’t know why I didn’t mention it before; I must have gotten so caught up in my grandfather, Dean, and McGregor that I forgot all about it. “But the man was in his thirties, Wes. If he was sending it from this time period, he would be . . .”

  “A teenager,” Wes finishes.

  “What are you talking about?” LJ glances between the two of us. But before I can come up with some kind of explanation, more text appears on the screen. It is a replica of the exact molecular formula that LJ discovered in The Metamorphosis.

  “How does he know this?” I whisper.

  “What kind of chat room are you in right now?” Wes demands of LJ. “What do you know about this Resister?”

  “We have a number we all dial into with our modems. It’s secure.” LJ’s voice sounds higher. “The Resister set it up. We talk about conspiracy stuff. To try and find out why—”

  “Kids are going missing,” I cut in. “Nikki told me you’ve been looking into it. She said you have a list.”

  LJ opens one of his desk drawers and pulls out a handwritten list. There are about ten names on it. “Tag helped me with the names. The Resister said it’s happening because of this conspiracy in an old army base on Long Island.”

  I suck in a breath.

  Wes steps forward. “This guy shouldn’t know Lydia’s name. And he shouldn’t know this formula you just figured out. Are you lying to us?”

  “No, no, I swear!” LJ puts his hands up. “He’s never mentioned this stuff before. He was just talking to me about Chris. He said he thinks he’s probably still alive! I wanted to . . . believe him.”

  The screen blinks again. Blue writing appears: The Mark of the Traveler.

  All of the tiny hairs rise on my arms. I bend over LJ’s shoulder and type out: How do you know this?

  But a blue line of text pops up: Resister has left the room.

  “Can you hack into his server?” Wes asks. “Can you follow him?”

  LJ shakes his head. “He’s the one who set it up. He’s hiding behind firewalls. I know how to hack, but not like that. . . .” He starts to pop his knuckles. Slowly and loudly, over and over. I ignore the sound as I try to process what’s happening. The mark of the traveler? I had never heard that phrase before my grandfather screamed it at me yesterday. And why does this person—who’s only a te
enager now—know my name?

  “Could this be coming from the future?” I whisper the words.

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” Wes says.

  But LJ just looks at me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this guy has built a kind of system I’ve never seen before. I’ve been in and out of chat rooms for years, but none with firewall protection like this.”

  “Jesus,” Wes breathes. “Maybe it’s coming from the Project.”

  LJ turns to face us. “What Project?”

  “This is not some random message,” I say to Wes. “Someone knew we would be here in this exact spot at this exact time. They wanted me to find it.”

  “Why you?”

  “I don’t know. Because I’ve already met him?” I rub my hand against my forehead. “He was talking about a rebellion. I wonder if this has to do with it?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s connected back to your grandfather.”

  “The disk.” I look up. “I think we need to see what’s on it.”

  Wes takes it from his pocket and hands it to a pale LJ. “Open this for us.”

  LJ looks confused, but slips it into his disk drive anyway. A folder pops up and he clicks on it.

  A text-based document opens. Page after page of information appears. There are two words near the top: The List.

  LJ scrolls down. It is a list of names and next to each is a brief description and then a set of numbers. It takes me a minute to realize that the numbers are actually dates, and there are always at least two of them. Sometimes three.

  He keeps moving through the names. But then he stops. “Lydia . . .”

  “Oh my god,” I whisper. Because there, in neat black letters, is my own name.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lydia Katherine Bentley: great-granddaughter of Dean Patrick Bentley. Montauk, New York, I: April 4, 1995. Montauk, New York, D: July 30, 2012.

  Wes grabs my shoulder and squeezes hard.

  “The first date is my birthday. But what does the other one mean? Could it . . .” I pause. “Is it when I die?”

  Wes’s grip has become almost painful, biting into my skin. “No one can know that. Don’t panic. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  His hand slides down my upper arm. He’s almost touching the small raised scar on my skin. It’s the same scar that matches his.

  Something impossible starts to turn over in my head.

  “LJ, let me see your list.” My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.

  He hands it to me, and moves away from the computer so I can sit down. I match up some of the names. Timothy Martinez. Alisha Parks. They’re all on both lists. By the time I’m done checking, my fingers are shaking.

  “Wes . . . is your name here too?”

  Seeing my expression, he walks to the computer and leans over me. He taps down until he reaches the Ws. There are a hundred names, but no Wes. “Every person has a middle and a last name listed too,” he says softly.

  “And you don’t know what yours is.” I think of his pocket watch, and the initials etched into the side. It’s a long shot, but I hold the watch up anyway and read the inscription again: With love, WLE. “Try the Es. See if there’s a Wes or Wesley as a first name.”

  He scrolls quickly through the names. “Wait, stop.” I slide my finger across the screen. The static on the glass crackles against my skin. “Wesley Benjamin Elliot.”

  Parents: Jane Marie Simmons and Lawrence Jonathan Elliot, both deceased. New York, New York, I: January 18, 1984, D: January 18, 1984.

  “Does that date mean anything to you?”

  He answers without looking at me. “It’s the date I was taken by the Project.”

  “This is a list of people who have been disappeared.” I can’t keep the horror out of my voice.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “All the names match up.”

  “But what do these dates and random letters mean?”

  “My I date is my birthday. But yours is the same as when you were taken, so it can’t mean our births.” I think out loud. “Maybe—”

  I feel LJ grab my arm and I turn my head, suddenly realizing how much we’ve revealed.

  “There’s an explanation for this.” I am ready to do damage control, though I have no idea how to explain away everything he just heard.

  But LJ’s mouth is open as he points at two entries not far above Wes’s name. “Christopher Enriquez and Jesse Enriquez.”

  I look up at him. “Do those names mean something to you?”

  “That’s me. And my older brother, Chris.” He lets go of me and takes a step backward. “Why is my name on this list? Why is yours? What’s going on?”

  But Wes is back to ignoring him. “Lydia, look at the dates.”

  I stare at the top name.

  Christopher Jonathan Enriquez: son of Juan Franklin Enriquez and Judith Nicola Enriquez [terminated March 15, 1986.] Queens, New York, I: June 6, 1973. New York, New York, D: September 21, 1986.

  I turn to LJ. “Is June sixth his birthday?”

  His olive skin is chalky and his eyes are wide, making him look like a little kid. “What’s going on? What is this?”

  I get up from the computer, taking a step toward him. “LJ,” I say sharply. “Are those dates significant?”

  At my voice he shudders a bit and visibly regroups. “The first date is Chris’s birthday, and . . .”

  “The second date is when he disappeared,” Wes cuts in quickly. “Tag says he was about thirteen when it happened.”

  “And the dates for you? Is October third, nineteen seventy-five your birthday?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” LJ nods frantically. “It is.”

  “The second date is September sixteenth, nineteen eighty-nine,” Wes tells me.

  “That’s in one month.” I stalk across the small room, then back again, repeating the same steps over and over. “The second date is when everyone’s taken. The D before it could stand for ‘detained.’” I fight the nausea that’s rising in my throat. “It means they’re planning on coming for me.”

  Wes abruptly straightens from the computer. His eyes are narrowed. “No. They can’t take you. Not after what we went through to keep you a secret from them.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t enough?”

  He grabs my hands, forcing me to stop pacing the room like some kind of caged animal. “It was enough. We didn’t cause this.”

  “But . . .” I hesitate, thinking of the scar under my skin, of my grandfather screaming at me. “Wes, when did you get the scar on your arm?”

  He gives me a strange look. “What?”

  “The scar on your upper arm. When did you get it? Do you remember?”

  “No. It was some time after they brought me in, though. I didn’t have it as a kid. Lydia, what does that have to do with this list?”

  The half-formed idea is still taking shape in my brain, and I’m afraid to say it out loud, afraid that it will sound ridiculous. Or, even worse, that it might be true.

  But it’s not in my nature to hide from the truth, and I square my shoulders and face Wes. “I have a theory about what the first date means.”

  He’s working his jaw back and forth, so tightly that I’m worried he’ll grind his teeth down into nothing. “Tell me.”

  I pry my hands out of his and then grab his wrist. “Remember what my grandfather said? About ‘the mark of the traveler’? It was after he saw this.” I lift Wes’s wrist and place his hand just below my shoulder. “We have the same scar, Wes.” I look at the monitor, at the mysterious list, a never-ending litany of names.

  Wes frowns. “You think the first date has to do with this scar? How?”

  I let go of Wes’s hand and it falls limply to his side. “I think it’s the date the person was scarred. Mine must have happened on my birthday; I’ve had this scar my whole life. Chris and LJ probably got it when they were born too. You got yours when you were taken in. It’s why the two dates on
your entry are the same.”

  Wes suddenly turns to LJ, who’s watching us with wide eyes. “Let me see your arm.”

  LJ steps forward. He’s clearly scared, but he pulls up his sleeve anyway. There, on his upper arm, is a slightly raised, circular scar. “He has it.” My stomach falls. “This has to be ‘the mark of the traveler’ my grandfather was ranting about. We’ve been tagged, or something. Like animals. And this is some kind of master list, keeping track of when they . . . pick us, and when they actually bring us in.”

  “Lydia.” Wes’s voice is low. “If you’re right, that means you’ll be a recruit. You’ll be brought into the Project.”

  But it’s more than that. If I was tagged when I was a baby, then I was always destined to become a recruit. Everything we did to keep my involvement a secret was pointless; all of the sacrifices that Wes made for me meant nothing. Becoming a recruit is my fate.

  I suddenly feel faint, like all the blood has rushed from my head, and I bend over, putting my hands on the edge of the desk. I sense rather than see Wes move closer to me. “I won’t let them take you.” He growls the words. “You won’t become like me.”

  “Wes.” I straighten and then fall into him. His hands curl around my back, and he holds me so tight it’s as though he’s trying to fuse my body into his.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” LJ’s voice still has that confused, panicked quality to is. “But can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  I pull away from Wes and we share a long glance. Finally, he nods slightly. I know we’re both thinking the same thing: LJ has a right to know what’s coming for him.

  “You might want to sit down,” I say, and he sinks into his desk chair. When I finish telling him about the Montauk Project and the recruits, he is white and shaking.

  “Are you okay?” I kneel down in front of his chair.

  He nods slowly. “It’s almost a relief, I guess, to know what finally happened to Chris. To know that he’s still alive, even if . . .”

  I squeeze LJ’s knee. “We have an advantage,” I say quietly. “Because we know when they’re coming. It means we can protect ourselves.”