daynight

by Megan Thomason

  “Or we can both calm down and work on a plan that doesn’t involve immediate Exile. I mean I have ideas about what to do.” That was a slip. I can’t tell her now, can I? No, no I can’t. Then she’d distrust me as much as she does Ted. I need her to stay on my side.

  “Like what?” she asks. I move in close to her, staring into her wide set green and gold eyes that are definitely high on the ‘Things I find attractive about Kira, despite my attempts not to’ list. My body betrays me at every possible junction.

  “I’m going to hug you now,” I say, putting my arms tightly around her, which sends an electric sensation through my more sensitive areas. I don’t want to let go. “You’re just going to have to trust me. You’ve had enough crud dumped on you tonight and don’t need all my baggage as well. So why don’t we get through this first and then I can have sharing time, and you can hate me for dragging you into it.”

  “That does sound like a plan,” she says. “How much longer before we get locked in our house and I can have my meltdown?”

  “We’ve got a half hour until our mandatory workout time. Afterwards, we can go back for dinner and meltdown,” I respond.

  “Where do we workout exactly?” she asks. “Please tell me we don’t have to work out with the dead kids, please, please, please?!” I grimace, knowing she’s not going to like my answer.

  “Sorry. Didn’t you see that monster gym off the back of the fields?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I saw it,” she says.

  “Well, that’s where we’re required to work out with the zombies,” I say, chuckling in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood. “I don’t think they’re exactly zombies though. They’re a bit too lively.”

  “I think I’d be better with zombies,” she says. “Because it’s one thing to imagine decaying bodies digging themselves out of a grave, and quite another to have completely blown to bits bodies suddenly reappear in perfect form. I mean, Humpty Dumpty never got put back together again and he was just a freaking egg.”

  “Come on, you seriously never contemplated any sort of life after death? Billions of people in the world believe in it and we’ve just seen proof. That’s actually pretty cool if you think about it,” I say. Of course, there’s some people who don’t really deserve life after death, mainly Ms. Bailey Goodington. Since she can’t remember squat about our history, I think I may have to make an effort to ensure her ‘afterlife’ is as close to the hell she deserves as possible. The way she looked at me though… eerily like she used to back when we were steaming up her pool (and the pool house). It was hot then and, to be honest, it’s still kind of hot. Scary, but wow. Thank goodness for that ‘Cleave-axe’ positioned over my neck or I might be tempted to re-fill my drink so to speak.

  Kira answers my life-after death question with, “I mean I thought it’d be nice, but it’s not like I was raised by born-agains or anything, so God and I aren’t really on a first name basis. And if there is a God I really doubt he’s only going to give a fraction of the people who die every year a second chance, and send them to some sort of autocratic world where no one’s allowed to mention him.”

  “Everything has to make perfect sense to you, doesn’t it?” I respond. “Do you ever take a leap of faith on anything?”

  “Ha ha,” she says with a weak smile. “I’m trusting you aren’t I? I want to crawl in a hole and die right now, but I’m giving it a go because you asked me to.”

  I want to comfort her, or somehow say the exact right thing. “How are you about Tristan? And Tristan and Bri?” I ask. That wasn’t the right thing. I can tell by the look on her face. My eyes have adjusted to the low light enough to catch the glare. Her mental wheels are spinning as she tries to place all her feelings in cookie cutter pieces to get the solution to the puzzle.

  “I don’t know. I mean it’s them, but all that shared history we have is gone. Dead Bri and I clicked, but I can tell she’s pretty defensive about Tristan. And they’re supposedly dating but Tristan was kind of flirty with me, yet saying and signing things to her that he usually did with me. But it doesn’t matter, since they’re dead and can never exist again on Earth.”

  Kira rambles about her confused feelings. The only nugget I pick up on is that she thinks Bailey Goodington has a thing for me. No way I’m telling Kira about my history with Bailey. Kira’s tirade continues for a few minutes and my brain hurts from her psychoanalysis. Man I’m so happy I’m not a chick. They think way too much and over complicate everything.

  “And how do you feel about keeping up our little charade? Or do you want to make a play for Tristan? I mean, you can’t do both and I know his Cleave date is coming up.” I hate to push on this stuff so soon, but I can trust her unedited thoughts better than the contrived ones she might give me later once she sorts her strains of paranoia.

  She pauses before answering, avoiding my gaze and taking a few deep breaths. I brace myself for the inevitable blow to my ego. How could she ever choose to continue with our fake relationship—a guy she’s only known a couple weeks—over her long time boyfriend? It’s going to royally screw up my plan, though, if she bails on me. She’s my cover. Finally, she speaks, “As long as you can deal with one overly hormonal, really messed up girl as your pretend girlfriend I’m good to leave things the way they are for now. In the meantime, I have a lot to work through so I’m probably not going to be so great to be around. Can we just say I’m cranky about my upcoming surgery?”

  What the flip? “Surgery? What surgery? You didn’t mention that,” I say.

  “Sorry, the doctor told me this evening that I do have one of those reproductive organ lesions, but the surgery’s apparently just an hour-long deal and they’ll give me a local for it… though I wish they’d knock me out since I think it involves a really big needle,” she says.

  “I don’t want to freak you out any worse, but do you believe them? Could it be something else? Extracting your DNT like you were worried about or something?” I ask. I grab her when the blood drains from her face, because she looks like she’s going to keel over again.

  She fixates her eyes on me, glaring. “I hadn’t thought about that, but I was needing some more fodder for my nightmares, so thanks.”

  “Technically, here they’re called daymares—or I’d think they would be. But, sorry. I’m an admitted paranoid,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  “The doctor seemed sincere, but it’s not like I know how to read an ultrasound. They gave me an extra couple shots and some meds to take to get ready for the surgery and help prevent infection,” she says. I wish I knew for sure what they were doing was legit, but I have absolutely no reason to think they’d be messing with ‘the future of Thera’ unless it was necessary.

  “I’m sure I’m just overreacting after everything that’s happened tonight. DNT is in the blood, so if they wanted that they wouldn’t stick a needle in your tummy. There may well be medical consequences to passing from Earth to Thera. After all didn’t,” I pause because I was about to say Ted, but I quickly change because Kira isn’t quite on a first name basis with him, “Mr. Rosenberg tell you that we are anomalies to be able to be here? It probably does muck with our systems and the doctors are probably trying to help. But, don’t let them put you under, Kira. Watch what they do so we can talk about it and make sure it adds up, OK?”

  She looks terrified, my attempt at comforting her being an epic fail. “Yeah, sure, I guess. Or maybe I can beg to have you there since I’m really not positive I can look at that needle.”

  “That’d be even better.” I’m not certain will go for it, but what teenage girl wouldn’t want her boyfriend at her side holding her hand through something uncomfortable? It’s worth a shot.

  “Thanks, Blake. You’re the only thing getting me through this,” she says, with such a sweet look that I’m tempted to brush up on my making out skills. Kira’s just as gorgeous as Bailey. With less venom for sure. But, I know I need to remain in control. I’ve kept my hormones tamped down for a long time and nee
d to continue to do so. My one and only job here is to combat evil in its purest form.

  My mind reverts to memories of my dad, and my years of no-holds-barred training. He worked me for hours after school and every weekend he was in town. Some of it required mental prowess, the rest physical strength and acuity. I didn’t beat him in hand-to-hand combat until my fourteenth birthday, but he had no issue with starting my training at the age of eight. Day after day of having the crap beat out of you takes its toll. So when I finally won celebration was in order, but the only celebration I got was mental triumph.

  On that particular day we were doing combat in a dumpy shack located an hour into Death Valley. During the fight my dad made a crucial mistake, as I’d faked a hit to the abdomen, but whirled around and chopped him in the kidney from behind. His recovery was quick, but his stamina suffered, and the strength of his blows to my knees and left shoulder weren’t enough to keep me from a blunt kick to his shins, buckling his body and allowing me to pin him to the ground.

  My dad never once showed pride in my efforts, that day being no exception. Instead, he pointed out my flaws and weaknesses, each posing a risk to my life, and by extension everyone important to him.

  “I beat you,” I said.

  “Your hits were weak, and I’d have been able to break your grip before you’d disabled me,” he responded. Sure, I thought, as I watched him wipe the sweat off his receding hairline. He’d long since shaved his beard and wore his hair military style—a stark contract from the bushy mess he’d kept in my youth, probably due to lack of shears or razors. Although my father had aged as all parents do, he kept a youthful glow about him, or what I like to call the ‘fire of revenge’ within.

  “Well then, perhaps you should get someone else to go back to that hellhole,” I turned to storm out of the sauna he’d chosen for our match.

  “Don’t you dare walk out on me! We have hours of work left. Once you get past the Eco barrier sim and across miles of desert you can rest. Until then, stop whining and focus, or I’ll leave you here and you can try to get back to civilization intact,” he said, voice raised so high it cracked.

  All kind feelings he’d once displayed vanished the day my mother died, every pore of his body and soul having been devoted to getting us to safety, and then taking down the SCI. I blame the Militants for my dad’s changed demeanor. They took his seeds of disillusionment and blossomed them into a full-out obsession with revenge on the SCI that splintered the Exilers into two factions. Fanatical and practical. Guess where my Dad sided?

  “Will I get birthday cake?” I said with a glare, not expecting an answer or the cake. “Happy birthday to me.”

  “Just be happy you’re even able to have a birthday. Your mother’s not so lucky,” he responded, as if I needed the reminder. I followed him out of the shack. We walked a hundred yards where my ‘obstacle course’ awaited me. Rather than waste time with further argument, I slipped into a thin white reflective suit and protective mask, and squeezed my toes into the grips of the handmade stilts I’d fashioned from desert brush.

  Placement of the stilts through the simulated dead man’s land was crucial. I blocked out everything but the pattern of chemical detonators. This pattern resembled the Milky Way. Any pressure applied on an actual Eco barrier sensor would fog the area with deadly gas. If the gas didn’t kill you immediately, the prolonged reaction to the acid released with the gas would melt the clothes from your body and disintegrate your flesh.

  My dad could only simulate the experience. To live once back in my homeland, I’d try to figure out a way to disable all Eco barriers. Short of that, I need to locate and mentally store each city’s Eco barrier pattern, along with all the other data my father and his cohorts need. Had I not been blessed with a photographic memory, the task would be impossible. But I’d inherited my parents’ brilliant minds, and so the memorization was easy. I just had to master the physical execution.

  Failure had plagued me the first couple dozen times I attempted the Eco carrier sim exercise. I’d set off my father’s fake chemical ‘smoke bombs,’ choking on the cloud of fumes generated and having to be dragged off the field. However, I refused defeat on my birthday, and so that day I’d used extra care to maneuver the grid, completing my mission in record time, despite the heat and dry brush littering the desert landscape. Twelve inches left, eight up, nine kitty corner to the right, back four, sideways to the right fourteen, and so on, three hundred sixty-four steps total. My legs had ached. Thirst consumed me, not having been allowed water in over twelve hours. But I removed my suit, wrapped it around my head in a makeshift sun hood, and ran the final five miles averaging seven minutes per mile to my destination, a small camp. There I’d coughed bloody mucous until my father had offered me a meager amount of water and dry biscuits.

  “Your form was terrible,” he said. “You came within inches of the pressure points more than twenty times.”

  “Whatever. I’d like to see you try,” I’d said, as I attempted to dislodge hot sand from my sweaty clothes. “I finished and I want to go home now.”

  “Survive the night without being killed by scorpions or rattlers, and you can return to your cushy life at Aunt Jennifer’s,” he’d said.

  Why has my father bemoaned me the life he’d promised my mother I’d have? But, ultimately he’s not really responsible, is he? The Second Chance Institute and their benefactors shoulder that burden. And what’s that saying about burdens being lifted off shoulders? That day will truly be a day for celebration. Not just for me. But for every Exiler and Second Chancer.

  Night is the blotting paper for many sorrows.

  Author Unknown

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kira

  Whatever uncharacteristic sweetness Blake had offered in the canyon quickly disappears the moment we enter the gym in our workout clothes and find Tristan and Bailey waiting for us.

  “Welcome back,” Tristan says. “Hey Blake, want to lift with me? Think you can bench more?”

  “Uh, no thanks, I’m going to run,” Blake responds. Thinking this must give him license to address me, Tristan wedges his way between us, pushing Blake aside with his right arm, and putting his left arm around me.

  Tristan licks his lips and says, “I missed you while you were off canoodling with what’s his name in the canyon. We haven’t really had a chance to get to know each other,” looking me up and down like I’m a slab of beef at the local steak house. I check him out in return like he’s some sort of dead guy brought back to life. Oh wait...

  Bailey wastes no time, grabs Blake’s arm, and says, “You run. I’ll follow. I love a good chase.” Looks like it’ll be a long night for both of us.

  “Look,” I say staring into the big brown eyes I once loved so much, but don’t have the same glisten for me they’d used to have. “Tristan is it? I got a chance to know your girlfriend and she seems pretty cool. And, I’ve got a mandatory workout to get to, so…”

  “I’ve got a killer circuit I can show you,” he says, ignoring my hints. “I’ve whipped every girl here into shape.” He starts to point at several girls and I note that he seems to only point out the exceptionally pretty ones, certainly not ‘every’ girl. My eyes turn to plead for Blake to interfere, but he’s already up to full speed on one treadmill, while Bailey’s slowly walking on the next one.

  “I love Tristan’s circuit. Give it a try,” Bri says, appearing out of nowhere. Of course you do, I think. When I was forced to take cheer, gymnastics and dance as my mom’s clone-in-training, Briella played soccer and softball. In sixth grade, she grew from five foot two to five foot eight and took up basketball and volleyball, and her skills in both only improved as she grew another couple inches by eighth grade. She has the height and looks to be a model, though she could easily crush one. In contrast, I was all toothpick until ninth grade when I finally sprouted and curved. This secured me a coveted spot on the Carmel Valley High varsity cheer squad my sophomore year—or maybe my tumbling skills secured me
the spot, I’ll never know. But I never topped five foot six.

  “Yeah, OK, fine. Circuits it is,” I say, as Tristan leads me over to an area by the free weights and weight equipment. I follow along as he takes me through a routine of squats, chest presses and flies, tricep and bicep curls, lunges, leg extensions, crunches and more. He’s shocked that I pick it up so quickly, and use the right form. Of course, I can’t mention that I watched him do the same circuit dozens of times and suffered through it with him just as many. Every expression and grunt he makes ring familiar, not to mention his obsession with form and resting no more than thirty seconds between sets, and the way he slides his hands over his stomach ripples after doing crunches as if there’d be an immediate improvement. The only thing missing to complete the déjà vu is the kisses between sets and the thing added to create maximum awkwardness is periodic glares from Bri and Blake.

  “What do you think?” Tristan asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “About what?” I mumble. I’m not sure I’m ready to make small talk with him.

  “About all of it. Your new digs, the school, the people, the workout, me,” he says. That all?

  “Oh,” I say. “It’s a bit early to make judgments on anything a few hours in.”

  “You are an amazingly beautiful girl,” he says. “There’s something about you that is really… familiar and appealing. I can’t decide what it is, but I’m going to figure it out.” Could it be possible that some part of him remembers me, too? That he still feels a connection? Spud said that the Second Chancers often feel connected to the person they were last with… Well, Tristan in his stupidly drunken state that night kissed both Bri and me. I’m not sure how to respond to the flirting, though. A shower comes to mind, as the thought of kissing a dead guy still oozes creeper vibes from head to toe, just as I’d told Bailey and her vamp-seeking friends the night of her party.