Unbreakable (Unraveling)

by Elizabeth Norris

  It’s not exactly comforting, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

  I’m alone with Struz 2.0. When I look at him straight on, that’s when I realize deep down that this isn’t Struz at all There’s something about Struz 2.0, the fact that he’s so similar, yet just slightly different, that’s alarming. He has the same face, the same eyes, the same voice, the same everything. But there’s so much that feels different. And it’s more than just the way he’s sitting with his legs crossed, the matching socks, the polished shoes.

  It’s like whatever made the Ryan Struzinski in my world into a guy that would go by “Struz,” this guy doesn’t have it. And I don’t know what that means.

  The realization has a sinking effect on my heart, my eyes get a little watery, and an overwhelming feeling of desperation wells up inside me. More than anything I just want to go home—I want to hug my brother and tell Struz I’m sorry for all the stress I cause him. I want to see them again before it’s too late.

  “This should go relatively quickly, Miss Tenner,” this guy who’s not Struz says. “We just have a few questions.”

  I look around the room, at the wall behind him, the door, the ceiling, anywhere but at the man in front of me, and I try to concentrate on my breathing. I take long, decisive breaths, inhale for a full five seconds, exhale for another five.

  “I’ve met a few doubles in my time,” he says, his voice even and soft, and I can’t help looking at him. “It’s unnerving at first, but you just have to keep reminding yourself I’m not the man you know. We might look a lot alike, and we maybe have a lot of similarities, but we are completely different people with different experiences that caused us to lead different lives.”

  I nod as my eyes fall on a picture frame on his desk. It’s next to his monitor, a thick silver frame, well polished and dust free. Inside it are two smiling faces, a boy and a girl with bright blond hair, deep blue eyes, fair skin, and wide smiles. The resemblance is undeniable.

  They must be his children.

  I shift my eyes to this Ryan Struzinski, and he’s looking at me expectantly.

  I think about what Barclay told me—I should answer truthfully as much as I can. Short, concise answers.

  My breathing has slowed, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

  “Okay,” I say, keeping it brief.

  “Excellent. Now, when’s the last time you had contact with Ben Michaels?” he says, sliding a picture of Ben in my direction.

  04:00:32:46

  For a second, I can’t breathe. I just stare at the picture.

  It’s a candid shot, taken without Ben’s knowledge. He’s wearing a faded blue grease-stained button-down shirt that says WAKEFIELD AUTO over one breast pocket and BEN over the other. He’s not looking at the camera, he’s looking somewhere off to the side, his eyes down, his mouth parted slightly as if he’s talking to someone. His hair is slightly longer than when he lived in my world, and it flops over his face, partially obscuring his expression.

  “Miss Tenner?”

  I look up. Deputy Director Ryan Struzinski is sitting with some kind of clear glass iPad and pen. He’s not looking at me.

  This man is not the Struz I know. And it’s not just that he’s more put together. Despite the fact that he seems to have wayward morals, he works for the IA and they are threatening people’s lives—Ben’s, his family’s, and mine. He’s either okay with that or he’s okay with the fact that it’s just the way things are done.

  I breathe out. “About four months ago, that’s the last time I saw him.”

  He nods and presumably jots down what I just said. “And what was the circumstance?”

  “We drove to an abandoned house and confronted two of his friends,” I say. “We knew one of them was opening unstable portals. Agents Barclay and Brandt arrived shortly after us. They sent Ben back to his world.”

  “And by his friends, you mean Reid Suitor, now deceased, and Elijah Palma,” he says.

  I answer, even though it’s not a question. “Yes.”

  His eyes flick toward mine. “And you haven’t seen Ben Michaels since that day?”

  I hate that this answer is the truth. “No.”

  “Have you had any contact with him?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “No emails, letters, texts, nothing?”

  “Is that even possible?” I ask, because if it is, I’d like to know for future reference.

  He leans back. “I just need you to answer the questions.”

  I roll my eyes. So much for trying to be nervous and diminutive. “No, I haven’t heard from him at all.”

  “Well, thank you for answering my questions. We’re going to need to detain you until this matter is settled,” he says, looking down at his paperwork, and I don’t know why I can’t follow directions, but something in this moment makes me have to say it. Because it’s the truth, and this man right here, wearing the same face as the man I trust and love more than anyone, he should believe me.

  “Whatever you think he’s done, Ben is innocent. He would never hurt anyone.”

  Deputy Director Struzinski looks at me, with the corners of his mouth downturned, his chin tucked in, and his eyes soft—full of pity. And he says, “There’s a lot of evidence against him, but when we bring him in, we’ll make sure he gets the chance to prove himself innocent.”

  I almost say, “What about me?”

  Because I’m innocent—though I won’t be at this time tomorrow. But right now I am, and yet he’s willing to detain me and file the paperwork for my execution in less than four days.

  03:22:56:02

  Two armed security guards pick me up from the deputy director’s office and take me to a back exit where a van is waiting. They load me in and strap me down. If there’s paperwork to be done or any kind of processing for prisoner transfer, it doesn’t require my involvement.

  The windows are blacked out, and I can’t tell if it’s night or day.

  I think about Ben. Wherever he is, he must have some sort of plan—to save his family, to prove his innocence. I just hope we can find him in time.

  And I think about Cecily and where she might be. If it’s somewhere without any light, if she’s been bound with restraints this whole time, if she had to be sedated after going through the portal, if she cursed and screamed at whoever took her, if she’s hurt and scared.

  I try not to question if she’s already a slave—or if she’s still alive.

  My breaths are shaky and my eyes burn. None of this is right. Cecily should be at Qualcomm, planning the next movie night and organizing more team-building exercises. And IA should be trying to find her. Instead they’re threatening my life, locking me in prison, and throwing away the key.

  This isn’t just about the traffickers anymore. Because there’s a deeper problem in the fabric of IA, and we need to fix it.

  I understand that people in law enforcement sometimes make hard decisions in order to get the bad guy and save the day. I understand that sometimes the greater good requires sacrifices. I even understood four months ago why Barclay’s orders were to sacrifice my entire world—to blow it up, demolish it—before Wave Function Collapse destroyed two worlds and adversely affected a number of others.

  I didn’t like it, but it made sense.

  But what the IA is doing right now—detaining people Ben cares about and planning to execute them if he doesn’t turn himself in—it’s not right.

  Even if Ben really was the bad guy, it still wouldn’t be right.

  And it doesn’t necessarily mean everyone in the IA is evil, or that everyone there is involved in the trafficking ring. It takes a different kind of corruption to actually get involved with a criminal organization as opposed to going along with something that’s not a good policy. But it means the underlying morals of the IA, as an organization, have gone astray.

  Somewhere in its history, someone crossed a line and other people went along with it. And now, instead of using resources to find the bad g
uy, they’re threatening him to get him to come to them. And they’re willing to throw away innocent lives to do it.

  My dad and I watched the first few seasons of 24 when it came out. I loved the show. Jack Bauer was like a superhero for the modern world, but eventually my dad stopped recording it, and it became one of those shows we just didn’t watch anymore. When I asked him why he said he didn’t like the message the show sent. I pressed and found out it was specifically the torture that bothered him.

  What I loved about Jack Bauer was that he would do anything to save the city. He would torture the bad guys if he needed to. He would get the job done. But that was exactly what bothered my dad, because if the good guys are going to cross that line and torture someone, what is it that separates them from the bad guys?

  I didn’t have an answer then, and I don’t have one now. But the question I’m asking myself, as the armed security guards unload me from the van and walk me through the prison’s front doors, is this—if IA is willing to execute me to draw out Ben, what separates it from terrorists?

  03:22:08:38

  The prison is called the Piston because it’s visible from the city center of New Prima, and it looks like a grotesque black cylinder that clashes with the rest of their buildings.

  The guards parade me inside, past the inmates in cellblock A. They’re two to a small cell with bunk beds, a toilet, and sink, and there are eight floors of them. It’s not much different than any prison I’ve imagined or seen on television.

  But the fact that I’m here, in restraints, about to be put into a cell, makes my skin feel cold and clammy.

  A few inmates call out to me as we pass, a few more whistle, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t be housed with the general prison population. I’ll be in a solitary cell, where they keep the worst kind of prisoners, the ones who are a danger to others, and the ones they want to forget.

  We go up one flight of stairs and turn the corner. We’re heading down a long hallway toward cellblock S, the solitary cells, and my shoulders relax just a little. Every small thing that goes right means I have a better chance of getting out of here.

  According to Barclay, solitary confinement is small. There are sixteen cells, eight on each side, with low ceilings and thick black walls. There are no bars because there are no windows.

  When we turn into cellblock S, I see that Barclay is right.

  I also see that we’re not alone.

  03:22:05:08

  The fifth cell door on the left is ajar. The opening is blocked by a man who isn’t in a guard uniform. He’s wearing jeans and a drab olive button-down shirt. His haircut is military, high and tight. A tattoo of black barbed wire peeks out from his shirt collar and climbs up his neck.

  A shiver moves through my body and air seems to get caught in my throat. His shirt is spotted with dark blobs.

  Something inside me wants to stop, to dig my heels in and refuse to get any closer.

  Then I hear the muffled sounds of a struggle coming from inside the cell, and I realize the dark spots on his shirt are blood.

  My heart pounds harder in my chest. I don’t want to be anywhere near this man.

  “Hurry up,” he says to whoever’s in the cell. “Get him out.”

  That cell shouldn’t be Elijah’s. Unless he’s been moved? No, why would they?

  My guards continue to push me forward, and the man with blood on his shirt turns to watch us approach. His eyes linger on me, and I have to fight to keep from looking away. The bitter smell of urine hits me like a wall, and fear slithers through my veins until I’m dizzy with it. Then comes the rusty, damp smell of blood.

  The man is still studying me, his face passive and emotionless, and it feels like with one look he’s seen more about me than I want him to. The hallway is tight and he doesn’t move, so we have to squeeze by him. The whole time he’s watching me.

  One of the guards says, “Excuse me, Mr. Meridian,” as we pass.

  I steal a glance inside the open door and the whispered word slips out with my breath before I can stop myself. “Ben.”

  He’s inside the cell. His hair is matted against the side of his face with dried blood, his cheek is bruised and swollen. My breath catches in my throat, and I refuse to move forward with the guards. There are too many emotions rolling through me to try to process them all. They’ve beaten him—I don’t want to know how many times—and then just tossed him back in his cell to sleep it off. But he’s here. I can try to get him out with Elijah.

  But when he raises his head and our eyes meet, I realize I’m wrong. This isn’t Ben. He has the same dark hair, the same bone structure, the same deep-set eyes. But this guy’s face is just slightly different.

  Ben’s brother, Derek.

  He grunts and says something. We’ve never met, and I’ve only seen his doppelgänger, but I know that it’s him. He’s Ben, a few years older, swollen and beat up, in need of a shower and a shave.

  The guard to my right squeezes his fingers into my upper arm and pushes me forward. I twist around and try to see behind me, but the guards block my line of sight, pushing and dragging me to the cell that will be mine—the last one on the right. Behind me, Derek says something. Then I hear a groan, labored breathing, and the sound of someone’s feet dragging on the floor.

  As the guard opens my cell, I realize what Ben’s brother said to me.

  He said, “Run.”

  03:22:04:29

  I can’t breathe. It feels like the walls are closing in on me, like the ground is moving underneath my feet. My face is too hot, my body is too cold, and my insides are flipping around. That was Ben’s brother, with dried blood caked onto his clothes and bruises over his face and arms. Who knows where they’re taking him now—and what they’re going to do to him.

  My body starts to shake, and I try to suck air into my lungs.

  When I break out in eleven hours, I’m supposed to leave him here.

  03:20:17:25

  My cell is small and dark, just large enough for the thin cot on one side. Instead of a toilet, there’s a dark hole in the floor in one corner. The weak light bulb on the ceiling flickers a little, giving the room a horror-movie type of feel. The fact that everything smells like bleach, but I can’t get the scent of blood and urine out of my nose, doesn’t help either.

  I’m lying on top of the cot in the standard light-blue cotton prison jumpsuit.

  But I can’t will my body to relax or my mind to stop spinning long enough to even have a fitful nap.

  I hear faint screams coming from somewhere else in the prison and I’m not sure if they’re real or part of my overactive imagination. I can’t leave Ben’s family in here. I have to get them out, but I don’t have the codes to open their doors—only Elijah’s—and I don’t know how to contact Barclay.

  My legs shift a little. They’re restless, and I stand up to pace around the tiny room.

  No matter what, I can’t stay here. Every time I hear a noise outside, I worry Meridian is coming for me. I’m worried about Elijah and about everything that could go wrong tonight. What will I do if he’s too injured to walk?

  My hands shake as I pace, and I press them to my forehead. I have to relax and stay focused. Falling apart now won’t help anyone. I force myself to take a deep breath. There must be a way to save Ben’s family.

  I shouldn’t let my legs get too tired so I climb back on the bed, close my eyes, and think of Ben. I see him, wearing one of my dad’s old T-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants, freshly showered, smelling like my shampoo, the night Elijah got shot. I remember how he reached out and grabbed one of my hands. Our fingers intertwined and those dark eyes looked straight into mine, lying next to each other in my bed, holding on to each other before the world fell apart.

  You’re strong and smart, and you never put yourself first. You don’t let anything get in your way, and you’re beautiful.

  I can almost feel the heat of his body next to mine, the strength of his arms around me, and the way he made me
feel like no matter what happened, we wouldn’t give up, we would fight for what we wanted up to the very end.

  I hold on to that memory. It’s easier to keep fighting if I don’t feel alone.

  03:11:20:57

  I lie on the cot, flat on my back. I’ve got nothing.

  I haven’t come up with a single viable plan to get Ben’s brother—or anyone in his family—out of their cells.

  And I’m running out of time.

  I’m going to have to leave them. The idea settles over me like a lead blanket. I think the words—I’m going to have to leave them. It leaves me tingly and a little sick—it’s the same feeling I got when I had to tell Jared about Alex, news I didn’t want to admit in case it made it more true, and news I wasn’t quite sure how he’d react to, just that the reaction would be bad.

  Tonight at midnight, during the guards’ shift change, Barclay will hack into the security system, my cell door will open, and he’ll set off an EMP. Then he’ll wait just outside the grounds.

  When the EMP goes off, it will knock out all the power in the prison. It’ll take about thirty seconds for the backup generator to power up and then another twenty for the computers and security systems to reboot. I need to get to Elijah’s cell, open his door, and get him out, and then we need to make it through the prison and down to the infirmary without being seen by the cameras.

  I recite the numbers of the door codes out loud and visualize each step of the plan. If I get one code wrong, it’ll trip the alarm.

  I suppose I’m glad now that my dad quoted movies and The X-Files and forced me to do the same if I wanted to keep up. I should thank him—and my mom, since I had to always keep a step ahead of her to stop her from drinking or hurting herself somehow. They both helped prepare me for this in their own way.