by Arthur Slade
Down a hallway, I found another elevator. And up, up, up it went. Apparently once you were inside the building, you could leave. You just couldn’t get in without a key card. Or they had let me go through.
The door opened into the parking lot. I walked out.
Dermot was sitting on a black car.
“I should have known you’d be here,” I said.
“Amber, please reconsider what you’re doing.”
“I’m returning to my normal life,” I said. “One where I am not tested, where I am not put in a pen next to my meal, where there are people I can trust.” Well, there was no place with that last bit. “I’m done, Dermis.” Yes, I had just called him “skin.”
“No. We’ve accomplished so much in such a short time. And there is so much more we could do.”
“I need to clear my thoughts. I need space. I need normalcy—my type of normalcy. To sort out what I want for my life. And I don’t trust the people you’re working for. I may be gone a month. Or two. Or forever.”
“We let you go,” he said. “It was a sign of trust. Protocol is that no one leaves our compound alive.”
“Yes. That’s protocol. If you love something, let it go,” I said. I smiled.
He did that jaw flex muscle thing that men like him did when they couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say.
Finally, he nodded. “You can’t walk away,” he said.
“You won’t stop me.”
“No. I mean it’s too far to walk. We’ll give you a ride.”
“Then get me a car,” I said.
He waved. A car started several hundred feet away.
It did cross my mind that I could step into that car and a nerve gas would be released, and they would be done with me.
“Take care of yourself, Amber,” he said. I stared into his eyes for several moments. He appeared to mean it. I guessed it was a fifty fifty chance on the nerve gas.
“And you take care of yourself,” I said back to him.
The dark car pulled up, and I slipped into the blackness inside. There really was no light.
“Keep your chin up too,” I said. I pulled the door shut and knocked on the window guarding the driver from me. The car accelerated and I—blind as a proverbial bat—sat and stared at nothing.
Time passed. No gas was released. All I heard was the hum of the motor. And the hum of my thoughts. I slept. For another several hours.
When next the door opened, I raised my arm to block the light. Then I stepped out. The driver was still hidden behind darkened windows. He’d probably used a switch to open the door. The car pulled away.
I was on the outskirts of a familiar-looking city.
And I was free.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Arthur Slade was raised in the Cypress Hills of southwest Saskatchewan and began writing at an early age. He is the author of nineteen books, including Dust (which won the Governor General's award), Tribes, and The Hunchback Assignments (which won the Grand prix de L’Imaginaire). He currently lives in Saskatoon, Canada.
Connect with Arthur Slade online:
@arthurslade
arthursladefan
www.arthurslade.com
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Table of Contents
Copyright
1. Feeding Day
2. The Backup Meal
3. Settling In
4. Finding My Meal
5. A New Slab of Food
6. The Pursuit
7. Desert Sands
8. A Kiss Before the Killing
9. Old School
10. Turns Out, I Bleed
11. Roses Have Thorns
12. A Cheap Envelope
13. A Familiar Scent
14. Stand Down
15. The White House
16. The Big B
17. The Dance Floor
18. Compromising the Compromised
19. The Hit Begins
20. The Hit Continues
21. A Second Helping
22. The Cavern of Surprises
23. I Ask Again: Who the Hell?
24. Family Trees and Other Problems
25. First Class Ticket Home
26. The White House Redux
27. All Is Not Sunny in the Sunshine Room
28. The Interminable Joy of Waiting
29. Blood Red Blood
30. Sleep, Perchance to Dream
About the Author
Also by Arthur Slade
Arthur Slade’s Somewhat Secret Reader’s Club