by T. K. Toppin
Chapter 5
April strolled in, and the bite of winter with it, casting New Zealand with a bracing chill. The world south of the equator was upside-down, even its seasonal weather. It sort of fit my new lift to a T.
Two weeks into April, I helped Madge make jam. I’d never made jam. Ever. I’d grown up in an age of conveniences, and one simply got jam from the supermarket. Madge religiously followed a recipe handed down to Quin by his grandmother’s grandmother.
The past six months had been long and taxing, on all of us, but I finally felt alive, ready to take on the world. I wanted it, craved it. Like a gust of winter chill, a zest for life bloomed inside me. Though still rail-thin, my stamina and outlook was stronger. My face had become sharp and angular. Older. My cheekbones were more prominent, and made my lips appear bigger and protruding like a scary guppy.
My hair now skimmed my jawline, only a little longer than how I normally wore it. Before. It used to be a light shade of brown, a sable color, but the years in darkness had made it turn a deep, chocolate-brown, and with it, blazing streaks of bronze and copper from days now “getting fresh air” as per Madge’s orders. I wasn’t used to seeing myself with darker hair, but if I looked closely, the fine light brown wisps were still there, a spray of them growing close to the hairline on my forehead. Normality was returning. Either that, or I was prematurely graying.
I wondered if, when I turned fifty, as Madge explained, I’d be brave enough to shave off my hair and tattoo my life history on my scalp? It was the trend, a fashion statement in the current generation. To my twenty-four-year-old mind, fifty seemed a lifetime away.
A tattoo of my life. Now that would be interesting. How would one depict sleeping away three hundred years? Lately, I’d been putting thoughts like that away. I had enough trouble living in the present. Twenty-five years from now was something unimaginable. Well, maybe not that unimaginable. I did jump through time. That’s pretty hard to beat.
But, everything else on my face, thankfully, remained the same.
My general appearance still took some getting used to. Every day I spent an unhealthy amount of time just staring at my naked reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was ghastly pale. It wasn’t just the paleness that horrified me, but the sickly bluish-white cast found on corpses. The skin I’d shed hadn’t helped matters in the least, making me sporadically flaky and dry-skinned, and itchy. Madge explained that submersion in amniotic fluid for so long made the outer layers of the dermis turn to jelly. Once out of it, the skin dries up and all the dead layers slough off like a really bad case of dandruff. I don’t remember experiencing any of this, but Madge assured me she’d applied copious amounts of moisturizer to minimize the flaking.
My menstrual cycle hadn’t returned yet, not with the state my body was in. Give it time, Madge would say. Not that I particularly missed having a period, it being the most annoying part about being a woman. But, like a reassuring best friend, it made me feel normal, like all the other girls.
All in all, I was hideous. I grimaced many times at my reflection. It was a constant reminder that I needed to gain more weight and build more muscle mass so they didn’t look like the stringy bits of tendon found on a cadaver. And re-grow my boobs. My ass. I’d put on a few pounds in the last few weeks, but I still had a long way to go. It seemed that every pound I put on was lost just as quickly as my metabolism sucked it up to keep my working parts alive.
My stamina had improved much quicker than my physical appearance. I even managed short walks about the yard, or through the nature trail behind the house, armed of course with some energy bars and drinks Madge brought along. I wasn’t allowed to go alone in case I get a sudden “vaporous” feeling, which had happened many times before. Most days I simply enjoyed being outside, happy to sit under their big tree with nothing but my thoughts and a thick shawl for warmth. I got cold really quickly, given my lack of body fat.
“Keep stirring.” Madge measured out another cup of granulated sugar. Squinting an eye, she judged the quantity and carefully sprinkled it into the bubbling reddish-brown mixture.
Cherry jam. The thick smell of sweetness and promised stickiness layered the kitchen. My stomach growled audibly. Madge stared at me, and then we both giggled.
“I can’t seem to stop feeling hungry,” I declared.
“That’s a good sign.” Madge smiled warmly, handing me a pitted cherry from the bowl on the counter. “Have one of these for now.”
“That measly morsel won’t do the trick, you know.” I took it and crammed it into my mouth. The sweet flesh burst into my mouth as I devoured it in two quick chomps and swallowed, sucking the insides of my cheeks to get every last remaining bit of sweetness.
I decided I would never tire of Madge’s company. She was like a favorite aunt who knew everything and spoke her mind, gave sage advice, and yet knew how to have fun. I smacked my lips for effect and grinned back, offering my best begging-puppy look.
Madge laughed, shaking her head. “Don’t worry. I always save a bit before I bottle the rest. Quin would simply die if he didn’t get to have some for his tea. Nothing like fresh hot jam with pound cake, he keeps saying.”
Normally, the sound of sweet cake with sweeter jam would’ve turned my stomach. But now any mention of food had me salivating. I stared off into space, picturing the image of hot dripping jam smothering a thick slab of cake. Madge, after snapping her fingers in front of my face, jarred me back to the present. She grinned and I barely caught her saying, “…not you as well!”
Before I was able to answer, an odd, high-pitched tone, like a microwave sound, interrupted. I’d not heard that noise before, but with everything around me new and different, making this beep or that tweet, I cocked my head and stared at Madge for direction.
A knot formed on Madge’s forehead before she blew out a breath. “Who could that be? Did you hear anyone pull up?” She glanced at me for confirmation, but waved it away, heading for the front door. “Where’s Fluffy?”
In all my conscious time here, I’d never known them to have visitors. They were super-private and anal about security. I watched Madge’s profile as she checked the security monitor. She paused, then opened the door with her palm scan.
“Yes?” Madge’s tone changed, it became formal. Businesslike.
I noticed her take in a quick breath, blink rapidly. The crease between her eyebrows deepened. She glanced to her left, focusing under the kitchen table as if looking for Fluffy. Her eyes lifted up to me. Madge shook of her head subtly, then focused once more on the door.
An odd sensation passed through me, a sort of tingling, foreboding wriggle that ran like a cold, snaking bead of sweat down my spine. I repressed the urge to shudder, reassured by how calm Madge looked.
But something wasn’t right.
From my angle, I saw the front part of the man who stood in front of Madge. He was dressed smartly in a snug, tan sweater with a simple black jacket over it. His trim pants were also black, and finished with soft black shoes. His face appeared pleasant, young and plumpish with soft, twinkling brown eyes and hair. Charming almost, if he didn’t smile so much. His posture was erect but not rigid, legs apart, his arms behind his back.
“Are you Magdalena Souza Aguilar?”
“Ah, yes…I haven’t been called my full name in ages,” Madge smiled, pushing up a single brow. “What is your business?”
“I am a messenger,” he stated, his face the embodiment of pleasantness. “You have been charged by the Society of Natural Living for offering aid and assistance to acts of abomination from the years 2302 to 2333, present day. Your crimes are unforgivable, and I will issue you your sentence.”
At some point during his recitation, I noticed Madge slip a hand into her pocket, where she kept her panic button. She took two slow steps backward, turned her head and calmly told me to run. Her face was serene, even as she saw the man lift his arm. In that moment, Madge looked beautiful, as if she feared nothing and accepted everything with c
almness. But for a split second I saw Madge’s human reaction take over. She inhaled sharply and looked terrified.
The man’s raised arm swiveled before him. He wielded a long, amber, baton-like rod that came swiftly down across Madge’s left shoulder—just at the base of her neck. It sliced her into two, diagonally. The “blade” exited just below her right armpit. A moment later, blood erupted everywhere.
I stood rooted, still holding the wooden spoon over the bubbling jam mixture. My mind was unable to process what I’d just seen. I stared as the man casually stepped over Madge’s twitching body and walked toward me. A spurt of blood dashed across his legs, but he seemed unconcerned.
Madge’s body…Her body.
Erratic facts spewed from my numbed mind.
Madge is dead.
She’s dead.
And her killer, he’s walking toward me—me!
Run. I have to run. She said to run.
I dropped the spoon and stepped backward until I was up against the kitchen wall. I pressed back, pushing. Trapped. In a few swift strides the man was upon me. Gripping my arm, he heaved me to my toes. I made a small squeak, the tips of my toes scraping furiously along the smooth floor, trying to dig into something solid to brace myself.
He pressed his menacingly pleasant face close to mine. “Not to worry, my dear. Your justice will be issued in due course.”
He turned slightly, and with his free hand, switched the stove off. Then, his retracting hand swiped across my head.
My world fell into darkness.
* * *
I woke with a start and instantly clutched my head; it pitched with a sharp throb of pain. A wave of nausea lurched inside me. I registered being on something hard and cold, and as I creaked open a tentative eye, I saw it was a floor. Smooth, shiny, and tiled. White. A coarse disinfectant scent assaulted my senses. Was I in a hospital? In that instant, insult jetted through me. They should at least have beds for their patients.
What?
Springing to my feet, I ignored the crash of dizziness that temporarily immobilized me. Scanning the room rapidly, I saw the room was small, about fifteen feet long and ten wide, completely tiled from floor to ceiling. The only thing not tiled was the metal door at one end that boasted a stingy window, which was securely shut.
Cold storage? Panic sheared through me—
No. Madge!
“Madge…” I croaked.
A flood of horror and grief filled me. The sudden urge to retch made me clamp hands over mouth. Tears streamed from my eyes as I slid down against the wall, gasping for breath. My mind raced through the events that had taken place. Someone had killed Madge, and they wanted to kill me too. Madge had told me to run, but I hadn’t. I couldn’t. I’d stood frozen, watching it all happen. And now here I was. They were going to kill me.
“Do you understand, Josie?” I muttered, nodding. “You’re going to be killed. You’re going to die. They killed Madge. They killed her. Do you understand?”
The realization made my head spin.
“Okay,” I gulped in some air. “Okay. I can do this.”
My chest ached with each deep inhalation of air; my heart raced like a kettledrum. I forced myself to calm down, scrubbing my tears away roughly with the edges of my sweater sleeve. I ordered my mind to focus, and heard Dad’s ordered mind speaking to me in logical terms, telling me that every problem had a solution, and every solution had a formula that never changed.
Shit! This wasn’t mathematics!
The panic crept back. I shook my head like a dog to clear it. Problem: murderous maniac, or maniacs, outside that door. Solution: try to disappear through the grouting in the floor. Formula: turn body and bones to liquid.
Laughter bubbled out. Shrill and shaky.
Fuck! Shut up!
On a whimper, I clamped my mouth shut. It sobered me a bit. And froze.
Someone will come for me. I’ll be saved. Quin will come. Madge always kept her panic button with her. I saw her use it. I saw her put her hand in her pocket—she must have used it, must have.
Deep breath in, deep breath out…
And again.
Madge had told me about the panic button. Now it was mostly used in case of an accident or emergency, but also in case of violence. They weren’t strangers to violence. Their work had attracted many unsavory groups and individuals, many calling themselves “naturalists” who abhorred the use of science and its techniques and methods, preferring instead to use holistic and natural methods to live by. Yet, in their fanatical and twisted way, they used rampant killing—murder—to spread their message. For many years both Madge and Quin had been plagued by threats and hate mail for all their efforts. And they learned from each new attempt on their lives, which was why they’d settled in New Zealand, off the grid and out from the glare of the public eye.
But now, someone had found them…
I lost track of time. It may have been hours, I couldn’t say. Some moments, I activated the imager unit I kept in my pants pockets. I liked to keep it close, it being my last and only link to my family, friends, and the world I’d left behind. I flicked through images of myself as a little girl, watched home movies with my mother’s voiceovers that she loved to do, over and over until restlessness took over and I thrust the unit back into my pocket. The imager was no bigger than the size of my palm, oval and curved. Sometimes I’d stick my hand in my pocket and let the smooth surface mold itself to my hand. It comforted me just to touch it.
The stark white walls and bright fluorescent lighting offered nothing to gauge the passage of time. The only sound I heard was a low hum, which came from the tiny series of holes I guessed to be air ducts of sorts. Thin streams of cold air jetted down intermittently, reminding me of flying on a plane and getting the seat with the air vent that’s always stuck on full.
I was cold, too. Freezing. I cried on and off several times, drifting in and out of a light sleep, always jumping awake, imagining I heard a sound. I resisted the urge to pound my fists against the door, fearing that doing so would only attract the attention of those who wanted me dead. If I stayed quiet and didn’t make a sound, they might leave me alone. Maybe even forget about me.
Then someone would come and let me out. Someone will come. I won’t be left forgotten, not like before.
“Please,” I whimpered quietly. “Don’t let anyone forget about me.”
I half-remembered my fiancé. My ex, Ari. We were arguing again, that was nothing new. I don’t know why I thought of him. Perhaps he symbolized a stifling period of my life. He was a selfish man and always did as he pleased. I still couldn’t understand why I’d fallen for his charms. I surmised how he’d made me feel, I felt it now.
Helpless. Stuck. In limbo.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Chapter 6
The door finally opened with a sucking sound, as if the room was under pressure, and its sudden release caused air to gush out. It tugged my body slightly, my ears especially. I’d been lying on my side, having fallen once more into a stupor of semi-sleep and bored resignation. I didn’t know how long it had been—if days had passed, or mere hours. Forever, even.
I scrambled to my feet, blinking the grogginess from my eyes. A squeeze of terror gripped me again.
It was time to die, then.
Three people strode in, one a woman with a smooth caramel complexion. She seemed to be in charge, and ordered the two men about. One man, thick and muscular, with a shaved head covered in tattoos and a plaited white goatee, was instructed to hold me subdued. The other, a plain-faced black man with short dreadlocks, produced a tiny device and pointed it at me. My heart leapt and I flinched, staring fearfully at the device.
The woman cackled with a scornful laugh. “She thinks it’s a weapon.”
The other two laughed, parroting the woman.
“When were you put away? Euuh, the sight of you disgusts me. Just look at you.” Her nose wrinkled as she stared down at me. “Don’t worry, chicky.
You’ll soon be out of your misery. We’re doing you a favor.”
The woman tipped her head to the man holding the device. With a nod, he tapped it, and a bright light winked on. He pointed it directly into my face. I jerked back and struggled, but was too weak to budge from the vice-like grip of the man holding me from behind.
Just like most terrorists. Typical. They just love to record executions. The hilarity of it nearly made me laugh. Me? Of all people, in the hands of terrorists!
Instead, I burst into tears, to the obvious glee of the woman, who mimicked me comically. Her companions wheezed with laughter. The man behind me said something incoherent; it sounded foreign.
“Wah-wah-wah,” the woman jeered. “Wahhhh. What’s your name?” She snapped her fingers in front my face.
“I’m not telling you. Ever,” I retorted, with a strong voice that surprised me. “Just kill me then. Go on. I can’t stop you, can I?”
“That’s for sure.” She paced around the small room, hands theatrically linked behind her back, her face a model of composure and thought. It didn’t, however, erase the madness from her eyes, glittery with uncontained excitement. In fact, she looked half-possessed with something evil.
“But you see,” she cocked her head for effect, “we first need you to speak to the whole world for us. Tell them what a sick abomination you are. An unnatural piece of living flesh, preserved to the point you no longer deserve to be even human, let alone look like one.” Her composure declined fast, the look of disgust on her face winning over, as if the very words sickened her. “That anyone can subject themselves to such perversity is sinful. People—humans—are born. They live, and then they die, naturally, when the right time comes. We are not meant to be preserved and then used at a later date. That is a blasphemy to life. An un-natural process!” she barked with a snarl, spittle flying from her mouth.