Evie is still standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve got to get Evie to school. She hasn’t even had breakfast yet.”
Marcus aims his dagger eyes at me once more, and I can sense his bruised emotions. “We’ll talk about this later,” he says. “I have to get back to work.” He picks up a clipboard from the side table next to the couch before he leaves, slamming the door behind him.
I know Marcus feels hurt, but I wish he’d let it go. It’s not worth carrying around that baggage, always worried if I’m going to leave him. I understand his anger and resentment towards Glenn for the physical torment he was put through. But my past relationship with Glenn is none of his business. It’s my burden to carry, not his.
* * *
Now that Glenn finally got his chance to speak with me, he keeps his distance for several days, giving Marcus and me a chance to talk things out and reconnect. Marcus is still embittered about Glenn living here at Ceborec, but each day his hostility seems to lighten. He can pass by Glenn in the same room without the insatiable urge to beat him, though he still won’t acknowledge him.
I run into Glenn again on my way to meet Timber for training. He seems to be in higher spirits now; maybe it’s the relief of releasing the burden of his past crimes. Or the freedom that Ceborec offers in stark contrast to the repression of Crimson. His smile seems to glow brighter and he walks with a slight skip in his step. This is the Glenn I remember from years ago.
“On your way to training, too?” I ask, as we walk side by side down the hill toward the armory.
“Nah, they don’t trust me with any weapons yet,” he says. Glenn’s been given a trial period, to make sure he’s not a spy, planted here to gather valuable information and plan an attack. I could see a real possibility in that theory, but I hope I’m right to trust him. It’s nice to have him back in my life as a friend. “I volunteered for a grounds keeping position. I’m so sick of being inside all the time.”
I burst into laughter, “What are you going to do when we go underground next month?”
Glenn smiles, sensing the irony. “We’ll be doing general maintenance around the bunkers.” That suits him well, actually. He’s always had that handyman knack. Fixing mechanical stuff and working on cars. He always wanted to help my dad out in the garage, but after we got pregnant with Lex, my dad let him know under no vague circumstances that he was no longer welcome at our house.
“Plus we’ll be able to come up for short periods of time to clear the vents and stuff.” Glenn pauses and there is an awkward moment of silence. I sense he wants to say something, but he’s hesitating.
“How are things with Marcus? After the other day, I mean. I hope I didn’t mess things up for you,” he asks. No wonder he hesitated. I’m sure he didn’t want to imply any selfish intentions by asking that question, but given our history it’s plausible to think he may be looking for an excuse to get back with me.
“We’re fine. He just needs some time. I think he’s angrier about the prospect of losing me than he is about the scars. He’s been burned in the past and hasn’t really gotten over it,” I explain.
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Marcus married his high school sweetheart. She wanted children and they tried for a year without success. Then he found out he’s infertile. Apparently that was a gamechanger for her and she divorced him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Glenn. “So, why don’t you want any kids?”
I’m taken aback by the intrusiveness of the question. What business is it of his if I want kids or not? I’ve never known Glenn to speak so bluntly. He’s always had a way with words—this keen ability to make some awful comment sound sweet, or an intrusive question sound innocently curious. Maybe this is some part of his atonement—to stop being so conniving and manipulative. I hesitate, but decide to answer anyway.
“I didn’t say that I don’t want kids. It’s just . . . after Lex, I don’t think I could handle losing any more children. Glenn, you know how that tore me apart when he died. Plus, I’ve got Evie to take care of. That’s all I need.” I do want kids, but my life won’t be over if I don’t have them. And Marcus and I have a bond that could never be broken because of his condition. I love him too much to abandon him for my own selfish motives.
“Evie’s really special to you, isn’t she?” Glenn observes.
“She’s the only blood relative I’ve got left,” I remark, “the only link to Drake.” The memory of my late brother saddens me. He was a captain in the National Army of North Cythera and died in the Deimosian War a few months before the virus was unleashed.
“She misses him. But Marcus is a perfect substitute. He treats her like she’s his own daughter and she loves him dearly.” I glance up at Glenn, who has that conflicted look on his face again. I can’t help feeling there’s something he’s holding back.
I stop and turn to him, vexed by his disconcerting silence. “Glenn, I know that look. Is there something you want to tell me?” I boldly ask.
He shakes his head, turning his head away to ensure his gaze doesn’t become ensnared in mine. “It was good seeing you again, Pollen. I’ve got to get to work. I’ll see you later.” Before I can protest, he trudges off to the maintenance shed, where they keep the mowers and other grounds keeping equipment.
I continue on to the armory by myself, a few hundred yards from the maintenance shed. Upon entering the building I have to scan my hand, both for security and to check in for my daily training. The armory is divided into five sections: firearms, ammunition, alternative weapons, sparring arena, and shooting range. There is an additional outdoor shooting range in the valley behind the armory, as well as the full-scale training arenas throughout the acreage, where we do tactical group training.
I report to the firearms checkout counter where Timber is adjusting a holster around her hips.
“Hey Pol, what’s up?” Her bright green eyes greet me with a concerned look. I’m still thinking about Glenn and that feeling that he’s hiding something. I’m doing a horrible job of masking my emotions.
“Nothing. Just thinking, that’s all,” I reply. The attendant at the counter returns with Timber’s handgun and places it on the counter.
“Must be some deep thoughts, by the look on your face,” says Timber, placing her gun in the holster at her hip.
The attendant stares me down for a few seconds as if I’m wasting his time. I place my left hand on the countertop scanner and tap the fingers of my right as I wait for the green laser to sail back into the darkness.
“DS-42,” I say to the attendant, who disappears into the storage room behind a high security steel door.
“It’s Glenn,” I say. If there’s anyone here I can talk to about him, it’s Timber. Maybe she can give me some helpful advice. “We’re getting along better now. Becoming friends again. But I can’t help feeling he’s keeping something from me.”
“Like what?” asks Timber.
I pause when the attendant returns with my pistol, pressing my lips together. Nestling it in the holster on my thigh, I grab Timber’s arm and amble toward the ammunitions counter slowly, speaking in a hushed tone.
“I don’t know. That’s what bothers me.”
“Do you think he’s still one of them?” Timber asks, wide-eyed. The thought had occurred to me. He’s got a trademark for deception. But that’s not really the gut feeling I’m getting from him. And my gut feelings are usually pretty dead-on.
“I don’t think so. It feels . . . more personal. Like something specific to me.”
“Do you think he still has feelings for you?”
“Oh, I know he still has feelings for me,” I remark. “But I don’t think that’s it either. And when I asked him about it, he just made an excuse to cut the convo short.”
“Interesting,” she says, gazing upward.
We approach the ammunitions counter where Harrison, the attendant, casually leans over on his tattooed forearms. One of his tattoos looks like his
skin has been ripped away and reveals a gorgeous representation of a double helix. He told me he got that done after his son was born six years ago. Harrison didn’t see him that often because he lived with his mother, Harrison’s ex-girlfriend. But he meant the world to him. His little boy did not survive the virus.
“Hello lovely ladies,” he says with a smirk. Harrison is in his late twenties and he is an incurable flirt. It’s annoying sometimes, but it’s also kind of cute. I’d feel sorry for the poor girl that falls for that contagious smile and long black hair streaked with gold. He’s not the type to commit to anyone for very long. A love ‘em and leave ‘em type. He’s been trying to get into my and Timber’s pants since we got here. Normally I’d be put off by it, but somehow I find it flattering coming from him. At least he’s good-humored about my sanguine rejections.
“Hi, Harrison,” I say. “I’ll take red today.”
“Yellow for me,” Timber jumps in.
From under the counter, Harrison slides out two long, narrow wooden boxes and places them on the counter. Inside the boxes are rows of training bullets filled with paint. The coating that shapes the bullet is a substance that dissolves upon firing so that target is hit with only a splash of paint. It’s a little painful at first, like being slapped with a rubber band, but you get used to it after a while. The purpose for using paint bullets at the shooting range is not only for safety, but also for conserving real bullets for when they are needed.
Harrison pulls out some empty magazines from below the counter and begins to load them up with paint bullets. He hands me, and then Timber, five magazines, each containing eight training bullets for a total of forty, the maximum we are permitted for each training day.
“So when are you going to dump that boyfriend of yours for me, Pollen?” Harrison asks jocosely.
“When the compound gets snowed in,” I answer, smiling back.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and have a blizzard next winter,” he quips. Snow hasn’t fallen on the planet since before I was born because of the rising temperatures and greenhouse gases. He won’t be getting lucky any time soon.
Harrison takes my hand in his, and with an impish smirk on his face he raises it up to his lips. As he gently kisses my fingers, I can feel him curl them around something. He winks at me as Timber drags me away. I open my hand to find three extra bullets, which I slide into my pocket. Harrison often slides me a few extra bullets. So, yeah, I guess I do cheat sometimes. I just hope Timber doesn’t tell Yoric—he’d either go ballistic or gloat that I have to cheat to win anything.
Timber and I stroll out to the outdoor shooting range. I prefer the indoor range, because the distance is shorter and, therefore, easier to hit the targets. But Timber wants to get some fresh air, and I could use some as well. Plus it will give me an opportunity to challenge myself beyond my comfort zone.
The outdoor range resembles a football field. Shooters line up at points along the short end, thirty in all, and shoot at targets at the other end of the field. The targets are a strong, bubble-like substance, which pop upon impact with the paint. They are blown up from an automated machine, so as soon as one target pops, another one appears in its place.
There are ten other residents out here shooting, so it’s pretty quiet for a training session. General Granby paces leisurely behind the shooters, observing and giving pointers when he can.
My first round of shots fails miserably. Out of eight bullets, only one made contact with a target. My disturbed thoughts are affecting my skills. I shake the thoughts of Glenn from my head and try again. My second round improves and I manage to hit the target four times. I strike luck on my third magazine, popping seven out of eight targets.
“Very nice,” says General Granby, startling me. I holster my gun and turn to address him, “Thank you, sir.”
“Could I have a word, Miss McRae,” he asks in a gentle, paternal tone.
“Yes, sir,” I say. It’s not really a requirement to address him as “sir” all the time since I am not a member of the militia, but I find it hard not to when he looks so dignified in his dark green military uniform, donned with medals and decorations. Before the virus, he was a well-respected general of the eastern division of the National Army of North Cythera and served four tours of duty in the Deimosian War in the south, which has been going on for years. His wife and two little girls perished from the illness. He came to serve COPS after learning about the Trinity and their betrayal to our country. He is now considered a traitor by the Trinity and there is a monstrous price on his head for potential bounty hunters.
Granby walks with me around the side of the armory building, away from the shooting, so we can talk.
“I’ve noticed you have improved greatly on your targets since . . . when did you arrive?”
“About three months ago, sir, but I’ve only really been training for two,” I reply.
“Two months. That’s quite impressive,” says Granby.
“Thank you,” I say. When I first arrived I barely knew how to hold a gun, much less shoot it and hit a target. In fact, I’ve always been scared of guns. My first training session here was a nightmare. All I can say is thank goodness we only use paint bullets or the medical clinic would have been very busy that day.
“What I really want to talk about is Glenn Malek. How well do you know him?” Granby asks. He must have seen us talking earlier, or maybe Glenn told him that he knew me.
“We were engaged. Before all of this happened, anyway,” I say.
“So you have a personal relationship with him?”
“Used to. We were together for five years. When he became an Enforcer at Crimson I broke it off. We’re still on speaking terms, but that’s it.”
Granby pulls out a small yellow notepad and pen from his back pocket. “I need you to tell me everything you know about him, beginning at the outset of the virus.”
“The early memories are still a little fuzzy,” I say, “but after my parents died, I didn’t see him until I arrived at Crimson. I thought he had died already, because I read his name in the newspaper—the list of the deceased.”
As I speak, Granby jots down some notes. I feel like a witness at Glenn’s trial. I know I must be honest in my recount, but I hope what I say doesn’t have a negative impact on Glenn. I can tell he’s trying to be a productive part of our society.
“When I discovered him at Crimson,” I continued, “he blew me off. Made it seem like he wanted nothing to do with me. Then he got insanely jealous when he saw me with Marcus. That’s when I officially ended our relationship. When we escaped the first time, he grabbed my niece, Evie, just as the van we stowed away on was leaving. He knew I would be forced to come back to get her.”
Granby stops writing and I take notice, expecting him to dismiss me. “Please continue,” he says. I tell him all about how Glenn caught up with us at my house, after my memory loss, and deceived me in order to take Marcus and me back to Crimson, and about how Glenn encouraged me to join the Enforcers to save myself. Granby seems more than attentive when I explain Glenn’s role in our second escape attempt.
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what is this all about?” I ask.
“I need to know if Glenn is going to be a threat to our people. He gave us his story of what happened at Crimson. I wanted to hear it from you to see if the stories corroborate,” says Granby.
“And?” I ask with anticipation bubbling up inside me.
“Your stories match precisely. Unless you have good reason why we shouldn’t trust him, we will probably grant him limited unrestricted access to the facility and armory.” Granby looks at me, as if expecting an answer.
“I think he’s okay,” I say. “I trust him.”
“Very good,” says General Granby. “Proceed with your training, Miss McRae.”
Glenn will have access to weapons now. I hope I didn’t just make a horrible mistake in judgment.
Chapter 7
I’ve managed to find the tiny minnow in a sea
of fish: a small round table in the boisterous food court, which is bustling with activity at this hour. I already have my dinner of black beans and quinoa with red peppers, so I just sit here alone, pushing the beans around my plate letting them get cold, and scan the room for a familiar face. Lynx and I have a dinner date tonight. We try to meet up once a week to catch up since we hardly see each other any more. Tonight she’s running late.
Yoric approaches the table and startles me out of my intense focus. His golden hair is loose and frames his square face nicely.
“Hey, Pollen. Mind if I sit down?” he asks politely as he pulls out the chair across from me and plops down, not bothering to wait for a response.
“Actually, I’m expecting somebody, Yoric,” I say, scanning the crowd behind him.
“Which one of your boyfriends?” he asks facetiously, with a grin the size of the moon stretching across his cheeks.
“Neither,” I glare at him. Apparently, word has gotten around about my past relationship with Glenn, and as with any large enclosed facility, people will talk. I’m not worried about what they think, though. My only concern is the people closest to me: Evie, Marcus, and Timber. “Actually, I’m waiting for Lynx. She was my old roomie at Crimson.”
“Oh,” says Yoric. “Well, I’ll get out of your way when she gets here. I wanted to ask you something.” Yoric averts his eyes and fidgets with his hands like a nervous twelve-year-old. “I want to do something for Timber and I need your advice. Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure,” I said. “Especially if you’re planning something nice for Timber. She deserves it.”
“I think I’m going to propose to her,” Yoric says.
My jaw drops. After a few seconds I giggle uncontrollably. “Stop it, Yoric. You’re killing me!”
He looks dead in my eyes. He isn’t kidding. “I mean it, Pollen. I love her and I want to marry her.” He can’t be serious. It’s way too soon for them to marry. They’ve barely just started dating. Then again, I’ve only just found out about their relationship a few days ago. Maybe they’ve been keeping this secret for a long time now.
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