The Outliers

by Kimberly McCreight

  He rolls his eyes. “He’s my professor, not my priest, okay? I don’t have to confess everything to him.”

  “Sorry, I just—I know Dr. Simons thinks it’s too dangerous for us to go, but sitting here waiting seems—”

  “Insane?” Quentin nods. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

  The way he says it makes me feel a little ridiculous. Like a little girl waiting for permission. I am sixteen, not six. And what is Dr. Simons going to do? Tie us up? They did lock us in a cabin for a little while, but there’s got to be a limit to what they’re willing to do.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway.” I motion toward where Cassie has gone. “She won’t go.”

  “Really?” Quentin looks confused. “Is it because she doesn’t want to leave without Jasper? Because it looks like at least he got away okay.”

  “How do you know?” My gut churns. And not with relief.

  “Officer Kendall called Dr. Simons and told him the truck you guys came in is gone.” Quentin rubs his forehead. “Now that I think about it, I guess that’s not proof Jasper is okay. A good sign, though.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. But I do not feel reassured. “I’ll tell Cassie, definitely. But I’m not even sure it was because she was worried about Jasper.”

  “If you can convince her to go, I’ll tag along. I mean, if you want me to.”

  “Thanks.” And I do really appreciate the offer. “I think I’ll give her a few minutes to calm down. Then I’ll try talking to her again.” I motion to the small black square Quentin’s been working on. “What is that anyway?”

  “A car battery that I’m trying to convert into a portable charging station, in case they kill our half-useless generator.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “It would be,” he says with a smile, “if I could actually do it. I had this accident the summer after my dad died. I was laid up for weeks, so I taught myself all this engineering stuff.” Quentin runs a hand over his hair, then rests it on the back of his neck. “Anyway, I forgot that I was only ten, so it’s not like any of it was that complicated. Also, I wasn’t actually very good at it.”

  “What kind of accident was it?” I ask. Because, yes, I am especially interested in such things.

  Quentin pulls up his pant leg to show me a scar, at least six inches long, running up from his ankle along his calf. “They actually thought I was going to lose my foot. But three surgeries later, it’s as good as new, at least for someone who is completely nonathletic.”

  A car accident. Of course, that’s already popped into my head.

  “What happened?”

  “I, um, well …” He doesn’t want to tell me. That’s obvious. Which just makes me desperate to know. “I had all these phobias when I was a kid, and they got a lot worse after my dad died. Anyway, my grandfather was this super-old-school guy. One day at the mall he decided he was going to ‘cure’ me of my fear of escalators.” Quentin takes a breath and tries to smile a little, like it’s kind of a funny story. But already it’s not. “And I wasn’t going down without a fight. My pants got caught, pulled my leg right in.”

  I gasp. Out loud, I can’t help it. The image is so horrifying.

  “Yeah, nothing like your worst fear coming true,” he says.

  I do a double take when he says it. Déjà vu, for the second time. But this time it was me who said that exact same thing—nothing like your worst fear coming true—in my last session with Dr. Shepard. Because my mom dying was always my greatest fear, and Quentin is right. Your worst fear coming true turns the world a special kind of dark. And I’m pretty sure it stays that way forever.

  But standing there in the middle of that broken-down camp, I suddenly feel a tiny bit better. Because for the first time since my mom died, it feels possible that someone might understand me again. Maybe not the way my mom did. And not even Quentin necessarily, not today. But maybe someone, someday.

  “So what about you?” Quentin asks. “Any secret childhood talents that are hopefully more real than my ability to build things?”

  For a second my mind is a total blank, like I’ve never done an interesting thing in my entire life. “I used to take pictures,” I say finally.

  “Used to?” Quentin asks.

  “Yeah, well, my mom was a photographer. So …”

  “I get it.” Quentin nods, and I’m grateful that he doesn’t make me spell out how picking up a camera has been a total impossibility since she died. “Listen, do you want to go inside and get a drink or something?” He taps the top of the black box in front of him with his pliers. “I could use a break from this.”

  “Yes,” I say, and I could too. A break from everything. “That would be great.”

  Inside the empty main cabin, Quentin tosses his jacket on one of the tables before heading over to the refrigerator. I drift over to the stacks of papers at the other end: photocopies of different Q&As, Instructions for Testing, Training Protocol. My eyes scan the pages, picking up familiar bits and pieces. Some of it looks like the test my dad gave us, some of it is a little different. My dad definitely never said anything about a training protocol. So maybe Gideon was right, people can be taught after all.

  Quentin comes back and stands next to me, holding out a Coke. It’s a relief, cold and solid in my hand. Like a relic of a long-lost civilization. Still, as Quentin and I stare down at the stacks of printouts, I can feel my chest slowly tightening.

  “What do you think they’ll do with Cassie if they get her?”

  “I don’t know,” Quentin says, keeping his eyes on the table. “Maybe Dr. Sim—”

  “Come on, what do you think?” I ask. “You don’t need to be an actual scientist to have an imagination.”

  Quentin glances at me, then turns away and shrugs. “They’ll want to learn everything they can,” he says finally. “See if they can figure out how she’s reading people. If it’s not her eyes or her ears, then what is it? They’d probably do functional MRIs, that kind of thing also. They want to learn how to be Outliers themselves, right?”

  “Learn?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “You can learn to do anything, right? I mean, not everyone is going to be Yo-Yo Ma, but most people could learn to play the cello pretty well if they tried hard enough. Maybe there are a lot more people who have Cassie’s potential, and they just need help accessing it.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Or maybe it’s more like basketball. No matter how much you practice, most people are never going to dunk the ball.”

  “Maybe they’ll also want to figure out how many others there are like Cassie. Your dad’s study had, what, three hundred people? If he found three Outliers, that’s one percent of his study. If that relative percentage held true for the rest of the population, it could be tens of millions of people.”

  The pit in my stomach pulls a little deeper. Because what will happen if North Point’s scanning of Cassie’s brain doesn’t work? I imagine them opening up her skull, attaching monitors to the squishy surface of her brain, her body kept alive by a series of tubes. I shudder hard.

  “Hey, this is all going to be okay,” Quentin says, putting a hand on my arm. “I promise.”

  I turn, about to remind him that no one can promise that, when there’s a commotion behind us. The doors bang open, a crowd stumbles inside. And they’re carrying something. No, someone. Fiona.

  “Put her down, put her down!” It’s Adam. He’s frantic as someone yanks down a tablecloth and they rest her carefully on the floor.

  “Gently, gently,” Dr. Simons says. He seems so much older and frailer, his curly ring of hair all wild and out of place as he stands off to the side, as though he’s too frightened to actually lend a hand. It’s not exactly comforting.

  “I’m okay, really,” Fiona says, trying to push herself up. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad? It’s a bullet, Fiona!” Adam shouts at her. “Don’t sit up!”

  “What happened?” Quentin rushes over to where Fion
a is on the floor.

  “Adam,” Fiona pants. Her voice is breathy and high. She is in pain, but is pretending not to be. “Really, I’m okay.”

  “She got fucking shot in the leg!” Adam shouts at Quentin. Like he’s the one who did it.

  Shot. A bullet. Cassie. Where is Cassie?

  I look around, but already I know she’s not with them. I never should have left her alone, not even for a second. Not even so she could calm down. My heart is pounding as I start for the doors, but I have to be careful. Can’t risk them stopping me now. We’ll head straight back into the woods behind the cabins. In the opposite direction of where Fiona got shot. And I will lead. And Cassie will survive.

  “Where’s Miriam?” Adam shouts to no one in particular. “She needs to take a look at Fiona’s leg.”

  It’s my chance. I know that it is.

  “I saw her outside before.” I move fast now for the door. “I’ll go get her.”

  This is technically true. I did see her out there a long time ago.

  “I’ll look in back,” someone else calls.

  “Come on, let’s move Fiona to the couch in the office,” Adam says without looking up. “We can elevate her leg.”

  My heart is racing as I reach the door. The far cabin, that’s where Cassie must be. Where Fiona’s clothes are. It’s a straight shot across the grass. I hold my breath, but no one stops me at the door.

  Outside, I look right and left as I make my way down the cabin steps. The clouds have turned an ominous purply-black, and I have the most awful feeling that I’m being watched as I make my way quickly across the grass. Like there are dozens of North Point people out there, looming in the woods. Biding their time until nightfall. But I don’t see anyone. Not even Stuart.

  “Wylie!” When I turn, Quentin is rushing down the steps after me. “We found Miriam. She’s inside.”

  Caught. Now what?

  “Oh,” I say. Lie. I am sure I should do that. I like Quentin and he offered before to come, but I can’t risk that Fiona getting shot has changed his mind. “I just want to bring Cassie up to the main cabin with the rest of us. She went to change.”

  “They already moved her. Back to where you all were. It’s our safest safe house.” He points in the direction of the cabin we started out in. It’s dark. Not a soul in sight. “Stuart’s standing watch.”

  I look again. “I don’t see him. I don’t see anyone.”

  “Well, that’s the point, right?” Quentin says. “For no one to know they’re over there? It’s safest for her there. I mean, not so much if we keep standing here drawing attention to it.”

  And now I am out of lies. I have no choice but to push down all my doubt and trust him.

  “Cassie and I need to go,” I say. “Now.”

  “Agreed,” Quentin says without hesitating, and I feel so relieved I could cry. He’s not even going to make me convince him. “But not alone, okay? Just let me get my jacket and my phone, and then I’ll go with you.”

  I look back toward the dark cabin. I consider running for it, for Cassie. But I will need Quentin to help deal with Stuart. And the truth is, I am worried. What if I drag Cassie out there and fall apart? What if rushing off into the woods with her is more than I can handle in my condition? What if my dad was right all along?

  “Can you be really fast?” I ask.

  “Yes, as long as you come back inside with me,” he says. “Because it’s not safe for you to stand out here waiting. And everyone is going to freak out about where you are. Trust me, it’ll be less suspicious.”

  I nod and follow. Get in. Get back to Cassie. Get out. One step at a time.

  When we get back inside, there is no one in sight, just the bloody tablecloth bunched on the ground with some stained gauze pads next to it. But there are some raised voices coming from the back. Or one raised voice, actually: Adam’s. He’s shouting as Miriam comes out gripping a tray with what looks like medical supplies. As usual, she’s talking to herself. She doesn’t look in our direction, doesn’t even seem to notice us standing there. She’s got a tsk-tsk look on her face. Like she would be wagging a finger if she wasn’t holding that tray.

  “Is it bad?” Quentin calls to her.

  “Oh, I didn’t see you!” She startles, as usual.

  “Miriam, is Fiona going to be okay?” Quentin understandably has much less patience for her inability to focus now.

  “Oh, yes, I think so.” Miriam waves a hand. “It’s just a graze,” she says in a way that only someone who was once a combat nurse could. “A few stitches and she’ll be fine.”

  “Miriam!” Adam shouts from the back. “She’s feeling dizzy!”

  “They really need you.” Another voice now, this one headed our way from the back. A man’s voice that I can’t identify. “Adam’s freaking out.”

  But a voice I’ve heard before. My mind spins around trying to place it, the effort vacuuming the air out of my lungs. By the time the man finally steps into view, I am so light-headed that my vision is blurred. But I make out that the size and shape of this man is bigger than the other men. Large in a way I have seen before.

  No. I do not want to be seeing him. I close my eyes. Keep my eyes closed long enough, I hope, to clear them. For that man to disappear. But when I open them, he’s still there. And I can see him so clearly now. So much clearer than I want him to be.

  “Hey, did you hear me?” the man calls to Miriam. He waves a rude hand at her. “Hello?”

  It’s when he waves his hand that there can truly be no doubt. Because I see it. The bandage. Covering the place where I stabbed him.

  Doug.

  Bam, bam, bam, goes my heart. When I turn, Quentin is still staring in Miriam’s direction. That’s him. The one who attacked us, I scream silently at the side of his face. There’s no more preparing for North Point. They’re here.

  Cassie. What if they already have her? I never should have come back inside. Shouldn’t have listened to Quentin, even if he was just trying to help. I should have just—Doug is going to want to hurt me back. Yes. He is going to want to do that first.

  “Coming, coming,” Miriam calls to Doug, rubbing her bony fingers together. “Just need some hot water to warm up these hands before I do any stitching. Otherwise, who knows what kind of scar she’ll end up with?”

  “It’s him,” I finally manage in a whisper. “The one I stabbed. We have to get Cassie. Now.”

  I hold my breath and wait for Quentin to turn, to grab my hand and run. But his eyes stay locked on Doug. His face tight, and utterly still.

  Angry? Is that it? Maybe he’s going to charge at Doug instead of running the other way. But I know that Doug is even stronger than he looks. Stronger than Jasper. Definitely stronger than Quentin.

  When I look back, it’s already too late. Doug is staring right at us. At me. He recognizes me, too. There’s no doubt about it. He even takes a few steps forward, stops in the middle of the room. Fists clenched at his sides like he’s getting ready to charge.

  And in the endless, frozen moments that follow, the last of the oxygen gets sucked from the room. My thoughts flash and disappear like lightning. Too quick for me to get a fix on, too fast to understand.

  All I have are questions anyway. What will happen if Quentin goes after Doug? Will Doug choke Quentin like he did Jasper? Will he grab Miriam? Is he armed? He must be. He works for a defense contractor, ex-military. Isn’t that what someone said? A gun, maybe two, at least. And if so, how is it possible that any of us will survive?

  And Cassie. Too far away to warn. Too far away to save. How long will it take them to find her? To hurt her? To take her brain apart? That is, if they haven’t already.

  I wonder what it will feel like when Doug drives a knife into my hand or maybe my neck. Because I remember the hate in his eyes back at the diner as he gripped that blood-smeared wall. He is going to want an eye for an eye. But right now, Doug is still frozen there, eyes wide on mine. We are hunter and hunted. Locked in that momen
t when there’s still a chance to survive.

  Run. Toward Cassie. But I’m already so light-headed. A single step and I might crash right to the ground.

  In the end it’s Miriam who cracks the stillness. She peers at Doug, still halfway across the room. Of course, she’s confused why this nice new guy is staring that way at Quentin and me. And I know how nice Doug can seem when he tries. Like a totally different person than he actually is. Who knows what he said to convince all of them he wasn’t a threat? And to Miriam, already living in a fog of half-formed memories. She probably pretends to know people all the time just because they seem to know her.

  Miriam walks up next to Doug, studies the side of his face with a look of playful consternation. Move away from him, Miriam, I think. He is not who you think he is. But I’m afraid to say a word. To do anything that might make Doug lunge for Miriam. She is so old. It wouldn’t take much to hurt her, to kill her even.

  “Look there, I was wrong. Wylie isn’t outside, she’s right here. I could have sworn—” Miriam points one of her bent fingers at me, then waves a hand. “Oh, never mind. Wylie, this is Doug. He and his wife Lexi have been on an errand since you arrived. They’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” And with that, she pats Doug on his big arm and disappears in back with her tray of stitching supplies.

  An errand. Miriam knows Doug. He isn’t a stranger accidentally invited in. He isn’t a stranger at all. The world is bent, the corners dark as I turn toward Quentin: What? Why?

  And Quentin keeps on staring straight ahead at Doug for these endless, awful seconds.

  “Wylie,” he says when he finally turns toward me. His eyes are bright, hands raised like I’m an animal he is trying to contain. But Quentin’s voice is so terrifyingly calm. “I can explain.”

  Quentin knows Doug. Doug tried to kill us.

  I do not need to know anything else. Get out of that main cabin. Find Cassie. Now.

  I spin toward the door. Sprint. Heart racing. In a second, I’m there. But my hand slips on the knob. Once, twice. Finally, I grab hold and pull. But the door won’t budge. Then I see a hand high above me pressing it shut. Doug’s hand. The bandage is right there. Inches from my face. I close my eyes, brace for pain. For his fist in the back of my neck. A knife in my flesh.