by E. R. Arroyo
Sprinkled in among the Antius soldiers there are many unfamiliar faces—faces that are clearly not from Antius. One of them stops at the door across the tunnel. He puts his wrist against an access pad like the ones I’m used to. So they have chips, just not in their necks.
Eventually the tunnel clears out and I get tired of standing at the door so I sit. And I wait. And I agonize. Staring at the concrete I allow my vision to blur as my mind begins to swim in dread.
I bite my lip, trying hard not to think about Dylan but unable to think about anything else. My eyes sting and I slip over onto my side, curling into a ball. Tears spill sideways down my face as heavy sobs pour out from deep within me. I remember the day I met him. I remember the first time he helped me with schoolwork. The time he gave me an electronic book. When he slipped me a multi-tool under the lunchroom table after Billy and Sean beat me up.
Covered in sweat and tears, I fight off a wave of nausea as a memory of our first kiss plays out in my mind. I squeeze my eyes closed and beg the memory to stop, but it doesn’t. How could he fake those things?
Catching my breath, I stare at the concrete wall across from me and I remember other things too. Like how he was able to sneak onto the girls’ floor to see me without getting caught. How he admitted to drawing fluid from my brain to use in Antius’s drugs. How he never bothered to tell me he was Nathan’s son until a few months ago. The way he’d been losing his temper since we left Antius. The way he’d spoken to me so harshly. The fact that he was the one who found the gate to Fort Burke.
It makes sense. I was starting to think he was changing, but maybe I’d just never known who he was to begin with. Maybe he really is like Nathan. He went to such extreme lengths just to gain my trust, even going along with my escape.
I slide my fingers over my scalp and grab a fistful of hair, humiliation and anger engulfing me in equal doses. My instincts told me not to trust anyone—and it turns out I was right all along. I never should have trusted Dylan. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Not anymore.
Antius isn’t the kind of colony you escape twice.
I replay the battle in my head, wondering if anything had gone differently, would there have been a way for me to get free? If Tyce had fought harder—No … I stop that thought in its tracks. It’s not his fault, it’s mine. He didn’t owe me anything. The one thing we both came for—his daughter—we didn’t get. No matter the outcome, no matter the hostages they did save … they didn’t get the one that mattered to Tyce and me. And I don’t know if Tyce will ever forgive me. Not that I’ll ever get the chance to find out because I’ll never see him again.
I don’t have any choice but to accept defeat. But as my body trembles on this concrete floor, I make a vow—no matter what happens to me, I will not make it easy for these sick people to use me. I will fight until my dying breath.
* * *
Two quick pounds on the door stir me awake. I have no idea how long I’ve been here. I’m starving, shivering, and lying on the floor. The door creaks open and a gurney precedes Dylan into the room. I sit up.
“I’m going to take you to the lab now. You’ll feel better soon. Especially if you don’t try to fight.” He has a fresh haircut and a new implant in his wrist. His clothes are light colored and clean and he’s wearing a white smock.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask him, my throat dry, voice hoarse.
“Cori…”
“Don’t call me that.”
Two lab techs step inside and move toward me. One of them I recognize from Antius, the other I don’t.
“Are you going to come willingly or not?” Dylan crosses his arms, growing impatient with me.
I try to clear my throat. “Why should I make it easy on you?”
“Because you have a broken arm, for one.”
“Yeah and what do you care?” I lay back down.
“Sedate her,” he tells the techs.
They close in on me and before I’m able to get to my feet they haul me onto the gurney. I struggle but don’t have the energy to give them a hard time, not like I would if I wasn’t injured. I do manage to kick the one from Fort Burke before the Antius lady pins my legs.
The tech I don’t recognize, the one with the chip in his wrist instead of behind his ear, jams a needle into my neck while holding my right arm down.
The room darkens from the edges inward, gradually fading into only a tiny speck of light and then it’s gone.
Black.
Quiet.
Nothing.
Sound filters back into my consciousness—noise from wheels across the floor. We must be moving, not that I feel the motion. Muffled voices go back and forth but I can’t discern who is speaking, what they are saying, or where they are in proximity to me. I can’t feel anything and I can’t move.
I try to picture the words as though they were something I could reach out and grab. I fight against the haze in my brain, catching only bits and pieces. “Operation,” “implant,” “security threat,” and “war.”
After a short amount of time, the haze grows weaker and my hearing becomes clearer until I can finally make out an entire sentence.
“I’m not doing the procedure until you give me my gun back. I’m not going anywhere unarmed. Period.” Dylan’s voice.
“Civilians don’t carry arms, you know that,” Jacob responds.
Something bangs into something else, startling me, but my body is still numb so I can’t react. “I’m not a civilian.”
“And just what are you?”
Dylan doesn’t hesitate to answer, as if this is something he’s said a thousand times. “I’m Nathan Burke’s son.” Dylan’s a different creature now. He’s intimidating and cunning.
“Nathan Burke had many sons, we all did,” Jacob says.
I try to pull myself farther out of the darkness but can’t. What did they give me?
“He was never able to produce a second child. Making me his only son and his heir. I know that because I had the highest security clearance level in the entire colony. Higher even than yours, 103. The same as my father. Which is how I know my father was infertile after me, and how I know that you have lupus and you need medication as much as anyone.”
Jacob is quiet.
“Now,” Dylan continues, his voice cold and unlike the Dylan I thought I knew. “Bring my gun back or I’m not doing the procedure.”
There’s a long pause.
“You are your father’s son after all,” Jacob says, defeated but just as indignant. “Fine. I’ll get your gun. Do you have everything you need here?”
“How about you worry about not trampling all over the legacy my family built and leave the rest to me?”
“Very well,” Jacob says.
A door closes, opens, and closes again, and footsteps pad toward me. I realize now that I don’t hear wheels anymore and wonder where they’ve taken me. It isn’t hard to guess.
I focus all my energy on my eyes, willing them to open. I can’t force them but in the process of trying, I moan.
“Is she awake?” Dylan asks.
A machine beeps a few times, then a quiet voice mumbles, “I…”
“How much did you give her?” There’s shuffling around, clanging. I try even harder to open my eyes.
“Thirty CCs,” the man answers.
“I told you to double her dosage.” Dylan sounds irate. It sounds like a cabinet is slammed, and something is placed on the table beside me. Fingers prod the skin on my neck, then a needle, then cold liquid.
“But sixty CCs is a lethal dose.”
“Not for her, it isn’t.” Dylan’s voice is softer now, but I can’t tell if it’s him or just the sedative seeping into my body and pulling me back under.
The last thought I’m able to form is that I hope I don’t wake up. Ever.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bright light warms my face as I walk toward an open field. I can barely make out the tall grass bending over with the wind, but I move closer s
till. Illuminated by sunlight, a tall man stands with his back to me. Compelled, I reach out and touch his arm and he turns to face me. It’s Dylan and he wears an easy smile.
Though his expression is carefree, his voice comes out thick with emotion. “I love you,” he says.
And I revel in it.
He touches the nape of my neck, and I think he’s going to pull me in for a kiss. Instead he brushes my hair aside and sticks a needle in the back of my head. I pull away and run toward the field but I trip and when I land, my left arm snaps and I cry out.
Then I wake up, cursing myself for having such a stupid dream.
I open my eyes to linoleum floor tiles. I’m lying face down on a table with a cushioned opening for my face. I try to pick my head up to look around but I can’t move it—same with my feet and my right hand. But my left one is free. With a bit of effort, my arm slips off the edge of the table and I see my hand dangling there. The edge of a new splint, freshly wrapped, is barely within view.
It takes all my energy to heft it back onto the table and I reach up, finding a strap across my head, restraining it. I feel around for a buckle or some way to release the strap, but I pause when my hand drifts over a bandage on the base of my skull. The hair around the small cloth has been shaven.
I recognize Dylan’s shoes when he steps next to me. “Don’t touch it,” he says.
I ignore him and leave my fingers over the wound, knowing it’s where he decided to put the needle. I can’t bring myself to say anything to him.
“I would like to take off your restraints now, but I don’t want to have to sedate you again. Will you cooperate?”
I swallow, moistening my sticky throat. “I hate you,” I tell him, my voice deep and groggy.
“That’s fine.” He puts something cold and circular on my back in a few places, pausing for a few seconds each time. Then he maneuvers my arm to press two fingers against the inside of my wrist, taking my pulse.
When he’s finished examining me he removes my restraints, starting with my head, then hand, then ankles. I bring myself to a sitting position with my legs dangling over the edge as I take in the small room. The counter space is littered with equipment I recognize but could never name. There’s a glass pane in the door to my right and a security camera in the opposite corner. I glare at it for a moment, wondering if whoever’s on the other end is constantly monitoring me.
The row of cabinets along the wall are unremarkable. They’re not even locked.
On the counter though, one thing does catch my attention—a tray holding upright vials full of blood-tinged, cloudy fluid right next to a massive needle that makes me cringe. I touch the bandage on my head protectively.
Without warning, Dylan grabs my arm and pulls me onto my feet, but I’m unsteady and start to sway. His grip tightens as he holds me up, but he pauses. The floor sends cold chills through my bare feet and up my legs. It’s then that I realize I’m only wearing a thin gown, but I don’t care. As if sensing my balance restoring, Dylan guides me out of the room.
The male lab tech from yesterday spots us. “Need a hand?”
“No,” Dylan says, dragging me along.
He drops me off in an even smaller room than the one they had me in yesterday. This one, at least, has a blanket, and I get the feeling I should get used to this space because it’s probably my new home. I fall asleep almost as soon as Dylan closes the door, still exhausted from whatever he did to me.
The only way I have to mark the time is by waking up to the cold meals they bring while I’m asleep. Tan-colored, bland-tasting meal slush, just like we had in Antius. So far, they’ve brought me two. I skipped the first, but by the time they brought the second I was starving and couldn’t resist.
The next time the door opens I’m awake but I pretend not to be. The bowls clinks when it’s set on the floor, then I wait for whomever it is to leave before I move. When the door closes, I open my eyes and sit up but stop cold when I realize Billy is standing by the door staring at me. Heart in my throat, I don’t take my eyes off him.
He pushes the bowl toward me with his boot. But I don’t move.
“What’s the matter, not hungry?” he says, squatting by the bowl, propping his elbows on his thighs. One of his eyebrows is cocked. I don’t think he’s in here to feed me. “Eat it,” he commands.
I scoot away from him until I hit the wall. He’s armed, able-bodied, and has me cornered. There’s nowhere for me to run and no way for me to take him on.
I’m ashamed of myself for cowering.
He picks up the bowl and moves closer to me, setting it on the ground again. “Eat.”
When I reach for the food he snatches it up, shattering the bowl against the wall. I jump at the impact. He moves in, grabs me, and slams me against the wall, holding me there by my neck. I grip his fingers, trying to pry them away.
“I saw the video footage, what you did to Sean,” he seethes. “You always thought you were better than the rest of us, didn’t you?”
I gasp, struggling to breathe against the pressure on my throat.
He leans closer, spitting moisture onto my cheek as he speaks. “You’re a stupid girl for coming back here. You’re a nobody, just bitter and bent on revenge because you never measured up. And now it’s me who’s going to get revenge.”
He reaches for something and I take the chance to attack, clawing at his face, hoping in the process I manage to gouge his eyes. He roars in response, squeezing my neck tighter, cutting off my oxygen. I strain, pulling at his hand, but it doesn’t budge and no air reaches my lungs. I blink rapidly, feeling light-headed.
Then suddenly he lets go, and I don’t realize why until Dylan speaks. “What do you think you’re doing in here?”
I look up and he’s aiming a gun at Billy.
Suddenly, Billy’s demeanor shifts as he withdraws like the coward he always was—and still is. He says nothing.
“Keep your hands off my prisoner,” Dylan says, his voice low. Dangerous.
Billy glances at me with murder in his eyes before making his way for the door. But before he reaches the threshold Dylan shoves him into the wall, looking down at him with his jaw locked. Billy cowers and slips out, leaving me with Dylan.
I wish I could say I’m relieved.
“Let’s go,” he says, holstering his gun under his smock.
I square my shoulders, catch my breath, and press my fingers against the wall behind me to keep myself steady.
“Are you going to do this every time?” he asks, exasperated.
“Till my dying breath,” I tell him. He steps closer and I want so much to lash out at him, but can’t find it within myself … until he grabs my arm. Then I struggle out of his grip and shove him away.
His temper flares and he advances again, crowding me into the corner. When I don’t have any room left to back up, I swing for his face, landing a punch square on his jaw.
He barely reacts. He doesn’t even look angry.
Instead of retaliating or injecting me with a sedative, he hefts me over his shoulder and marches me out of my cell and down the passage. Again and again, I slam my fist and elbow into his back, until I finally strike the back of his head. He stumbles, sending us both crashing into the floor.
I know there’s nowhere to run so I don’t even try to escape. But I do attempt to knee him while he’s down. He catches my leg though, pulling me into his lap where he locks his massive arms around me.
“You’re not making this any easier.” His voice is impatient, frustrated.
“Yeah? Put it in my case file.”
With little effort, Dylan gets to his feet with me in his arms. “Do you realize I’m the only thing standing in between you and a chemically induced coma? Is that what you want?”
“Now, that’s no life for a lab rat, is it? Do what you have to, 862.”
My body is facing out, so I can’t see if he makes a face, but he does tighten his grip around my ribcage as he carries me the rest of the way to the
lab. He all but throws me onto the table. Defeated and worn out, I finally let him flip me face down and restrain me. Minutes later, he knocks me out.
When I come to, my head is unstrapped. I blink, staring at the floor. It’s quiet and I’m confused. I lift my head and no one’s here. After a few minutes, Dylan strides into the room. He checks my vitals the way he did yesterday. He meets my eyes briefly but continues working without speaking.
When he’s finished, he steps back and leans against the counter, his posture casual. “Your vitals are good. The procedure went smoothly.” His voice is tight and controlled, not matching his body language at all.
Why is he telling me this? He didn’t bother to yesterday.
Dylan’s hand drifts into his pocket as his eyes flicker to the security camera. He keeps talking, but his voice still isn’t right. Still doesn’t match his face or anything else. “You still seem a little dizzy, so I’m going to let you rest for a few minutes. I’ll be back for you.”
He touches my wrist again, adjusting the strap, but he slips something into my hand. Instinctively, I close my fist around it.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” he tells me. Something about his expression is cryptic and his fingers linger on my skin, touching me the way he used to. Before he crushed me.
I want to pull my hand back but I’m still restrained.
“Five minutes,” he says again, his voice a forceful whisper.
When the door clicks, I open my hand to a piece of paper folded into a tiny square. I also notice my restraint is looser than it was before and I’m able to slip my hand out. The straps on my ankles are loose too, and I pull my feet through with no trouble at all.
Sitting up, I glance at the square window on the door and at the security camera then, discreetly as I can, I unfold the paper—a note from Dylan.
“I found Emma. Get dressed now.”
My heart slams against my chest and my eyes dart up, scanning the room. In the corner directly below the camera, a cabinet door is ajar. If I truly know Dylan at all, I can guarantee that was done intentionally.
I ease myself off the table and pad toward the open cabinet. I glance at the small window again before I kneel down to look inside. My Glock rests atop my neatly folded clothes, my knife tucked inside my boot.