Deviation

by Heather Hildenbrand

  I recognize the number. It’s Gus.

  “What is this?” Deitrich is the one to speak. I would thank him if I could because for a moment, Titus stops watching me with that enjoyable cruelty in his eyes.

  “It’s called the recycle bin.” Titus answers easily, as if what we’re looking at really is some attempt to better the environment.

  “What does that mean?” Deitrich asks. He sounds nervous, I think. Or maybe it’s me projecting.

  “When a product is terminated, we keep a piece of them for accurate DNA records and for future replication if necessary.”

  “No shit?” Deitrich asks. Titus doesn’t bother with a reply.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Deitrich’s eyes widen. He stares back and forth between Titus and the view through the window. I wonder if he didn’t realize the parts displayed were actual bodies until now. They do look plastic or sculpted even; an art exhibit on display.

  But with Gus as evidence, it’s all too real.

  “All of your terminated products are stored here?” Alton asks in a tone that sounds more clinical than anything else. His words carry not a single trace of compassion or feeling for the mangled pieces of people before him. Nor does he sound the least bit bothered by the fact that the small patch of marked skin on his wrist will someday end up here.

  “More or less. This is actually a holding room. There is a vault in the back where each piece is permanently stored after initial testing and cataloging. You could call these the recent additions.”

  “Are we going to tour the vault then?” Alton asks.

  “No.” Titus doesn’t leave any room for discussion.

  No one speaks for a moment that feels like an hour. I want to leave. To run all the way home and use the buzzing, panicky energy up so that when I arrive, I can collapse into bed and not wake again until I’ve been assigned another life. One that doesn’t include an afterlife spent inside a crisper drawer.

  But there is nowhere to run. To go home would mean running straight back to the monster I want to escape from. All I can do is swallow back the tears and hold my ground. When I am sure I can speak without sobbing, I clear my throat. “Why did you bring me here?” I whisper.

  Titus leans closer, his eyes narrowing. My body twitches with the urge to step back but I lock my knees and force my feet to remain planted. “Take a good look,” he says, his voice dipping low. “Those parts could belong to any number of products. They could belong to someone you know.”

  I whip my head back up to the window and scan the numbers on the cases in a frenzy. I’d only seen Gus before but if he means someone else, someone specific …. 679, 784, 343… I read off only the first three numbers on the cases, certain he’s bluffing but not certain enough to tamp down the irrational fear at the possibility he’s not.

  Finally, when I’ve scanned all of the cases and not found another number I recognize, I exhale and turn back to Titus. The hint of a smile plays on his lips. “You were worried.”

  “What the hell did you expect?” I snap then press my lips together hard the moment the words are out.

  Titus looks just as stunned. I chalk it up to the waning adrenaline coursing through me. One of these days, he’ll push me too far and I won’t care enough to stop myself. Today’s not that day, though, and I brace myself for whatever assault is coming. But Titus only nods once, his eyes shining with something I can’t decipher.

  It’s happening again.

  “Good. Angry is good. It means you’re worried and afraid, as you should be. I brought you here to show you what will become of your friends if you cross me again. I want to make myself very clear. You will end up here one day. You have no control to change it. And I think you accept that fact well enough. But your friends, well, their fate and timing are up to you.”

  He pauses as if letting that sink in.

  “And your boyfriend?” Titus adds. “If he puts his hands on you again, I’ll personally cut them off and put them in a freezer bag. Which I think I’ve just proven is not an empty threat. Have I made myself clear?”

  I nod, loathing my own shame and subservience. I want to murder him, to cut off his tongue and put it on display in the lobby. Or let the others use it for tennis downstairs.

  “Good.” He straightens and his features smooth out. His hands deftly refasten the button on his jacket. “Let’s go home.” He hits the light switch and the scene on the other side of the window is plunged into darkness. I only have the space of a breath to relax because the moment I blink, I realize the images are still there—burned into my memory forever.

  Alton is the first to head for the door. Deitrich hesitates. I put aside my own horror and realize he looks almost as stricken. I suspect this was all new information for him as well. Our eyes meet. His are full of shock and confusion and more than a little fear. I feel a pang of compassion for him but I can’t say a word. Not in front of Titus. Alton clears his throat and Deitrich frowns. Like shutters being drawn, his expression shuts down and there is nothing to see.

  “Let’s go, you two,” Titus prompts from the doorway. He’s typing something on his phone, oblivious to our exchange.

  It isn’t until we’re several yards down the hall that a new horror dawns on me. I wrestle with it, positive I’m doing exactly what Titus wants and playing into his threat. If I voice my fear now, he’ll know his effort to blackmail me back under his control has worked. Which is a silly thought. Of course he knows. He’s never doubted.

  “Titus,” I call, coming to a stop. “I need to see them,” I say when I have his full attention.

  He doesn’t even ask who before he says, “No.”

  I square my shoulders. “I need proof you haven’t already terminated them or I won’t do a single thing you ask.”

  He whirls and stomps back to where I stand with my arms crossed to hide my trembling. “Even if I have, you’ll obey for the sake of your boyfriend.” He glares at me.

  “Linc would understand my sacrifice.”

  Titus stills, his eyelids twitching as his gaze sharpens. I can practically see his thoughts whirring. “What sacrifice?”

  “I would rather die than let you hurt any of them. If you already have, there’s nothing keeping me here.” I shrug. “There are a thousand ways I can do it. Next time I run the track, I won’t turn the corner near the edge of the building. It’s as simple as that.”

  There is a millisecond’s worth of silence and then Titus barks, “Come on.” He whirls and heads back down the hall, rapidly punching buttons into his phone as he walks.

  I hurry to keep pace, my body humming with the nervous energy of even a victory this small. Titus stops in front of a door we haven’t yet visited and swipes his card. It beeps to allow entry and we file through.

  It’s another hallway, this one long and narrow and lined with large windows. All of them are dark or covered by heavy curtains. A few have a strange tint to the glass and I wonder if they are one-way windows, like the ones Titus uses to observe his cells at home. What’s kept back here that would need anonymous viewing?

  Halfway down, goose bumps break out over my arms and back and I falter. The heavy curtains covering the window beside me are drab and thick, completely obscuring whatever’s on the other side. As I stare at it, a shell of a thought lodges at the edges of my awareness. Not whole or even capable of leaving behind an explanation before it vanishes completely.

  I blink and wait. When it doesn’t return, I resume my walk.

  At end of the hall, I follow Titus inside a darkened room. The air is stale, as if this space isn’t used often. A light is switched on, revealing a bank of monitors like the ones I saw in the security booth earlier. I scan them, excited to see movement, faces. Signs of life downstairs. I quickly recognize the rooms displayed and calculate the schedule based on the clock above the monitors.

  My attention is drawn to a view of the gym.

  A burly woman with a frizzy bun stands with arms crossed at the door. Her form takes up t
he entire frame. I recognize her as the sour-faced guard with quick eyes and excellent hearing. She was always fussing at us to keep quiet and move on when Ida would dawdle. I move on, scanning for a better view.

  On the next monitor, it is the same area from a different angle. Tennis matches are being played, the pop of the ball silent as opponents volley it back and forth over the fraying nets. I search the faces intently for someone familiar.

  There. All the way in the back, on the same court we shared my last day, Ida serves. She wears an easy smile as she watches Lonnie lunge and miss the return. My stomach lurches into my throat. I can’t look away or breathe or speak. A sharp pain pricks the very center of my chest.

  They are alive. And they are still here, still safe.

  Lonnie retrieves the missed ball. She bends down and scoops it up, cupping it in her palm while she jogs back to the serving position. Ida says something I can’t make out on the silent monitor. Lonnie snaps back some retort. Ida rolls her eyes and Lonnie raises the ball to serve.

  I take a step closer to the monitor, inspecting Lonnie’s forearm. “What is that?”

  “What?” Titus asks. He sounds distracted. I turn back to find him engrossed in whatever he’s typing into his phone.

  “That,” I say, pointing to the oversized purple mark on Lonnie’s exposed forearm. “She has a giant bruise.”

  “I can’t be held responsible for every time she bumps into a wall,” Titus says.

  I don’t respond, because he’s right—but Lonnie’s not accident-prone. Ida maybe, but not Lonnie. And I could’ve sworn there’d been a small incision at the center of the bruise. Whatever caused it had been deliberate. Still, she is alive and seems well. I continue to watch them as they take turns returning the ball over the net or missing it and serving a fresh volley. They are teasing and friendly with each other, but there’s something else. A shadow under their eyes that wasn’t there before I left. Every so often, Ida glances over at something I can’t see.

  I wonder if it’s the burly woman standing watch at the door, but I can’t be sure. It’s strange. We’ve never been concerned with our guards. They don’t mess with us except to keep us on schedule, always moving to the next activity. Idle hands are not allowed in the City. So why does Ida seem so worried underneath her cheerful demeanor?

  “Can you turn the sound on?” I ask without looking away from the monitor.

  “No.”

  My shoulders sag. I debate on pressing him on it but a sharp beep interrupts.

  “Our time is up,” Titus announces. He frowns at his phone screen before pocketing it and opening the door to signal our departure. Alton and Deitrich exit but I hesitate, wanting to soak in the sight of my two friends as long as I can. I know it’s a very real possibility I will never seem them again. That the memory of them playing tennis will be the last thing I see before I—

  “Raven,” Titus snaps.

  I jump and he flips the switch, plunging the room into darkness. My shoulders turn rigid as I turn and follow him out.

  Alton and Detrich are already halfway down the hall. Titus strides quickly to catch up with them and they fall into hushed conversation with Titus checking his phone every third sentence. Something has happened. I don’t even want to know what. I am numb after the emotional roller coaster of this night. My feet move slow, matching my thoughts, and I taste misery like a clove of garlic in my throat.

  Until tonight, I thought death was the end. I imagined myself fading into nothingness as the memory of me is replaced by the newness of the next product in the assembly line. The few I care about—that care about me—would either forget me with the passage of time or worse, die and fade as well. But now, after the gruesome scene Titus has shown me, I know there is a worse fate that awaits. To be reduced to nothing but a singular limb, an organ in a specimen jar, a piece of my physical body on display for science, remembered solely by the color of the inside of my flesh—it’s worse than the miserable imaginings that have haunted me my entire life. I want to vomit. All over Titus and his shiny black Stacy Adams footwear.

  And even though I know it will only make it worse, I allow myself to imagine Ida’s delicate hand suspended wrist-deep in a jar of clear fluid on a shelf. Or Lonnie’s hand, fingers curled into a fist, sitting on a frozen tray in a cryogenic chamber. I stop walking. My eyes burn with hot tears and I blink over and over again, willing the images away. I’d give both of my hands to keep each of theirs whole.

  At least they have each other, I tell myself. And they are safe—for now. I remember them on the screen, playing tennis, laughing and running and breathing. Even without me, their bond is clearly intact. I am grateful Titus hasn’t separated them and if nothing else, they are safe inside the walls of the City.

  I’m not sure I knew the depth of my resolve until this moment, but suddenly conviction surges to the surface with a strength I didn’t know I possess. I will free them. I will see Titus fall.

  Through the window I pass on my right, something pokes at the edge of the curtain.

  Fear grips me. My first instinct is to run.

  I gasp faintly and step back, bracing myself before I remember there is a thick pane of glass separating me from whatever lies on the other side. I glance sideways to see if Titus has noticed but he’s far down the hall and deep in conversation with the other two.

  The curtain twitches again.

  A quick scan of the rest of the hall reveals only more windows like this one. There are no access doors to what lays beyond the glass. Only window after curtained window on this side of the hall. The other side of the wall, the side at my back, is blank. No windows, not even artwork to break up the stretch of bland beige paint that curves softly left and obscures the exit at the far end.

  I look back at the curtain in front of me. It’s fallen still. The darkness beyond is thick, and I can’t see around its edges.

  I step closer.

  There is no warning before the curtain is abruptly edged aside and the left side of a girl’s face is revealed. Her features are shadowed and contoured through the thick pane. Slender fingers hold the curtain away, the arm disappearing underneath thick locks that spill over her shoulder. Hair so blond it’s almost white.

  I blink.

  A set of indigo eyes mimic me. Eyes whose color perfectly matches my own. I take in the smooth, pale skin. The stubbornly set chin. The dainty nose with the slight point. The arched brows and heart-shaped hairline.

  Adrenaline pumps, slowly at first, then faster and thicker, winding its way from my heart to the tips of my toes and back.

  My mouth opens but no sound comes out.

  I press against the glass, fingers and palms and nose. The girl on the other side slides more fully into view and does the same. I notice a thin scar along the base of her chin. It’s barely there in the darkness that envelopes her from behind, but it glows iridescent from the light above me.

  She wears a white long-sleeved shirt that is fitted to her slender body. It only makes her skin more translucent underneath. I wonder absently if it’s warm in her room. I can’t see a single thing beyond the curtain. I don’t know if she has a bed or a couch or a warm blanket or food.

  My gaze is drawn to her mouth. She is moving her lips but I can’t make out a single word. I lean closer, but it does no good. I want to ask her to speak louder but I don’t dare draw attention to myself. I shake my head, letting her know I don’t understand.

  Her brows furrow and she pauses in thought. Her eyes light with a new idea and she flips her hair off her shoulder. She points with a slender finger to the side of her neck and arches it sideways to give me a better view.

  A tattoo of six numbers and a small leafless tree is imprinted in black ink, a stark contrast to her alabaster flesh.

  Morton’s words ring in my ears. Seven at last count. Which one is she?

  I stare at her, wishing I could transfer my thoughts to her and vice versa. The question burns within me and I have no way of asking. Her lips
form the words, “Leave me,” before the rest is lost in translation. My eyes light with an idea. I slide the phone from my pocket, hold it up in front of the girl. I capture her face on camera and slide it away gone. Her mouth is still moving. Silent, unintelligible. Clearly she has a message for me.

  I need more time. I don’t know how much longer I have before—

  Raven’s eyes widen as they shift to something over my shoulder. She clamps her lips shut and in one fluid movement, she slides away and the curtain falls back into place. By the time I’ve blinked, it’s as if she was never there to begin with. The only real evidence is the slight swing of the curtain’s edge.

  A hand clamps down on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Titus asks.

  “I feel sick,” I say. Not a lie. The pounding in my head has returned.

  He grunts but doesn’t argue. When I turn, I find him engrossed in his phone again and I breathe in relief. He’s too distracted to notice the swinging curtain or my speeding pulse. His hand slides to the edge of my elbow, guiding me away. I let him lead me down the hall, all the while wanting nothing more than to rush back and fling myself at the glass until it breaks and lets me in or her out.

  Why is she here? Why is he hiding her in the City? She doesn’t seem happy to be here. And she didn’t look surprised to see me. Nor did she look … mean. I know that’s silly. You can’t tell by looking at a person. I’m a carbon copy, after all. But after spending so much time and energy hating her for the position she’s put me in, I expected more evidence of evil in her than what I just saw. And the tattoo only confuses me more. Raven is human. That’s what they said.

  She must have information Titus doesn’t want shared. Why else would he lock her away? And why else would she have risked herself to pass along to me whatever she’d been trying to say?