COPYRIGHT
TRAITOR
Copyright © 2017 Alyson Santos
All Rights Reserved
www.alysonsantos.com
Cover design by Era Media Co.
Cover model: Jean-Philippe Mercier
eBook format by John Gibson
This novel is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers. Events and persons depicted are of a fictional nature and use language, make choices, and face situations inappropriate for younger readers.
Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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DEDICATION
Dedicated to the women who first stood behind me when I started this journey.
The original “Santos Sisters”:
Evie Woods, Darlene Avery, Eli Peters, and Tesrin Afzal.
“Wake up. Dammit, Kaleb. Wake up!”
I shake him harder. It’s instinct now, because he’s not moving. God, I want to die too. Maybe I will from this grief that sucks life from the living. Love is strong. It changes things. Now, it’s nothing at all.
The broken body in my arms is too foreign for tears. Reality can’t translate this kind of agony. I nestle my face into his shoulder, willing his soul back into him. His sacrifice rewired my existence, but mine wasn’t enough. No, I chose hope. I chose failure because when it comes to Kaleb, there is no choice.
My chest heaves from burning lungs struggling to suck in air. My body still cares about survival, even if my heart is buried in a corpse.
“Please. Please!” Tears finally push through the numbness. Because, oh god, this void. They fall harder when the thunder of footsteps signals the end of our forever. I pull him closer. I won’t let them have his body. He’s mine.
Then, a gasp.
My gaze shoots to deep green eyes, stolen hope.
“Andie?” His lips break into a smile that’s owned me since it first pierced my darkness. “You came.”
Eyes. I feel them. Everywhere unseeing eyes that sift through the masses in trained monotony. I shudder at the commands ringing over us as we file off the military transport vehicle, just one more body in a line of displaced strangers. One more awkward stumble from the too high ledge never meant for civilians. They’re calling us refugees now. Odd, considering we never chose to go. But the label means we have a new life, new guardians—captors. At least they offer only blank expressions.
I avoid faces as we’re marched toward one of the larger buildings in view. It’s not important who they are yet. My new life has already been mapped out, my existence designed by sterile protocol. I let my gaze linger on brick buildings and snaking vines, a strange backdrop for tanks and soldiers. My mother’s hand is stiff in mine, locked for strength, until the soldiers bark an order that sends her to another line. I’m too scared to call after her, and she’s too aware to let me. I shove trembling fists in my pockets to keep from screaming a protest.
I lose sight of her after that. Then, I lose everything that was Andie Sorenson.
“Name?” An even voice matches the expressionless face as I step up to the desk.
“Andie Sorenson.”
“Age?”
“Twenty.”
“Former residence?”
“12-489-16-3-2-8.”
The guard registers my responses into his system. He’s been doing this all day. Probably for too many days since he doesn’t even see me.
“Region 12, Zone 489, Block 16, Building 3, Floor 2, Apartment 8?”
“Yes.”
“To the left… Name?” he asks the next refugee.
I’d started moving left before his command, having studied the parade for two hours now. Women to the left, men to the right. They also filter by generation. This conclusion courtesy of the immediate separation from my mother is now confirmed by the age of everyone in my line. Eighteen to thirty, if I had to guess. Details are a great way to avoid emotion.
Fact: My father is dead. Died of pneumonia fourteen years ago.
Fact: I have no siblings.
Fact: My hair is long and an unremarkable light brown. Sorry, “unremarkable” is an opinion.
Fact: There are more guards waiting to the left, women this time.
These soldiers wear the same air of procedure. Issuing commands, distributing supplies, not the slightest hint I’m here. But I obey. Standing, walking, showering, walking, dressing, walking. Left, right, right, left, straight, up, up, left. Different building, same prison. Fact. Fact. Fact.
And here I am. My new home.
My cynicism falters in a slow gulp as I scan the space. Pleased isn’t the right word. There’s no pleasure in being ripped from one life and shoved into another. But my living quarters resemble an apartment more than the stone cell I’d been expecting. It’s not luxurious, but the bite of disinfectant wafts over adequate furnishings and fresh paint. Industrial carpeting bleeds from the shared living space into the shadows of two bedrooms.
Our guide’s dry tone pulls me back to protocol. “Your schedule is displayed on the screen by the door. You are not to leave this apartment except at the scheduled times. Do not be late for meals or you don’t eat. Do not be late for work or you don’t eat. Do not be late to your room at night or you don’t sleep. You have been assigned to Building 9B, which is supervised by Lance Corporal Novelli. Sergeant Dennel is in charge of Residential Affairs at this complex. Sergeant Dennel and Lance Corporal Novelli are your points of contact for any concerns during your tenure at this location. Their information is also on the screen.”
I transfer my attention to the other three women absorbing the space with an expression that mirrors mine. Shock. Fear. Awe. Confusion. Exhaustion. These must be my roommates. My new family. My heart sinks.
Fact: My mother is not one of them.
“In there.” The guard leaves me standing before an open door, heart pounding, eyes darting. In this prison of rules, my stomach takes the brunt of their absence. I venture a peek inside to find a disheveled desk and stacks of folders piled on a row of filing cabinets. A couch and coffee table are nearly hidden beneath an explosion of paperwork. Then...
Striking green eyes. A smile that resets the present.
A young soldier emerges from behind a paper tower and joins me in the doorway. He scans the corridor and shakes his head. Those eyes find me. See me.
“Did she just leave you at my door?”
“Yes.”
“What about breakfast?”
“She brought me here instead.”
He curses. “This place is like a robot factory sometimes. Come in, then.”
A fair request, but I can’t move. Deference has a paralyzing effect on refugees accustomed to being ignored. I plead with my brain, such a useless organ when it’s stunned. After switching it off, I let his smile lead me across the threshold. The pressure of his handshake, though—I bury the effect for later.
“You must be Andie. I’m Lance Corporal Novelli, your building supervisor. Welcome to the Building 9B administrative office. Sit, please.” He motions toward an opening on the couch and drops to a relaxed position on the table in front of me.
His eyes. I suck in a breath and find a safer target like boots.
There a
re things you expect to see on an early-twenties soldier. Things like skin above a shoe where his uniform didn’t fall properly. A metallic gleam sends my focus back to his face and a spark that intensifies his gaze. Dark hair. My pulse hammers when his attention settles on me. It’s strange, this sensation I have. I’m Andie Sorenson again.
I swallow.
“You must be scared. It must seem like we’ve invaded your life and stolen you from your home, and here you are, treated like a prisoner by soldiers with guns.”
His hands clasp in front of him as he leans forward. Strong hands. Both look real.
“If I can convey one thing in these next few minutes, it’s that our orders at this compound are to protect you. The residents of 9B are my charges, not my captives. If something happens to any one of you, it’s my head on the chopping block. And that, Ms. Sorenson, is why I’m infinitely more afraid of you than you should be of me.”
I sense his comfort with silence as I hesitate, his expectation. Still, my own anxiety calls for a nod, comment, something to fill the gap after that speech. Maybe he’s used to gawking spectators, but I need words. I finally force out, “This office is messy.” Stale too with the scent of old plaster and rotting history.
His lips form a tight twist as he rises. “Don’t worry, I’m a better soldier than I am an organizer.”
“Is that why I’m here?” A real question, finally.
“Right. Eat this while we talk.”
It’s a casual transfer. An apple and protein bar from his desk to my hands before he continues his journey to the cabinets. I survey the matching beverage cup beside his computer screen. A napkin too.
Fact: Lance Corporal Novelli just gave me his own ration.
A warmth pierces low, then shoots up my chest into my throat. I gnaw my lip because even facts can’t counter this.
It’s just a tiny act of kindness. So tiny.
I haven’t allowed tears since I was taken. Not when the bombings knocked out the power in my neighborhood. Not when the rumble of falling buildings crashed closer and closer. Not even when the soldiers were at my door, dragging my mother and me from our small apartment to this compound. No, tears are useless. Tears give power to the pain.
Hot liquid burns behind my eyelids. Facts. Facts!
His expression falls as that stunning gaze captures me again.
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
I shake my head, afraid of my voice.
Those eyes. I can’t handle compassion right now. He has to know what his gaze does to people. But there’s no mercy when he closes the door and makes me the center of his universe. He leans against the desk, relaxing every rigid line that reminds me he’s a soldier. That a week ago men like him stole me from my life.
“It’s okay, Andie. You’ve been through hell.”
No, too much. Emotion erupts through my wall. Fear, anger, confusion. Newfound hope, because... I swat at my face, willing it to stop, but my home is gone. My mom, my future. It’s all the past. I’m a prisoner. I’m no one. I’m only my memories now.
His look wraps me in an embrace, patience from a man I should fear. I blink, but he’s definitely real, permitting my tears like they mean something.
“I’m sorry. So sorry,” I say though he’s done nothing to indicate I should be. Instead, he makes a spontaneous exit from the room. I struggle for control, horrified that I just gave my pain to a stranger.
My captor.
I’m still sniffing away stubborn evidence when he returns and hands me a cloth. It’s almost enough to release the flood again, but I soothe as much as I can with the cold towel.
“Your assignment, Ms. Sorenson.” The soldier swings his arm around the disaster of a room and something shifts inside me at his obvious attempt to distract, forgive, and ignore my breakdown. “It has officially been determined that this office requires professional help.”
My confusion draws another of his easy smiles. Funny how his smile seems as natural as his frown.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I’ve been assigned to help you clean your office?”
Even his smirk is a softer irony. “No, Andie Sorenson. Your assignment is to serve as my administrative assistant, and your first task is to help me clean my office.”
“Administrative assistant? That’s an official role given to refugees?”
“It is now.” His amusement fades. “Ever since I was pulled out of the field and dumped at a desk, well, you see the result.”
“Because of your leg?” I regret my intrusion when his gaze shifts.
“You noticed that, huh?”
“When you sat down.”
“Yeah, because of my leg.” He shakes his head but I’m not convinced it’s the result of a missing limb. “Anyway. You’re right, there is no administrative assistant assignment for residents. This is a special situation.”
“I’m not a professional organizer.”
“Wasn’t that your career path before coming here?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Okay, so you are.”
“Lance Corporal Novelli—”
He silences me with that hypnotic concentration. “You’re my guest, not a soldier. If we’re going to be working together, you should call me Kaleb.”
Another eruption. This one loud enough to shake the foundation of our building. My mother’s arms tighten around me as we huddle under the table, but their warmth no longer soothes fear. They can’t shield me from falling rubble, the persistence of fate. We knew the war would find us. It finds everyone.
Boots pound the stairs outside of our apartment. Shouts of soldiers and their guns colliding with wood.
A weapon cracks through our door, and I clench my eyes shut to savor an extra second of freedom.
“I have at least two civilians in here!” a voice belts down the hall before its owner disappears. Another crash, and we know he’s about to find old Molly Cane. Her shriek plunges through the remains of our threshold and echoes the weight in my chest. But I can’t return a call of reassurance when more uniforms invade our home.
“I have two females. Looks like a mother and adult daughter,” one of them barks into a radio.
“Copy that. Truck has room for ten more. Clear the building.”
The soldier motions to us. “Come on. The rebels are right behind us. We need to get you to safety.”
“Lance Corporal Novelli?”
“Kaleb.”
I peek through my shy curiosity to find him leaning over documents and comparing them to something on a screen. Lines of hard muscle strain through the fabric of his uniform, and I force my eyes back to the hurricane of paper shoved into metal drawers. The last thing I need is to consider any outward perfection hiding the hint of a beautiful soul within. Soldiers are supposed to be armed statues. Threatening in their detachment. It works better that way.
“Kaleb, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m having a hard time figuring out your filing system. I’m not sure where to begin.” Dancing eyes link with mine when I face him again, forcing my lips into a smile. “You don’t have a filing system, do you?”
“I think that’s why you’re here.”
Right. I shut the cabinet door and brace against the heat of his gaze as it follows me to the center of the room. I can’t let any strange magnetism derail my sense of purpose for the first time since entering these walls. I’ve been a number, an occupied bed, until today. Until this office, that soldier. An hour ago it was irrelevant that I did my internship at a government office on a path toward a permanent placement in the Region 12 Archive Center of Zone 1. But suddenly, I’m necessary.
Andie Sorenson, professional organizer.
I might be the first person ever to shudder with excitement at the consolidation of documents into piles, but there are a lot of firsts in this room. Wrinkled pages
seduce me with promises of a glimpse into my new life, and I force patience. Details are a dangerous drug for my natural curiosity. My mother used to say if curiosity killed the cat, mine would bring down the farm, and now is not the time for a barn implosion.
Fact: There’s a proven process. It starts with a place to work.
Kaleb has retreated to his own project again, and I swallow the disturbing mixture of relief and disappointment. It’s exhausting to be so invested in the attention of another person. I concentrate on the much safer challenge of my folders.
The chill of the concrete floor seeps into my legs as I work, but the musty office smell has finally become bearable. I’m surprised by the stillness. Tucked in the basement of our residential building, this secluded office seems cutoff by more than location. It’s a different world in here. Quiet, calm, maybe even safe in its ability to absorb me in the pursuit of order.
Still, there’s something unsettling about the inconsistent chaos I find in the depths of these piles. A symmetry to the clutter that insults the logic of my brain, but tickles my instinct with questions about the man who would leave his world in such a perplexing state. The challenge seemed overwhelming when I first ventured in, but unravels much easier than it should once I start merging documents. I grab a stack close to me.
Linens TW-1….0023
Linens TW-2….0025***
Linens P………0023
Linens S-1…….0023
Linens S-2…….0023
***RP-7 required by 17-7-29
“What’s Linen TW-2?” My voice cracks from disuse, and I clear my throat.
“Hand towels.” His makes you forget your question.
“Oh.” I find my point again. “You needed two more hand towels on Floor 8 this month than everything else?”
He rotates his chair, and I warm beneath his full attention. “Yes. You figured that out from those numbers?”
“I’m also guessing they added twenty-three new residents to Floor 8? What’s an RP-7?”
“This,” he replies, pointing at his screen. It’s an invitation, and I approach with eager hesitance. I breathe in a wave of aftershave as I lean over his shoulder. Clean, personal. A man, not a uniform. He shifts toward me, and I pray that my sudden blush isn’t obvious. The slight turn of his lips releases the rest of the blood to my cheeks.
Traitor Page 1