Finally, eventually, I bring out the last bit of vibrant garments I own. I stand back, breathing hard and thinking fast. I admire the huge mess I've made for a moment but admiration is also a concept I don't understand. I have to get rid of this stuff and I know how to do so in grand fashion.
With Abigail's eyes following me like I'm the silly flashlight beam optometrists use during eye exams, I step back into our small kitchen. Next, I find myself digging into my father's hidden cache beneath the floor again. I grab several bottles of whatever my hands close around and seal the secret compartment behind me. Once outside, I douse every item with alcohol, emptying out about three or four full bottles. In the middle of my handiwork, I glance up at my father's bedroom window. I see a shadow move up there. He's watching me, just like Abigail. He's in too much pain to come downstairs to stop me. And I'm in too much pain to quit.
I find matches in one of the drawers of the kitchen. Our stove is a piece of crap provided by the government. It's not digital and it's definitely not even electric. It's one of those outdated gas models that most people stopped using twenty years ago. Sometimes, it quits igniting and so the matches are necessary to relight the pilot. The matches also come in handy when you suddenly find yourself a twisted pyromaniac.
Back in the yard, I light a match.
"Charlotte, don't!" Abigail screams from inside the house; however, she is one second too late.
The matchstick falls almost in slow motion, tumbling through the air and threatening to burn out before touching anything. But somehow, the tiny flame remains lit and when it lands, it sets all of my clothes ablaze with a beautiful fire.
Several flames grow from seemingly out of nowhere, swaying in the light breeze and multiplying like a virus. I stand back and watch the flames burn through the entire pile until there's nothing left. Smoke rises and hovers above the area like a cloud. I stand there for hours. Abigail eventually retreats to bed. My father eventually leaves the window. At some point, a light drizzle starts to fall from trembling skies, putting out the great fire. A sizzling noise. The rain picks up and the water washes over me. The grass is scorched. Everything touched by flame is nothing but ashes now.
I feel better . . . or do I? I don't know. I may never know, just like I may never actually feel better.
I finally snap out of my enraged stupor and head inside, leaving behind a part of me I can never replace.
I am a virus.
I will adapt.
I will survive.
I will evolve.
Chapter Twelve
Liam
I'm up early again, like when I was summoned to Dr. Cato's residence.
Arresting her seems like a million years ago now considering everything that has happened since. Emerson's death tops the list. But then, the agency suddenly under the guidance of the Amber Army, coupled with the fact that I haven't seen or heard from Sophia in a couple of days, is enough to make time pass rather quickly.
The trucks have yet to administer the Purge, so I find myself currently at my most vulnerable point for second time in less than a week. The Purge is about thirty minutes out. Like always, I know I will make it because of my training and my strength of mind. It's difficult; a continuous fight to tread the path of perfection, but I will never give in to any emotions.
Despite everything that has taken place as of late, my thoughts still return to the girl from the monorail. Her hazel eyes are so familiar to me. In fact, everything about her is familiar but I can't trace where I've seen her before the monorail. I rack my brain, searching its depth, but I can't remember. I know I shouldn't dwell on her but I do only because she's a mystery. Solving mysteries is what I do for a living.
For a moment, as I ride along in a patrol car with a single cop, I visualize the girl's face and it brings peace to my troubled mind. I haven't seen her in a while on the monorail but I remember every curvature, every indention, and every insignificant flaw completely. Her eyes stand out most to me, a perfect blending of brown and green, like a desert meeting plains. Her skin reminds me of the sand on the beach I once visited, where my father's funeral was held. Her dark hair reminds me of my mother's black veil . . . .
I force the images of the girl and my father's funeral from my mind, as both started to merge without warning. A surge of anger pulses inside me from out of nowhere. I want to question why my father had to die. I want to question if Dr. Cato mourned him. I want to question a lot of things but questions are for the wicked.
Who killed Emerson? That is a prevailing question, one that I have to answer sooner or later. Why did Dr. Cato have to be his primary physician? Just when I had put her arrest behind me, separating myself from the taint she placed upon our family, her name pops up into my life once again. Could she have possibly killed Emerson? No. Not directly at least. There's no way she could have masqueraded as Ava Suarez, unless she wore a disguise. Possible but unlikely. The height difference between Emerson's killer and Dr. Cato exceeds six inches. The killer is roughly my height and Dr. Cato stands much shorter. Dr. Cato didn't pull the trigger but she could have had a hand in the murder. But what would be her motive behind it all? I don't know. I should stop trying to figure it out right now. I'm taking a break from the high-profile case to focus my efforts on a case of lesser importance.
I'm on my way to arrest a man named Alexander Donovan, suspected of inciting a SAFE rally. According to several informants, Donovan is very outspoken about his dislike of our government and the laws of the lands. I don't understand why all of the rebels blame the government and the laws for their behavior. The Chancellor or Parliament didn't ask them to resist the Purge. Neither did the laws. These insurgents made the conscious decision to betray our nation and they must suffer the consequences of their actions.
The informants have also noted in their reports that they suspect that Donovan is on drugs. No one could find hard proof to back these claims but if they're true, I expect heavy resistance when we arrive. A combination of hatred, willpower, and uncontrolled substances can make for one crazy person.
I've dealt with these people before, their minds so twisted by drugs and animosity that they become nothing more than violent machines. Some, I detain before they become too far gone. Others are not so lucky. These individuals usually have to be put down like animals—with a Discharger bullet straight to the heart.
Twenty more minutes until the Purge.
We head towards the western edge of the immense island, where the poorer people live. I suppose you could call it the slums but like I've mentioned before, the lines between classes are erased so that poverty in its purest form doesn't exist in Paradise. The "slums" are merely an area of the island where buildings are made inexpensively. Most lack SDP technology and are all that remains of an era before digital projectors came into practical use.
We leave downtown behind. I occupy the passing time by studying the files on Donovan again, the third time I've done so this trip. I need to focus all of my energy on the mission. I need to suppress thoughts on monorail girl, Dr. Cato, the Amber Army, and Emerson's murder investigation. I need to prepare myself in case something unexpected occurs. If my guard is already down, then I will react upon instinct. If my guard is up, I will react upon logic. Logic triumphs over instinct any day, although both working together cohesively are necessary to do my job well.
Alexander Donovan works in electronics, so I find myself remembering my father. A technician is far from an electrical engineer, but still it's close enough to bring back memories. Once, before I entered the agency, my father took me to work with him because if the White Agency hadn't recruited me, I would have followed in his footsteps for my future career.
I was around five and although that was ten years ago, I remember everything about that day in exceptional detail. My father was the head of an unnamed facility that opened in the northern ruins after the devastating riot there a few years prior. There, my father and a team of engineers and scientists analyzed the Catalyst, studying
the composition of its power. Since the Catalyst could power the Grid, the project involved finding alternate uses for the energy source. That very facility now houses the reform school that Emerson later introduced.
The exterior of the facility resembled a castle of old. I recall the fascination that surfaced inside my head, only to be drowned by the Purge's stronger influence on me. The building stood so tall that it blocked out the sun. Shuffling along in the shadow of the imposing limestone and stucco projection, I walked with my father towards the elaborate entrance. Two guards decked out in armored vests manned the doors. They halted my father and requested a retinal and vector scan before allowing him to enter the building.
The interior contained a high ceiling and sweeping galleries decorated with ornate furniture. The lobby teemed with scientists and other personnel. Computers and digital screens were everywhere. Guards paced back and forth, ready for trouble.
One of my father's colleagues approached us. I believed he would have been grinning from ear to ear if he didn't inhale the Purge regularly. He had this look about him. Even back then, I could detect hidden emotions, a craft I perfected when I joined the agency. "Just received the grant from the Core. It's official. Project Lightning will commence—"
At once, I put the memory on pause before tossing it from my mind. Project Lightning. When Dr. Cato mentioned this to me during her interrogation, I never considered that I had heard of it before.
I assume the project was my father's research concerning the Catalyst. I never found out if the research team figured out how the Catalyst worked exactly, if it could be used for means other than electrical power. Perhaps Dr. Cato found something of importance. She's an intelligent woman, well connected because of her status in society. But she was opposed to the project since she turned down an offer to join the research team. I don't know what Project Lightning has to do with anything but I'm starting to suspect that it has to do with everything.
Thirteen more minutes until the Purge.
"Agent Cato, we're here," the cop sitting next to me announces suddenly. My mind was so enveloped in my concern with Project Lightning that I almost forgot that I was on a mission.
The cop parks the squad car about a block away from Donovan's warehouse, a place where he fixes broken components and makes batteries. A dozen more police cars seal off the area, creating a barricade on opposite ends of the main road.
We exit the car and join an assault squadron, a special tactics branch of the police force similar to a S.W.A.T. team. They wear a gray uniform like the other cops but with an additional feature—the same armored vests worn by the guard at the northern ruins facility ten years ago.
"Agent Cato," the squad leader greets me bluntly. "We have secured the perimeter and are awaiting your orders."
"Have we confirmed that Donovan is inside the warehouse?"
"Recon has ID'd him and has tracked his movements for the past couple of hours. He has a young boy with him. His son, I believe."
Donovan's son means nothing to me. "How many workers are present inside of the warehouse?"
"About fifty, give or take a few."
"Okay. Let's move out." I look to the beat cops surrounding us. "Reinforce the perimeter and keep in radio contact. Donovan is described as armed and dangerous. If he escapes, everyone needs to be ready."
"Yes, sir." Multiple voices comply simultaneously. I'm only fifteen years old but I command respects from adults because I'm a White Agent.
Ten more minutes until the Purge.
I head for the warehouse with the assault squadron. The team fans out behind me, spreading throughout the path to cover all angles of the street. The road is empty. No car will pass through here because of the barricades. The area is silent.
We have to hurry as we have less than ten minutes to return outside for our daily Purge dosage. We need to secure Donovan by then.
Donovan's warehouse is one of the nicer buildings of this part of the island. It's not an SDP but it's constructed with sturdier materials, such as metal and brick. Most of the buildings that surround it are made out of aluminum siding and wood. I raise a fist to halt the team behind me as we near the front entrance. Normally, assault teams are not needed for arrests but given what we know about Donovan, things might get hostile.
I motion for a few of the squad members to circle the building on opposite sides. They all grip their Lightning Dischargers tightly as they follow my orders. Three of them remain with me, bearing Thunder Dischargers, or shotguns. I retrieve my pistol.
I open the door and enter the warehouse to find workers manning a gigantic assemble line. I look around. No one has noticed our presence yet. The warehouse is spacious. A dock stands on the opposite end, occupied by two parked trucks. The lighting is dim, creating shadowy corners. I peer around for Donovan's familiar face but he's nowhere to be found. I spy a tall flight of stairs to the left, leading up to a hall of offices. That's where Donovan might be.
The nearest worker carrying a heavy crate sees us. He makes no initial reaction but walks over to a fellow worker and says something I can't hear. Another pair of eyes finds us. And then another. There's a rippling through the crowd before everyone stops what he or she is doing to stare at us.
"We're here for Alexander Donovan," I speak up clearly. "We have the place surrounded. No one tries anything, then no one gets taken down to central station."
Silence. While I have everyone's attention, I ask, "Where is he?"
Several of the workers point towards the staircase. I motion for one of my companions to come with me. I lead the way up the stairs quietly. They're comprised of metal, so they make a lot of noise. Carpet greets us at the top to muffle our footfalls though. We push forward, passing small offices on both sides of the narrow corridor. We funnel towards the large room at the end of the hall—Donovan's office.
The door is closed. I stand to the right of it and nod. My partner understands completely. Shotgun leading the charge, he barrels through the closed door and shatters it from its hinges.
I follow him into the room, turning my pistol left and right. A closed door to the left, along with a workbench along the wall. To the right are a loveseat and a coffee table decorated with digital magazines. Straight ahead, we find Donovan sitting at his desk behind a personal viewscreen. He glances up at us with sheer disgust upon his face. He twitches in his chair.
"Freeze, Donovan," I order, my voice louder than usual. I work hard to lower its volume when I speak against. "Stand up slowly."
But Donovan remains seated. I watch him for any sudden movements. His long white-blond hair flows in an unkempt manner. His bloodshot eyes are shadows behind square spectacles. His pale skin is blotchy and he prefers a bushy mustache. He is abnormally skinny, indicating a dangerous lifestyle. Recreational drug use is the only thing I can think of that can cause an unhealthy weight loss.
On his desk is where I find one source of his problems—a can of Alacrity. The energy drink is responsible for nearly half of illegal drug use across the island. Most people can't afford the higher end stuff such as pills or injections, so they resort to drinking Alacrity. One twelve-ounce can is easy to find on the black market and is cheaper than a liter of juice. Donovan might own his own company but he's not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination. Annually, the government receives half of his general revenues and another twenty percent from taxes. Because of this fact, Donovan feels a bitter resentment towards the Core.
Donovan cackles like a madman suddenly that the sound of his laugh almost startles me. The clock is ticking. Seven more minutes until the Purge.
"You've finally manage to come for me," he says in an evil voice mutilated by revulsion. "I wondered when this would occur."
"Cut the talk, Donovan," I say calmly, keeping my rising anger at bay. We don't have time to play games with him. Why are criminals intent on delaying the inevitable? He's fully aware that we're here to take him in. The drugs haven't destroyed all of his brain cells yet. Why can't he
just cooperate so we can leave this forsaken place peacefully? "Stand up and put your hands where we can see them."
"What if I don't want to?" He asks before laughing again.
Clearly, he's an insane drug-addict. There's no doubt about it now that I'm witnessing his odd behavior firsthand.
"You have to or we'll shoot," my companion puts it bluntly.
Donovan looks offended. "You wouldn't shoot me in front of my own son, would you?"
As if on cue, the door to the left opens and a kid no more than ten emerges. Like his father, he has pale blond hair but its combed neatly and parted down the middle. He has uncaring gray eyes that lack any luster. Where as his father is a raving lunatic, the boy is normal.
"Caleb? Come here, Son."
Caleb moves towards his father.
"No, Caleb," I stop him. "Stay right where you are."
Caleb halts, unsure if he should obey his father or me.
"Donovan, don't make this difficult," I warn.
"I never wanted this to happen," Donovan tells us, staring at his son. Tears start to well up his eyes suddenly. No one should ever cry, least of all grown men. His shift from amusement to sadness is incomprehensible. "I tried to be a noble citizen. But it's unfair how the government takes my hard-earned money. And the Purge? It can do some crazy stuff to you, it can mess with your mind if you're not careful." He laughs, despite the falling tears.
Five more minutes until the Purge.
"Hands up, Donovan," I tell him, almost desperate now that yesterday's Purge dosage has nearly run its course. "It's over. You will pay for inciting a SAFE rally."
"Is that what I did?" Donovan wonders. "Whoever told you this must be mistaken. I'm not a member of SAFE. I might disagree with the economic system of Paradise but I am not a rebel."
"You are a rebel. We have informants who insist—"
"They're lying!" Donovan screams, suddenly enraged. He leaps to his feet and my finger nearly pulls the trigger of my Discharger. "I am not a rebel! The Purge. It's messing up my mind!"
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