Ignite the Shadows

by Ingrid Seymour

  Standing here, I’m reminded of Dad and the fact that I haven’t visited his grave in a long time. My heart shrivels just at the thought of his name engraved on cold stone, of pounds of dirt covering a body that wasn’t done living.

  A black BMW with tinted windows pulls up by the curve behind my Kawasaki. The window rolls down and James gestures for me to get in the car. I climb into the passenger seat and shut the door. James is wearing a coat and tie. I’m taken aback by how different he looks and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him in daylight. Fine laugh-lines surround his eyes, which are a lighter shade of gray than I’d previously thought.

  “Hello, Marci,” he says as he presses the button to roll his window shut.

  “What happened to you?” I ask, looking him up and down.

  James shrugs. “This is me when I’m not trying to save the world.” He gives me a sad smile.

  “What are you? Like a CEO or something?” I ask as I examine the car’s fancy interior and decked-out navigation system.

  “Yeah, something like that. How are you holding up?”

  “Fine,” I lie.

  An unamused chuckle sounds in the back of his throat. “You’re a bad liar.”

  “It must take a good one to know a bad one. Why did you lie to Xave? Why did you tell him we don’t stand a chance once we’ve been infected?”

  “Because I can count with one hand the ones I’ve encountered who are like you and me. Most people succumb to Eklyptors within days. A few are able to fight for a short period of time, but never for long. It takes a very strong will to resist for as long as you have, Marci.” James shifts the idling car into gear. “I know you must have a million questions. Let’s take a ride. I have something to show you.”

  “Where are we going?”

  James slips on a pair of sunglasses. “You’ll see soon. In the meantime, you can ask me whatever you want. Xave knows most of it, but there’s a pressing question I’m sure you’re itching to ask.”

  “Why do you lie to the crew?”

  “Do you really need to ask that?”

  I look out the window, notice we’re headed downtown, and try to pretend I don’t know what he means.

  “Okay, I’ll answer. I lie because if they knew what I am, they would never trust me.” James’s voice is low, sobering. “And that’s not an option. I need them to trust me. They need to trust me. The knowledge I have is invaluable to our fight.” He laughs with no real amusement. “They can’t afford to doubt me, fear me, hate me, because, believe me Marci, that’s exactly what they would do if they knew what I am. What you are.”

  “So Clark, Blare, and Oso know nothing about you and Aydan?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And they don’t suspect?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  To our right, we pass the Space Needle. Tourists snap pictures. A group of Goth kids hang in one corner, laughing and pushing each other in jest.

  As I watch, I think about James’s words. It seems impossible for no one to suspect.

  “How?” I ask. “That party was full of them. You and Blare went in together. How can she not suspect?”

  “I think you know the answer to that, too,” James says, as we wait at a busy intersection on Broad Street.

  I think out loud. “Xave said most couples.” Then it clicks. “Blare and the others think that some of the couples are made up of two regular people. They have no way of knowing.” Their heads don’t drum in the presence of Eklyptors.

  James nods.

  “How do you explain Blare? Shouldn’t Elliot be suspicious she’s not one of them yet? He’d met her before, right?”

  “You notice everything, don’t you?” James laughs. “Elliot thinks Blare is … my pet. Many Eklyptors keep humans as such. The way you might keep a dog. It’s cruel, really.”

  “Bastards,” I mumble. I have so many questions there’s barely time for me to be shocked about any of it, so I move on. “How do you know Elliot?”

  “Because I made it my objective to meet him. He’s one of the Eklyptors’ most powerful leaders.”

  “Yeah, Xave said that. I didn’t realize they were so organized.”

  “They have been, for a long time, now.”

  “How long?” I ask.

  “It’s hard to tell, but with certainty since the seventies when they came up with creative ways to infect more people, faster.”

  “What ways?” My hands are shaking and I’m not sure I want to hear anymore.

  Deep.

  Smells like teen spirit.

  Breathe deep.

  James offers me a concerned look. “Are you all right?”

  I roll my neck from side to side.

  “Relax,” James says in his gravelly voice.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Tell me something, Marci, when was the first time the fog came over you?” James asks with interest.

  “The fog? Oh, you mean the …” I tap my forehead. “I think of them as shadows.”

  “Most happen to associate them with shadows, actually. But I started thinking of their presence as a sort of fog and old habits die hard.”

  I tell him the story about my fifth birthday. He listens with care. Then asks me if I know who may have infected me. I tell him I suspect an old babysitter. He recommends I check into it and let him know what I find out.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “I have no idea. We’re here,” he announces, turning in a parking deck next to a tall building. I look out the window in hopes of spotting a name on the front entrance. There isn’t one. I recognize the Fourth and Madison Building nearby, but I’ve never really noticed this place. It’s inconspicuous.

  A light, humid breeze blows from Puget Sound. It’s a beautiful afternoon with the sun setting in the west in a burst of color. We don’t have many days like this in the year.

  After flashing a card on a reader, we are allowed entrance to the parking deck. James takes a left and heads toward the underground levels. We descend, going round and round. I notice there are fewer cars in each level the further we go.

  We arrive at another barrier and James flashes a second card. Then he drives around the corner and we find ourselves in front of a large metal door. This time, he places the palm of his hand on a small screen.

  “Welcome, Mr. McCray,” a computerized female voice says, as the metal door lifts open, revealing a parking lot with spaces for ten or so cars. All are empty except for one, which is occupied by a silver Porsche.

  “Nice car,” I say.

  James smiles. “You can take it for a ride any time you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Cool,” I say, but my tone reveals a certain lack of enthusiasm.

  What is wrong with me? I’ve just been offered a ride in a Porsche and I’m not excited about it. I must be dying a bit every day and, today, I’ll just die a little more.

  Chapter 22

  As we exit the car, I follow James, paying close attention to my surroundings. Bright lights shine overhead, revealing the most pristine parking area I’ve ever seen. There are no oil marks on the ground and no smoke stains or grime on the walls. Everything looks as if it’s just been scrubbed with a toothbrush. There are cameras in every corner. The Porsche license plate reads “IgNiTe.”

  When we reach the elevator at the far end, James presses his thumb to a small pad and gets a face scan.

  “Mr. McCray,” says the computerized voice, “it looks like you have a visitor today.”

  “I do. Her name is Marcela Guerrero.”

  I’m staring, dumbfounded by all the high-tech security measures. Impossibly the questions inside my head multiply. In the end, they all boil down to one: who in the world is James McCray?

  “Would you mind stepping up to the scanner, Marci?” James asks.

  I hesitate. “Um …”

  “It’s the only way you’ll be allowed entry, if you come by yourself later
,” he explains, eyebrows raised. “You don’t have to, if it makes you uncomfortable. But think about it this way, I trust you enough to bring you here.”

  “Honestly, James. I don’t even know what this place is, or who you are. So forgive me if I’d rather not leave any identifying information behind.”

  Besides, what makes him think he can trust me? He really doesn’t know much about me. How can he be sure I’m not a … real Eklyptor? I’m about to ask him when he gives me a wry smile.

  James chuckles as he rubs his thumb and forefinger together. “You already gave me some. Fingerprints in the car. Blood on the spiked ring. But no worries, you’ll change your mind later.”

  I feel like an idiot, but I stubbornly stand my ground. His cocky certainty rubs me the wrong way.

  James talks into the small microphone. “Allow guest entry.”

  “Access allowed,” the computer voice says.

  The elevator door slides open. Inside, the panel has only three buttons. Two to either open or close the doors, and one that reads “Alarm.” The door slides shut and the elevator starts moving on its own. A downward arrow appears in a small rectangular screen. We’re already three floors below ground level and we’re going further down? I run a hand across my forehead, feeling claustrophobic.

  “Some place you have here,” I say, trying to appear calm.

  “You’ve seen nothing yet,” James says with a wink. I’m taken aback by this light mood. The menacing aura I’ve associated with him since I first met him is replaced by a natural confidence. He loosens his silky blue tie and removes his jacket. His chest rises and falls with ease. There’s no visible tension across his shoulders. He’s relaxed. It helps me relax a little too.

  “So who are you? What do you do?” I ask.

  “I own this building, and the business that operates here.”

  Wow, that has to mean he has serious money.

  After what feels like many, many floors, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. We step out into a narrow hall fronted by a glass wall. James walks up to it. I follow hesitantly and stop after two short steps. I look to the sides. To the right, there’s a dead end. To the left, the top of a staircase leading downward.

  “What do you think?” James asks, looking beyond the glass wall.

  I join him and follow his gaze. My jaw falls open at the sight of the place. We are overlooking a large, open area, as big as two basketball courts. Below, the rectangular floor plan is surrounded by white walls and divided by clear partitions into four quadrants. Everything looks pristine, even under the halogen hanging lights.

  In the top left quadrant, there is an assortment of laboratory and medical equipment. A redhead sits on a stool, her eyes pressed against the viewer of huge microscope. Under that quadrant, computer equipment fills the space. Racks with servers in every slot, cables, laptops, handheld devices, motherboards and more. My mouth waters. A dark-haired man, wearing what looks like a lab coat, is working in front of six computer monitors, analyzing graphs and a vast array of images I can’t quite make out from here.

  In the top right quadrant, a young woman in gray coveralls stoops over a small engine. A motorcycle sits propped on a stand, gutted like a fish in Pike Place Market. Next to it, the van we drove to the party rests atop a hydraulic lift. The rest of the area is occupied by spare tires, massive red and yellow toolboxes, motor-oil containers, everything a regular auto-repair shop could need. I look around, trying to figure out how they got the van down there, then notice a massive metal door in the far corner.

  The last quadrant on the bottom is a gym, outfitted with all kinds of workout equipment: mats, benches, free weights, knotted ropes that hang from the ceiling, medicine balls, treadmills, elliptical machines, all brand-new and expensive looking. No one is in that area.

  “So? Do you like it?” James asks.

  My eyes return to the man with all the monitors. “I’m … wow … it’s very impressive, especially the computer area.”

  “We call the entire area ‘The Tank.’ Those four sections down there are the fish pods. So that would be the computer pod.” He laughs. “Rheema’s idea to call them that,” he adds, pointing to the girl in the “auto-repair pod” or whatever it is. “She says she feels like a stupid goldfish when someone watches from up here.”

  At that moment, the redhead at the microscope comes away from the microscope and notices us. She waves and says “Hi.” The faint sound of her greeting reaches us. The young girl and the man at the computer turn from their work and look up, too.

  “Is that Aydan?” I ask, surprised.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I thought you said he worked for—”

  “He used to, until he joined the crew. Sylica Rush is his cover story, now.”

  Aydan dismisses us and turns back to his computers. Nice to see you, too. What a jackass!

  “So the others don’t know about this place?” I ask, wondering how many more secrets James is keeping from everyone and fearing the ones he’s keeping from me.

  “That’s correct. What goes on here is too important to risk telling too many people.”

  “You’re telling me, and you barely know me,” I challenge.

  “I know all I need to know about you, Marci. Everyone here is like us. Everyone here wants to find a cure.”

  “A cure?” My heart does a weird flip and my voice holds the hope of a thousand condemned death-row inmates. There’s nothing I want more.

  “Yes, a cure. It’s not an easy task and it won’t happen any time soon. But we’re doing everything we can.” James gives me a tight-eyed glance, one that says “don’t get your hopes too high.”

  Something breaks inside of me. It won’t happen any time soon. The words ring in my ears, breaking my hope, smashing it into fine dust.

  “Don’t look so sad, Marci. Everyone wants a cure. But you’ll come to terms with the fact that it may not come soon enough for our benefit.”

  What is he? Nuts? Who could ever come to terms with that?

  “C’mon, let’s go down there.” James ushers me toward the staircase and we descend. At the bottom of the steps he takes a right. I stop, take a deep breath and try to push my disappointment aside. Looking around, my eyes focus on a dimly lit corridor to my left.

  “Are you coming?” James asks.

  My head snaps back. I squint at the bright lights. “What’s that way?”

  “Sleeping quarters,” he says. “Everyone’s been burning the midnight oil for the past year or so. This is a big place. There’s more. Hospital wing, kitchen, conference rooms. I’ll show you around later. Follow me.”

  As I turn and face the large open space to my right, I’m overwhelmed by the sight once more. I face clear cubicle partitions. Through them, I can see all the way to the opposite wall. The openness and the lack of privacy are a bit unsettling.

  For the first time, I notice oil paintings hanging on the outer wall. Their frames are gilded, their images glossy and depicting landscapes, portraits, flowers and vegetables. Really? How weird! They look entirely out of place inside the modern space.

  “They’re part of my collection,” James says when he notices me watching. “I have a weakness for classic art.” He should be embarrassed—instead he looks proud.

  Whatever.

  He turns and walks toward the lab pod. I follow and try not to stare at the redhead as we make our way toward her.

  “Hi, Kristen,” he says.

  Kristen turns her stool toward us and gives James a huge smile. He beams back at her. I stare at the polished wood floor and pretend not to notice their over-happy greeting.

  “I brought you someone,” James tells her. “Marci, this is Kristen Albright. Kristen, Marci Guerrero.”

  She rolls my way on her stool, right hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you.”

  As we exchange a firm handshake, her light green eyes take me in. My head buzzes and our chests rise and fall in unison as we take deep, calming breaths. We exchange a kn
owing smile.

  “Kristen has been doing a lot of research,” James says. “She’s trying to understand how Eklyptors take residence in the human brain, and also what makes it possible for people like us to resist them. She’s a biologist and a medical doctor. A very smart lady.”

  Kristen pushes stringy bangs away from her green eyes. Her hair is a sharp shade of red in a pixie style that screams high-end salon. Her slender, delicate features are not beautiful, but her face is pretty enough, made more so by a certain confident air, much like James’s.

  “Are we immune somehow?” I ask, immediately interested in Kristen’s research and what it could mean for the discovery of a cure.

  “I wish I could say we are,” she says. “That would make my life a lot easier, because then I could find a vaccine, like those for polio or tetanus. But no. We’re not immune.”

  “Yeah, I guess not. That was a stupid question, given we’re under constant assault.”

  Kristen nods. “Yes, sadly, we are infected. But there’s something that allows us to fight back, to control instead of being controlled. I’m trying desperately to understand what that is.”

  “Control?” I ask, looking from Kristen to James. I feel anything but in control.

  “Yes, control,” James confirms. “Believe it or not, even if you feel under constant threat and barely able to keep your agent at bay, you’ve learned to control it and take advantage of it.”

  “Agent?” I echo.

  Kristen explains. “That’s what we call the organism that lives in our brains—much like a virus is called an infectious agent. They’re not exactly viruses, though. They’re far more complex, like a combination of a parasitic and viral infection. They’re unlike anything known to us.”

  “What do you mean I’ve learned to take advantage of it? You’re kidding, right? I’m the only one being taken advantage of here,” I say, bewildered.

  “You’re wrong,” James says. “Take your elevated IQ, for instance.”

  “What?” I shake my head in disbelief at the implication.

  “Or your mastery of martial arts and the tremendous agility it requires. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Xave brags about you all the time.” James chuckles and sits on a stool.