“Answer the question—what happened before you woke up?”
My mind wanders, listening for an answer. Silence.
“Look at it,” she says.
I sit up and stare out at the beach. What is there to see, that isn’t here to see? Sand, more sand, a blank canvas of sandy tan. The beach loses focus and I drift to a murky otherworld, almost like a dream, but while fully awake. Bright lights shine down, people are talking, and a grinding sound at the back of my head is pressed against it and rumbling. They’re cutting into my skull.
“There wasn’t any accident,” I realize. “That’s when they stuck that thing in my head.”
My mind goes reeling. I should go back this instant and torture those bastards. Let’s chop their heads open. Pluck out their eyeballs, too, and trim their limbs down to the torso. Gut them like a fish.
Reclined beside me, Madison keeps gazing into the sky, and her smile grows.
“What are you grinning about?”
“I’m happy,” she says. “And you should be, too.”
“Why?”
“You just remembered more.” She tilts her glasses down to look me in the eye. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”
“It does?”
“Does it?” she asks.
“Does what? What are you saying?”
“I’m helping you answer your own question.”
“You are? I don’t see how.”
Watching the sky, she tilts her can for another sip of beer, and says no more.
“I don’t get it, Madison. What hurts and what’s that got to do with anything?”
She sits up to face me. “Adam, if a memory holds pain, do you want to look at it?”
“Nobody wants pain.”
“The answer to your question.”
I study her expression, hoping to pick up some clue I’ve missed. The sunglasses complete her poker face.
“Sorry, Madison, that doesn’t begin to answer anything.”
“Let’s talk about another pain.” She reaches around behind my neck. “That capsule they put in your head.”
I shift away. “That I’d rather forget.”
“Right, because it hurt.”
“Hurt like hell.”
“When?” she asks.
“It was pretty much perpetual. The damn thing never gave me a break.”
“But sometimes, did it hurt more than others?”
I get up, go to the deck’s railing, and stare out at the beach. “Maybe it did. What difference does it make?”
“Answer the question—when did it hurt more?”
Gazing out at the sand and shore, I search for memories of the recent past. Ouch. The search produced a tinge of head pain. It shouldn’t, the capsule is gone, but somehow it left its mark. Like the cells are trained, and want to strangle my brain every time—
I swing around. “When something reminded me.”
“Reminded you of what?” she asks with a clever grin.
She’s tricking me. But it’s not a trick if it’s for your own benefit, is it?
“But how?” I ask. “How could any device control my mind? How could that capsule even know what I’m thinking?”
She reclines, back to sunbathing. “Brainwave patterns are difficult to hide.”
I return to my chair beside hers. “My thoughts come from my brain?”
She laughs. “Of course not, silly. That hunk of cellular tissue is about as capable of thought as a rock.”
“Then what do brainwaves have to do with what I think?”
“They’re the result of what you think, not the thought itself.”
I flop back in the chair and stare into the sky. “You scared me for a minute there. I’d hate to think, I mean, that I couldn’t think. You know, without a body, without a brain. The thought of not having thoughts . . .”
“Stop it,” she says. “Thoughts aren’t physical, so don’t worry, nothing physical can take them from you.”
“But that capsule did.”
“It didn’t take them, it just analyzed them.”
“Same difference. I still feel invaded, like my mind’s been sucked out of my brain.”
“Adam, that’s nonsense. Your brain isn’t you, or your mind, neither are physical. Thoughts, intent, desire, all that comes from you. The brain is just an interface between you and reality. You make a decision and tell the mind, it tells the brain, then it sorts out the details and sends electrical impulses to the rest of the body. Those impulses are physical, and can be measured by physical devices, like the disrupter they put in your head.”
“Okay, so my brain is waving and making a bunch of noise. But how could it know what I’m thinking?”
“Certain thoughts produce certain patterns. When the disrupter detects a pattern that belongs to something you shouldn’t be thinking, it generates its own pattern, a conflicting electrical signal that fouls up everything.”
“You mean, makes my head hurt like hell.”
“Like a collar that shocks the poor animal every time it gets near the fence.”
“And my memory, what happened to me, is on the other side of the fence.”
She smiles. “But there’s no collar. The disrupter’s gone. So now, the only pain you have left to face is the pain stored in the memory itself. When you do, whatever the pain is hiding, will return to you.”
* * *
Reclined side by side, Madison and I drink our beers, and for a time we refrain from conversation. Heated sand warms the breeze, waves slap the shore, and the sun bears down. A perfect day, bright and alive, but my mind sinks to a dark place. The past lurks out of view like a hazard obscured by fallen leaves on a stormy night. Each step forward is perilous.
“Madison, why not just tell me? You know my past.”
She twists on her side to face me. “You’re in a fragile state, Adam. Anything I say could be like a post-hypnotic suggestion, so it’s risky to just tell you. I can try some, but only what I’m comfortable with, not too much. Besides, if I tell you, it’s what I remember, not you. Do you trust my memory to be the same as yours?”
She knows me well, and that I would never fully trust her version of my past.
“But what if I never remember?”
“You remembered the coffee, when you left.”
“Maybe. Having some with you, but that’s about it.”
“We said our good-byes over coffee, remember? That was at the airport. Then I waved to you and the rest of the crew, and off you went.”
“Off I went? To where?”
She shoots a glare over her sunglasses. True, a dumb question.
“Okay, I understand where. But why? Why did I go there?”
“A mission, remember?”
I pick at peeling paint on the chair’s armrest, revealing bare wood beneath. “Not yet, I’m still working on it.”
“We’re fighting the Association,” she says. “You remember that, right?”
“Yes, I realize that.”
“Okay, so we need intelligence to fight them. We need to know what they’re doing, how they’re doing it, and when they’re going to do it.”
“Sounds like spying.”
“Then you remember.”
Her repeated query acts more as a command, and it’s working. Splotches of memory begin to surface. Infiltrating enemy installations, but not to kill, to deceive them, and convince soldiers to abandon their posts. Posing as a superior officer in need of information, enemy secrets of course. On the battlefield, but not as common infantry, rather a soldier of the mind, devising clever schemes to mislead the enemy and allow our forces to outflank their position. The vague memories are confusing, but my certainty grows. I am skilled in unconventional warfare, using intelligent action to win battles, instead of blowing up people—an Alternative Combat Engineer.
But how could I be so talented at war? I hate war. I would gladly never again wield a weapon or cause harm to another. However, a deep conviction overpowers all that—I must fight to pr
eserve freedom. Our lives are threatened by a ruthless invader. I hate this, I don’t want it, but I can’t ignore it. If they would just leave us alone, everything would be fine. But no, they refuse. So I am forced into battle—because of them.
“Well?” Madison asks. “Do you remember?”
“Some, but I’m not so sure I want to.”
* * *
Beer empty, I wander inside in search of another. Past the screen door, I step into the living room. The kitchen is just beyond, and I know exactly where to find the beer. Having made this short journey countless times before, the pattern of steps leading to the fridge is one memory they could never erase.
The fridge holds a healthy stock of beer in gleaming silver cans. I lean in, wrap a hand around the cool aluminum, and flashes of memory ignite—lounging on the deck, talking with friends, watching the sunset as we get drunk and silly.
In the living room, the hardwood floor shines an amber glow, covered in spots by small rugs. Overstuffed furniture, a sofa and chairs—none of which match—are surrounded by funky knick-knacks. A shelf holds scaled-down model spacecraft, next to seashells, dried sand dollars, starfish, and an abalone shell that glistens a misty teal sheen. Above a brick fireplace are trophies, some topped by rockets, others by surfboards.
Along one wall is a collection of photos, many of me, some with other people. Most are unfamiliar, but not all. There’s a picture of me and Dave, taken some time ago. We look younger and his hair is dark, before he bleached it out and became a banana-head. Another photo shows a large group gathered in a park having a cookout, and I appear to be the center of attention. Next to that is perhaps a family portrait, some older folks behind me. My parents? I have no memory of any. The concept itself feels foreign, like any parents of mine have been dead so long, relating to complete strangers would be easier.
“Madison,” I call to the deck outside.
Her voice drifts in through the screen door. “Yeah?”
“You said something about waving good-bye, to me and the crew. What crew were you talking about?”
Awaiting her reply, I browse the gallery of past images.
“The team,” she says. “Like always. You know, David and the rest.”
“Matt? You were saying good-bye.”
The next photo—how can this be? I’m standing before a craft, others joining me, some kind of celebration. I look happy, but this can’t be right. At my side, that cocky grin, it’s him.
“Jared,” she says, “and Matt and Chris. I didn’t go that time, I had other things to do.”
The screen door slaps shut behind me. On the deck, I stand numb, staring out at the ocean. My mind is lost, searching for an answer, an explanation, a reason.
“What’s wrong?” Madison asks.
“Jared. I don’t understand. He was my friend?”
“Of course he’s your friend.”
My face is on fire, but it has nothing to do with the weather. “Some friend. I’m killing that evil fuck the next chance I get.” Detached by rage, I feel a million miles away.
“Adam!” She leaps up and tears off her sunglasses. “How can you say that?”
“He shot my ass and turned me in, so forgive me if I’m a little pissed off.”
The can of beer slips from her fingers and smacks the deck. Foam bubbles out and drains between the boards. “You saw Jared? Is he okay?”
I lean over and scoop up the empty. “Yeah, just dandy. And all cozy with his pals—the Association.” The aluminum collapses in my tightening grasp.
“That’s ridiculous. He’s not with them.”
“Oh? I’ll tell you what, let’s track down the bastard and you can see for yourself. Yeah, a real sweetheart. Then I’ll beat the shit out of him.” I pitch the crumpled metal like a bullet that plows into the heated sand.
“No one’s beating Jared,” she says.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Our side. Jared is one of us.”
“If he is, I’m not.”
“Stop it, Adam. You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“When someone tortures you, there’s only one conclusion—enemy.”
“I’m sure he has a good explanation.”
“What is it with you? All this chummy stuff, like you’re good ol’ buddies.”
Her hollow stare says nothing.
Then it hits me. “You two had a thing.”
Now I get a firsthand look at the other Madison—no dreamy gazes, no sexy grins.
“That’s none of your business,” she says.
Great, now we’re getting somewhere. Hopeless war, some personal relationship garbage, now friends withholding steamy secrets. Must have been an easy memory wipe for me. Who’d want to remember a life loaded with this crap?
“Fine,” I say. “You’re right, none of my business. But you can’t stand there and ignore what I know, and you don’t. There’s no question about it, Madison, I was there.”
Her fire melts. She lowers to the edge of her seat, downcast and searching. After a moment, she looks up. “There must be a reason. There has to be.”
“I’m sure there is, but there’s no excuse, and no explanation that will ever justify what he has done to me. Jared is now the enemy.”
* * *
Madison goes inside while I stand alone on the deck, tortured by thoughts spinning out of control. The ocean, sky, warm sun and waves washing the shore—an instant of perfect life, a precious now, slipping away. But not all memories of Jared are bad. We had good times, playing ball on the beach, surfing together, building hot-rod craft and challenging each other to race. As soldiers we stood side by side, fought our enemy and chased them through space, flying our ships faster than anyone else, always pushing the envelope. Then coming home for beers, laughing about our daredevil adventures, and boasting how we had outsmarted the enemy once again. But all that is in the past. Now we have a traitor. The shift in alliance holds devastating potential.
Inside, Madison stands past the sofa, talking on the telephone. As I enter, she glances at me and hangs up.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
She offers that special grin that tells me I’m being silly.
“That’s a silly question,” she says.
I’m getting better at this.
She heads for the kitchen and goes to the fridge. Standing before the open door, she fetches a beer, pops the top, and downs the entire load in one long guzzle. Not only is she gorgeous, she can drink like a sailor. We could have some fun together. After flinging the empty into the sink, she grabs a fresh can and sits at the table.
“Madison, you didn’t answer the question. Is everything okay?”
“What is everything?” she asks. “See, that’s silly. Be more specific.”
I sit across from her. “All right. Are you okay?”
“Sure, I’m fine. How are you?”
What’s with her? She’s acting like a robot.
“Madison, something’s wrong. Is it Jared?”
Her eyes flash. “I told you, that’s none of your business.”
I match her glare. “Don’t worry so much, I won’t remember anyway.”
She drains her beer and smacks it down. “Good.”
“Now it’s good? I thought I’m supposed to remember things. What, only things you want me to remember?”
We lock stares, and this time her eyes tell another story—she is frightened.
“What are you hiding?” I ask.
She looks away. “Nothing. I’m just worried, you know, about Jared.” She gets up and opens the fridge.
“Worried about him?” I ask. “Or what you should be worried about—that he wants us all dead forever.”
She returns to the table with more beer, and offers one. “I doubt he wants that.”
“Just me, is that it?”
Scanning the floor, she says, “It’s something else. It has to be.”
“I may not remember anything, but you’re not much better off.”
/>
She looks up. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“This crap with Jared, this history. I’m glad it’s none of my business. I don’t care to have my judgment clouded by emotion, like you.”
“Right, like you should talk.”
“Look, Madison, I may not be perfect, but at least I’m trying. What are you doing?”
“Hoping to drop the subject of Jared and me. You know, there are other things to talk about.”
“Oh, is that it? Silly me, I didn’t realize. Okay, let’s talk about something else. Where would you like to start? The weather’s pretty nice today. What do you think?”
Her glare tightens.
The screen door slaps open. Dave hustles across the living room and into the kitchen. “What’s all this about Jared?”
Madison breathes a sigh of relief. “About time you got here.” She gets up and opens the fridge. “Adam has a lot of explaining to do.” From the fridge, she pulls out a twelve-pack, then points to the screen door and deck beyond. “Let’s relax outside and let him tell his story.”
* * *
Sunset marks the day’s passage into twilight, the sight of which unleashes a flood of scattered memories, the many instances I had witnessed a sunset from this very deck. The sight takes me back to that dreadful morning, when the colors in the sky caught my attention, just before Jared inflicted unthinkable pain. But worse, he wanted me to know it was coming. It was not enough to simply shoot me in the back. No, he had to make sure it was clear, that he was the inflictor of pain.
As we drain many beers, I explain every detail of my experiences, starting with the hospital stay, the supposed result of an accident that never happened, up to when Dave and Madison appeared as holograms, and the rest before I was rescued. They laugh, amused by my story, particularly the odd conclusions I had formed during my time of ignorance. The Association did their job well, and turned me into a genuine idiot. Worse is wondering if my true self will ever fully emerge, who I dearly hope is not such an idiot.
As I ramble, Dave asks, “Bobs?”
“You know, the goons. With the cheesy jackets.”
“Agents,” he says. “Association cops.”
Madison asks, “Why in the world would you call them Bob?”
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 13