Uninvited

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  “How long is this . . . training?” Mom asks, and I hear what she’s really asking. When will I come home? Will I ever?

  “However long necessary for her to reach a level where she can be assigned a duty and perform with adequate success.”

  I shake my head. Isn’t that bureaucratic smoke-blowing at its finest? “Perform with adequate success.” What did that even mean?

  “What if I can’t?” I hear myself ask.

  She looks at me, her expression mildly annoyed. “If we decide you’re untrainable, then you’ll be moved to a detention camp. Where you were headed before you were flagged for special ops training. It’s not a fate I would choose, were I you.” Again, the empty smile is back, and this time it feels vaguely threatening. “So don’t fail.”

  I nod mechanically.

  Agent Stiles adjusts her grip on her satchel and glances at her watch. Her gaze drifts toward the front door before looking back at me. “You need to decide now. It’s your call. Training or detention camp?”

  There’s really no choice. As she stares at me, I see she knows this, too.

  I nod at Mom. “Sign it.”

  She moves to the desk. I follow closely, watching as she signs her name and then hands me the pen to sign.

  “Excellent,” Stiles announces, taking the papers from me. “A van will be collecting you tomorrow morning between seven and eight. Be ready.” She takes a satisfied breath, squaring herself in front of me. “You’re one of a chosen few. You should consider yourself very honored.”

  Honored? I want to point to my throat. Did she miss that?

  She continues, “We’ve been granted permission for roughly fifty carriers. We conducted a nationwide search. It was difficult to choose. Harder to find quality females.”

  She makes me sound like livestock. Not a person. Not human.

  Then that other thing she said sinks in. Fifty carriers nationwide. That’s not many at all. But she mentioned needing to visit other houses in the area today. Could Sean be one of them?

  I have to know. Even if our last encounter left a bad taste in my mouth, I have to know he’s not going to be behind that barbed fence being guarded by all those men with guns. I can’t wait until I’m on some van headed God knows where to learn he’s not headed there, too—to discover that he’s been shipped off to a detention camp with all the rest of the carriers and that I will never see him again. I’ll never know what happened to him. Or Coco. An image of her fills my head. All she put with . . . the Cage, Brockman. For nothing, it seems.

  “Who else?” I blurt. “Who else are you taking?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Mitchell studying me curiously, and I know I’m giving myself away. At least to him. He knows me well enough to read me, to see that I care a lot about Agent Stiles’s answer. That I care about someone.

  “I beg your pardon?” She slides the papers into her satchel efficiently, already finished here and eager to move on.

  “You said you had other houses to visit nearby. Other carriers. Did any of them go to Keller with me?”

  She angles her head, considering me. “I believe so. Gilbert Ruiz scored perfect on his ACT. And his computer knowledge is nothing short of astonishing. He can write code and hack into the world’s most complicated programs.”

  Anxiety trips through me. Just Gil? Not Sean. I see the buses in my mind, the people being shoved onto them. Their wide eyes, their faces stark and haunted. My stomach twists sickly, hoping that Sean possesses some skill, some talent that can get him away from that.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” She fumbles for another sheet and hands it to my mother while I wait breathlessly, hoping for her to say another name.

  “Here’s a list of what to bring. Only the essentials. It’s not a summer camp.”

  “No one else from Keller?” I press.

  She turns for the door. “You’ll see for yourself tomorrow.”

  “Please.” I can’t stop the whisper from slipping free.

  She looks back at me, her expression shifting, awake with curiosity. “Who do you want to be there, Davina?”

  Heat swamps my face. I feel Mom and Mitchell staring at me, sensing their surprise. They wouldn’t have expected me to grow so attached to another carrier.

  “Come. Out with it. There must be something special about him to have you in such a state.”

  My face burns hotter. If I give her Sean’s name would it truly help? Or is she asking to make sure he isn’t included? I can’t fathom Agency rationale.

  She considers me thoughtfully. “Interesting. Actually, I’ve had to cross one carrier off my list . . . turns out he preferred suicide.” She says this like it’s nothing. “I suppose a carrier charismatic enough to charm you should be evaluated. Who knows? He might be an asset . . . especially if his presence there makes you more at ease. Maybe he could fill the vacancy. What’s his name?”

  “Sean,” I respond, unsure if she’s messing with me or not. “Sean O’Rourke.”

  She nods. “We’ll look into him.”

  And I don’t know whether to believe her or not, but the tightness in my chest eases. He might not be headed to a detention camp. I cling to that hope. He might be going with me—to a place where we can both find a future.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  * * *

  Phone call from President Pitt to Dr. Louis Wainwright

  “I’ll give you your damned training camp, Wainwright. You just better be right about this. . . .”

  TWENTY-ONE

  I’M WAITING WHEN THE VAN PULLS UP THE driveway. Three figures sit in the back, two people in the front, one of whom opens the door and steps down. Agent Stiles. The sun hits her sleek hair, firing it almost blue.

  I let the curtain fall back into place. Sucking in a deep breath, I turn and locate my bag.

  I only packed what was on the list Agent Stiles gave my mother. Underwear, toothbrush. My favorite shower gel. A few changes of clothes and an extra set of shoes. The bag hangs lightly in my hands.

  My parents come down the stairs at the sound of the doorbell. Even Dad stayed home to see me off. He pulls me into his arms and hugs me so hard I can hardly breathe. “You’ll do great,” he murmurs against my hair. “They know you’re special. That’s why they chose you. You’re not like the others—”

  I pull away, cutting him off. “I’ll miss you, too, Dad.” I can’t hear him say that I’m not like the others . . . that I’m better than all the rest of them. Not when I don’t know if it’s true.

  To know that, I have to know that what’s inside them isn’t inside me. And I can’t know that for sure. I don’t know anything except that I’m going to absorb everything they teach me. I’m going to learn and make something of myself. I’ll find new goals and new dreams.

  Mom opens the door to Agent Stiles. The woman nods at us and then turns, marching to the van, expecting me to follow.

  “We’ll see you soon,” Mom says, even though we know no such thing. I let her say it. It seems the thing for people to say when parting ways.

  I nod, hugging her.

  I turn to my brother and a lump forms in my throat. He pulls me into his arms, clutching me with wide-splayed fingers. “I’ve got your back.”

  “I know.”

  His voice lowers so that only I can hear. “You come home if it doesn’t work out. I’ll help you. . . . There are places you can go, hide. . . .”

  The van honks.

  “I gotta go.” I step free and squeeze Mitchell’s arm, trying to convey to him that I’m going to be okay. He looks at me intently.

  “I hear you,” I assure him. Lifting my bag, I’m out the door, moving swiftly down the front walk, not looking back on the only home I’ve known.

  The side door to the van yawns open for me. Gil sits in the bench seat behind the driver, waving merrily and motioning for me to take
the space beside him. Like we’re heading to some kind of fun summer camp. I hop inside, nodding at Agent Stiles as she slams the door shut.

  I glance behind me to the shapes sitting there. Sean and a boy I’ve never seen before.

  Sean looks at me but he doesn’t speak. His expression is stoic, impossible to read. His fuller top lip presses into an unsmiling line. I wonder if he knows that I had something to do with his being here. I wonder if he cares.

  I hold his gaze for a moment and then face forward again.

  We’re moving now, leaving my house behind.

  They’re taking us to a place called Mount Haven. This much I glean during the van ride and one plane trip. Our group grows as we travel. By the time we land in New Mexico, there are nineteen of us. Agent Stiles and five others escort us. We get plenty of stares as we’re led through the airport and ushered through security. At least ten of us bear the imprints, and people actually press to far walls and clutch their children close as we pass. We are monsters in their eyes. Real live bogeymen in the flesh.

  Although Sean speaks very little, he stays close to me and Gil, his eyes constantly moving, assessing everyone. Everything. I guess there’s comfort in the familiar—and that happens to be me and Gil. Or maybe he just feels protective of us. Again. Like in the Cage.

  With Gil, there is no risk of awkward silence. He keeps the conversation flowing as we munch on the sack meal they provided, driving deep into the mountain wilderness, leaving civilization behind. Not that it’s very civilized anymore.

  It’s dark when we arrive at Mount Haven, passing through a gate set amid a tall stucco wall. As soon as we emerge from the van, they divide us. Boys to the right, girls to the left. A reed-thin, military-looking man introduces himself as Commander Harris. His head is cue-ball smooth. Light gleams off his shiny scalp. We stand beneath the bright glare of spotlights as he looks out at all of us, weighing us with hawk-like intensity for a long moment before directing the guards to take us to our quarters.

  Blinking, I look after Sean and Gil, my chest growing tight with anxiety at leaving them. Gil grins and gives me a thumbs-up. I know him well enough by now to know he’s trying to be encouraging. I nod, still wishing I could have gone with him and Sean. Sean’s gaze holds mine, communicating something. What, I don’t know.

  I watch Gil and Sean for as long as I can, until I’m afraid I might run into the girl in front of me. Facing forward, I mind my steps while scanning the building and grounds. There are only seven girls. A woman leads us. She’s dressed gender neutral in a khaki shirt and slacks. I haven’t seen Agent Stiles since the airport. Somehow I don’t think I’ll see her again. Or if I do, it won’t be good.

  I heard one boy on the way from the airport tell another boy in the back row of the van that Mount Haven used to be a mental institution. I don’t know how he knew this, but with bars on the windows, I can believe it. Still, it’s not a gloomy place. Not like an asylum from a horror movie or anything. Nothing that grim. The whitewashed walls stand out against the star-studded night. The building is shaped like a V, two wings stretching out on either side of a rotunda in the middle. At three stories, it could house well over fifty-odd students.

  “I wonder if we’ll get our own rooms,” a girl up front murmurs, looking back at me hopefully. She’s so thin, her limp blouse falls against pointy-sharp shoulder blades. I doubt she’s had a meal to herself, much less a room. I can’t help but wonder what her special skill is. Did she score perfectly on her ACT like Gil? Or is it simply that she’s a girl? Stiles mentioned the dearth of female carriers. Did my test scores really matter? Or was it just that I was female and had a pulse? But no, Coco isn’t here, so there must be something to my selection.

  The line stops suddenly, and the skinny girl in front of me, too busy staring up at the building, collides with the girl in front of her. I hardly draw a breath before they’re tangled together, screaming and thrashing and tearing at each other on the ground. It happens so quickly, I struggle to process it.

  The remaining girls immediately break ranks and close around the writhing figures, watching, shouting indecipherable words. Only my lips don’t move. I shake my head and look to the guard, certain she will break up the fight.

  She lazily reaches for the radio on her belt. “Hey, Jensen, we got a situation with the girls.”

  The reply comes back scratchy. “Stand by.”

  I look back down, watching in horror as the other girl climbs atop the skinny one. She outweighs her by at least forty pounds. The skinny one arches her slim body, struggling to buck her off. It’s useless. She can’t do anything. The bigger girl grabs a fistful of Skinny’s long hair and holds her steady as she pounds her in the face with her free fist.

  Still, the guard does nothing.

  When I look down again, I gasp. My stomach churns sickly. I can’t even recognize Skinny’s face anymore. There’s so much blood now.

  I add my voice to the din: “No. No. Stop!”

  I dash at hot tears with my hands, blinking rapidly. I can’t look anymore.

  “Help!” I shout at the guard.

  She arches an eyebrow and nods at something behind me. I turn. Three guards approach. A baton swings in the hand of one of the men, and I quickly learn it’s not a simple baton. He reaches down and jabs the bigger girl. She shrieks and rolls off her victim. But he doesn’t stop. He presses down with his stick, sending volts of electricity into her thickset body. The girl jerks madly, flopping like a fish. She starts to bleed from the mouth and I’m convinced she’s bitten her tongue.

  He leans down to address her, his voice loud enough to carry over her cries and grunts. “You will not jump another carrier again unless it’s part of a training exercise, understand?” He eases up for a moment to hold her gaze. “Understand? Another attack and there will be more of this.” He digs the prod into her side again for emphasis.

  Unable to watch, I turn away. My gaze narrows in on the other guards, their faces smug, satisfied.

  And suddenly I know. I haven’t escaped anything. I’ve walked right into it.

  We’re led to the second floor of the building’s east wing. The elevator opens to reveal a wide lounge. A few tables help fill the space. A couch and loveseat are positioned in front of a television. I smile bitterly, imagining the seven of us watching reruns of Glee together. Unlikely.

  “Welcome.” Another individual waits for us, standing in the center of the room. She’s dressed in civilian clothes and hugs a clipboard and several file folders to her chest, rocking on her heels. She smiles at us as we drift forward. Her face is so tanned and sun-weathered it’s hard to estimate her age. A pair of guards flank her. They don’t smile. It’s as if she’s the only one allowed to.

  “Take a seat.” She motions to the tables. “We have a few things to go over before we give out room assignments. Count yourselves lucky. With so few girls on the floor, you can each have your own room.”

  I sit at the same table as the skinny girl. Maybe because I feel sorry for her. Or maybe I simply feel safer with her. She’s hardly a threat with her broken face and slight body tucked in on itself. I can smell the coppery scent of her blood. It’s a hard reminder of where I am and what can happen if I drop my guard. Of what can happen even if I don’t.

  Another girl joins us at the round table. She moves with an inherent grace, holding her elegant, well-shaped limbs close to her body. Her dark hair gleams blue-black. The only thing darker is her gaze. Her black eyes watch me warily, eyeing my neck.

  The four remaining girls sit at a neighboring table. The one who beat up Skinny crosses sinewy arms over her chest and assesses all of us with supreme confidence. Blood stains the front of her shirt, and it looks somehow right on her. Her face is horribly broken out with acne and pitted with old blemish scars. She bears no imprint. As though aware of this—and it’s some manner of shortcoming that marks her as soft—her stare passes between me and the other imprinted girl at her table, a redhead who busies herself by chew
ing on her thumbnail.

  The redhead’s green eyes glitter in an unnerving manner, reminding me of an animal that’s ready to bite the first person who tries to touch her. I cross my arms, my hands chafing over my skin.

  “The seven of you will sleep on this floor. The boys are quartered in the west wing. Every night, your doors will automatically lock, every morning they will unlock.”

  I glance at my hands, thinking locked doors aren’t a bad thing among this bunch. I might actually get some sleep.

  “Let’s begin with introductions, shall we?” The guard opens her first file. “Zoe Parker. Florida State Soccer Champion two years in a row. Midfielder.” She nods and glances at the redhead approvingly. The girl drops her thumb from her lips and lifts that wild green gaze to the guard. “That takes stamina. Impressive.”

  She moves on to the next file. “Amira Bustros.” The girl with the ink-dark eyes beside me stiffens and slides her gaze to the woman fearfully. “You’re first-generation American. Your parents are from Lebanon. You speak fluent Arabic.” She continues nodding. “Useful.”

  She flips open another folder and nods to the most petite member of the group. “Moving on. Marilee Davison. You’re a gymnast. Been training since age three.”

  That would explain her tiny stature. She must be older, but she looks like a twelve-year-old.

  “I was a gymnast.” Marilee juts her chin out defiantly. Her squeaky, girl-like voice makes me wonder if maybe she isn’t closer to eight.

  “Yes, well, we’ll see about that,” the woman answers vaguely. “Your background will come in handy.”

  “Davina Hamilton.” Her eyes scan my file. I wait, every muscle inside me pulling tight. “Piano, violin, guitar, and voice. Accepted into Juilliard. Very nice.”

  I don’t waste my breath reminding her that that’s all in the past. Accepted and then rejected. But she knows as much. I’m here, after all.