by Dima Zales
“Get. Out,” he says through clenched teeth.
With a sinking feeling, I realize I’ve never really seen Caleb pissed before. Not until now, if pissed is indeed what he is.
My heart hammering, I scramble out of the car. He climbs out too and takes off his vest with the weapons, dropping it on the ground.
It seems like he wants to fight.
Ignoring the hopelessness of the situation, I focus and brace myself.
My right hand moves to block his first punch without my brain really telling it to. My left tries to hit him in the jaw. He manages to block my hook, and in the next moment, I’m seeing stars.
My nose is the epicenter of unspeakable pain. I feel something warm running down my chin, and as I try to inhale, something obstructs the air from entering. My nose must be broken. As that realization hits me, I block a punch to my solar plexus.
Then Caleb does a move I can only describe as a football tackle. He rushes me, and since I didn’t expect it, I lose my balance and fall to the ground.
He kicks me in the head. The crack that accompanies the strike sounds as though the universe split open. Must be a skull fracture, I think vaguely as painful white light fills my vision.
Caleb seems to pause, and my consciousness ebbs.
I’m in the cold car again. The pain is gone, but my confusion is multiplied a hundredfold. What the—?
And then I’m pulled into the Quiet again.
“Do you want to keep playing, or are you ready to talk?” Caleb asks after I get out of the car, my legs wobbly.
This is what it’s about? Some kind of a creative torture he invented? Kick the shit out of me in the Quiet, reset the injuries by phasing out, and then pull the restored me back in, beat me up, rinse and repeat?
“What the fuck do you want?” I say with more bravado than I feel.
“You can start by explaining how Jacob was killed by the gun I gave you,” he says, and I know I’m in really deep shit.
“Jacob was killed?” I ask, trying my best to sound surprised, which is easy because I am surprised—surprised that Caleb found out about the gun. Thomas—my new friend and the only other adopted Guide I know—was so convinced we were in the clear. But I forgot that the gun I used was the one Caleb had personally given me. He must’ve gotten access to the ballistics report from Jacob’s murder case and realized it was his revolver that had killed Jacob.
“You know he was.” Caleb crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you really want to resume my game?”
I think quickly, knowing full well a delay in response will be interpreted as a sign of lying. If I come clean about everything, including being a hybrid, he’ll likely kill me outright, like in the memory I experienced where he killed a Pusher bomber. If I give him a half-truth—yes, I killed Jacob, but he was the bad guy responsible for killing Mira and Eugene’s parents—he might believe Jacob’s guilt, or, again, he might kill me for murdering his boss. This leaves me with the weakest response of all, but I proceed anyway, feeling as if I have as many choices as a person being Pushed.
“Wait,” I say. “I genuinely don’t know anything about Jacob getting killed—”
Caleb takes a threatening step toward me.
I start speaking faster. “Look. I got shot after you dropped me off at Mira’s house. You can check the hospital’s records. When I was in the hospital, someone took the gun.”
It’s somewhat plausible, and given the circumstances, not the worst thing I could’ve come up with. Unfortunately, Caleb doesn’t even dignify my quick thinking with criticism. Instead, he walks up to me and throws the first punch, which I manage to block with my left hand. At the same time, my right elbow connects with his jaw.
He raises an eyebrow in surprise and retaliates—how, I’m not entirely sure, as it looks like a blur of movement—and then pain explodes in my chest. Like before, I fall to the ground, and he kicks me repeatedly. The beating hurts like hell. And just like before, when I’m barely alive, he phases us out of the Quiet.
I’m cold, and this time it’s not just from the air conditioning. The adrenaline is pushing me into a fight or flight response. I’m dreading another beating. I don’t think I can take it. But he doesn’t pull me into the Quiet. Instead, he puts the damned bag over my head again.
“They’re going to find out exactly what happened anyway,” Caleb tells me.
Before I can ask what the hell that means or who ‘they’ are, I feel a pinprick of what I assume is a needle, and the familiar nothingness spreads through my brain as I go under.
Chapter 3
A slap to the face wakes me.
It’s the least fun way to wake up, followed closely by loud alarm clocks and cold water.
Before I am even done coming back to consciousness, I phase into the Quiet.
In the Quiet, I become much more alert—especially when I look around.
Caleb and I are no longer alone.
There is an older man staring at my frozen self through the car’s side window. He looks to be in his sixties or maybe even seventies. I can’t tell because I’m terrible at gauging the age of anyone over forty. I exit the car to take a closer look.
He looks completely out of place here, in the middle of the road, though the guy might look out of place pretty much anywhere with the white toga-like robe he’s wearing—anywhere except possibly ancient Greece. Yep, the strange outfit makes him look the way I imagine Socrates would look—minus the beard, as this guy is clean-shaven.
Had he walked here on foot? If so, from where, given that we’re in the middle of nowhere? More importantly, why did he come here? His dress puts only weird theories into my head. Weren’t they into younger men back in ancient Greece? I nervously chuckle as I picture Caleb calling this guy on his cell and saying, “Hey Grandpa. I’m taking a nearly naked twenty-one-year-old out into the woods for you. I’ll text you the GPS coordinates. The guy is still unconscious from the drug I gave him, so come quickly. It’s molesting time.”
I decide the only way I’m going to get answers is if I phase out and let things unfold as they may.
I touch my frozen self on the forehead, careful not to touch Caleb’s hand, which is making its way through the air, coming back from slapping my frozen self on the cheek.
The sounds and the sting from the slap come back. I open my eyes, but before I can say anything, everything goes silent again, and the pain is gone.
I find myself in the backseat of Caleb’s Honda, pulled into the Quiet yet again. I note that the strange old dude is now in duplicate, the animated version removing his hand from my frozen self’s neck—meaning I’m in his Quiet, not Caleb’s, at the moment. So the guy is one of us, most likely some kind of a Reader, given Caleb’s presence. I also note that Caleb is sitting next to me in the backseat. He must’ve been pulled into this Quiet session before me. He’s ominously holding another black bag.
“Don’t move,” the old guy says in a raspy voice. My snide remark that was about to graphically explain what Caleb and Grandpa can do to each other is interrupted when Caleb puts the cursed black bag over my head and jabs a gun into my ribs.
“Get out of the car and follow me,” the old guy instructs.
“I can’t see you,” I say. “How can I follow you?”
“Here, hold on to this piece of rope,” Caleb says. “And if you try anything, I’ll make our prior conversations seem like a fun warm-up.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask no one in particular. “What the fuck is going on?”
“I’ll explain when we get there,” says the stranger in a tone that implies the conversation is now over. He sounds like someone who’s used to giving orders.
My attempts at starting a conversation to gain information are ignored as we walk. This is probably the most terrifying walk of my life, by the way—also, the most uncomfortable. We walk across gravel roads, grass, a forested area, and hot asphalt, just to name a few of the horrid terrains. None of these surfaces are exactly friendl
y to my bare feet.
After what feels like a day or more of walking, we stop.
“Take that awful thing off his head,” says the older man.
Caleb grabs the black hood and roughly rips it off.
“You nearly broke my neck,” I complain, feeling something akin to whiplash, but no one deigns to give me a response.
The bright light hurts my eyes but only for a second. Recovery time is definitely quicker in the Quiet than in real time. My feet are already healing. It’s odd. I’ve never stuck around in the Quiet long enough to recover from an injury, not when phasing out is so much easier. I was derelict in my science, apparently. This is useful information and adds more credibility to Eugene’s theory that only our consciousness enters the Quiet and that these bodies aren’t exactly real bodies, but manifestations of the mind. Or something along those lines.
I examine the old man again. His light blue eyes are looking me up and down with cold curiosity. For someone his age, he’s in okay shape, and his white, slicked-back hair is nearly all there, which is rare, I imagine. Perhaps he’s on the younger end of my age estimation after all? That aside, I still feel justified in mentally calling him ‘Grandpa’ for now.
I look behind him. We’re standing near grassy plains, the forest we walked through visible in the distance. It’s a scenic landscape, for sure, but what catches my attention is the huge temple right behind Caleb and Grandpa.
The temple is intricate and seems completely out of place here, in the middle of the United States. The architecture is definitely Asian-inspired. I’m no expert on the subject, so I can’t say whether the style is Tibetan, Chinese, or Japanese, but I can say with certainty that it isn’t American. Fear forms in the back of my mind. Could Caleb have knocked me out long enough to transport me to Asia? But that makes no sense. How would he get a comatose passenger onto a plane? He wouldn’t. We drove here, so we must be somewhere in North America.
“What is this place?” I ask, trying not to sound too impressed. “Where are we?”
“It’s our home,” says Grandpa. “Follow me. I’ll get you some clothes.”
We enter through the large golden gates, with Caleb trailing behind us. It seems the theme of the day is breathtaking beauty. And it’s not just the cherry blossom leaves frozen in the air or the gorgeous landscaping. It’s everything. A deep sense of serenity is woven into every strategically placed little pagoda, into the very essence of the giant rock gardens. If I weren’t convinced that I’m in the deepest trouble of my life, I’d probably relax and enjoy it all. As is, the landscape and peace of this Quiet slows my heart rate—slightly.
I’m not surprised to see monk-like people when we enter the Temple. They have shaved heads and are wearing orange robes. Maybe they’re Buddhists? Everything points to that, though I don’t recall seeing one of those iconic, chubby statues with serene smiles and big earlobes. According to my mom Lucy, that fat guy isn’t even the original Buddha from India, but a Chinese version that came about much later.
We take an intricate set of stairs up to what looks like some kind of barracks.
“Here, put these on,” Grandpa says, handing me a robe and plain sandals that match those of the monks.
I put on the robe, feeling silly about the resultant look.
“Now that you’re more presentable, there are people I want you to meet,” Grandpa says and unceremoniously heads out of the room, preventing me from asking any questions.
Annoyed, I follow, wondering whether he would’ve ordered Caleb to drag me out of the room had I decided not to cooperate. I’m guessing the answer is yes.
The three of us enter a large amphitheater located on the top floor. Around the perimeter of the massive round room is a large circle of orange-clad monks all frozen in the lotus pose. Their faces are serene and blank. Rows and rows of candles and incense surround them. The motionless fire and smoke look like the result of high-speed, three-dimensional photography. In the center of the room, surrounded by the monks, are over a dozen figures sitting in a large circle with a foot or so between them. Their white robes match that of Grandpa’s, and like him, they all appear older. I see white hair on all but a few of the men, and those few are bald. As we approach, I notice a gray-haired, orange-robed person sitting at the very center of this strange arrangement. There is a lot of space between him and the circle of white-robed people, almost as if another, smaller circle belongs in the middle.
Navigating through the seated meditators, Grandpa approaches the white circle and touches an older woman on the back of her neck. In an instant, a lively version of this woman is looking at Grandpa intently.
“You should have a look at him,” Grandpa says, gesturing toward me. “I now have little doubt.”
The woman looks me up and down, her eyes settling on my face. Her kind, round face seems to be smiling without outwardly doing so, like the Mona Lisa.
“Hello, Darren,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
She knows my name. Is that good or bad? Probably bad.
“Hi,” I say uncomfortably. “Who are you?”
“I am Rose,” she says, breaking into a genuine smile.
“Nice to meet you, Rose.” I try to keep my tone polite. “Can you please tell me where I am?”
“Didn’t Paul explain it already?” she asks, looking at Grandpa.
“There was no time,” Paul says. “We had to make sure everything went according to plan.”
“Sure,” she says, prolonging the word to make it sound placating. I catch a hint of eye rolling. “Do we tell him now, or do we pull Edward and Marsha in?”
“Your call,” Paul says, his face even. If he noticed her reaction, he’s hiding it well.
“All right, Darren, let me start by telling you who we are,” she says, turning toward me. “You might’ve heard others refer to us as the Enlightened, though I personally think the term is a bit posh.”
The Enlightened? I can hardly believe my ears. She’s claiming they’re the legendary Readers who, according to Eugene, can stay in the Quiet for record times—like me. I glance at Caleb, seeking verification, but he’s not paying attention to me. Instead, he’s looking at the older woman, his expression that of deep respect.
Okay then.
I take a steadying breath. “I’ve heard the term mentioned,” I tell the woman. “But I’m not sure what it really means.”
“Nor am I,” she says, chuckling. “It’s just what Readers call us.”
“Okay.” I decide to give up on that line of questioning for now. “Can you tell me where this is, and more importantly, why I’m here?”
“In due time,” Paul interjects. “First, you have to tell us a few things.”
“Sure,” I say cautiously. “Like what?”
“Tell them why you asked me about Mark Robinson,” Caleb butts in.
Paul nods. “That would be a good start.”
I am so busted. If I tell them the truth, they’ll figure out my mixed heritage. But I have no idea what lie I can concoct to explain why I was asking about Mark, a long-dead Reader.
“Jacob mentioned him when we spoke, the day I got shot,” I say, deciding to start with the truth. “Naturally, I was curious.”
At the mention of Jacob’s name, Caleb’s face darkens, and I realize that wasn’t the most strategic response on my part.
“You know more,” Paul says calmly. He isn’t accusing me of lying so much as he’s simply stating a fact.
“I might,” I allow. “But why don’t you tell me something next? Quid pro quo.”
“He’s scared,” Rose says, her kind face turning serious. “Why is he scared?”
This turn in the conversation is completely unexpected. Rose sounds as though she’s defending me. Is this some kind of strange bad cop (Grandpa) / good cop (Rose, the nice old lady) game?
“Why are you looking at me like it’s my fault? Why not ask this oaf?” Paul says defensively, pointing to Caleb.
“Young man,
” Rose says, her full attention on Caleb. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing,” Caleb answers, and his voice takes on a note I haven’t heard from him before. If it were someone else, I’d swear he sounded deferential. “I just asked him a few important questions about the business with Jacob.”
I shudder, remembering how he’d chosen to ask those ‘few important questions.’
“You were explicitly instructed to bring him in unharmed,” Paul says, apparently noticing my reaction. His eyes narrow at Caleb. “Which part of that instruction was left open to interpretation?”
“Is he harmed?” Caleb says, and now he’s the one sounding defensive.
“Darren,” Rose says in an overly soothing tone, the kind a mother takes with a tantrum-throwing child. “Whatever happened with Jacob will not get you into trouble. Whatever Caleb told you was because he was mad about his mission going awry.”
Caleb gives an angry grunt but says nothing.
“What mission?” I ask suspiciously.
“Jacob was part of a group that Readers call the Purists. The Purists are part of another group, a bigger group, called the Orthodoxy,” she explains patiently. “Caleb has been working with us to penetrate the Orthodoxy, and Jacob was an important lead.”
“What is the Orthodoxy?” I ask, my head spinning. Caleb was an undercover agent of some kind? Actually, when I think about it, it doesn’t require a stretch of the imagination to picture Caleb in such a role. He’s certainly well versed in fighting.
“It’s complicated,” Rose says. “We believe there is an alliance between the Purists and their traditional counterparts among the Pushers.”
“There’s a whole organization of these people? It wasn’t just Jacob and a Pusher?” I blurt out before I can stop myself, and realize I might’ve admitted to knowing too much.
“So Jacob did have a Pusher ally?” Caleb asks, his face managing to darken even more.
“Yes,” I say. At this point, lying probably won’t help matters. “In fact, that’s who I was really going after when this thing happened with Jacob.”