Scan

by Walter Jury

  “I know you’re smarter than to eliminate the last of the Archer line,” she says. “Turning The Fifty into The Forty-Nine would not be a popular move for any present or future patriarch. You wouldn’t be the first family to be ostracized. How long would you survive without the income and protection The Fifty provides, Rufus?”

  Rufus’s Santa-face is cherry red, veins popping, mouth working. “You have violated the sanctity of my home!” he roars, startling the rest of the Bishops into silence.

  “We apologize for abusing your hospitality,” she replies coolly. “We would not have imposed had the situation not been desperate.”

  “Lower your gun,” barks Rufus, and I realize he’s talking to the twin, who obeys immediately. “Mitra,” he growls, wanting her to do the same thing.

  With her weapon still leveled at Aaron’s head, my mother turns to look at Rufus. I can’t see her eyes, but I can see his. All his merriness has evaporated, burned away by his outrage. It looks like his dearest wish is to kill her. Painfully. It drives the breath from my lungs. I’m not sure our status as members of The Fifty counts for much at this moment. In the hushed, tense quiet, I can almost hear their wordless battle of wills, the struggle between two people who understand the world we live in far better than anyone else in this room. My mother looks so small, so insignificant beneath the shadow of his rage.

  But then . . . Rufus blinks.

  My mother’s shoulders relax, just slightly. “You’ll arrange for our safe passage out of here,” she says. She still hasn’t lowered the gun. “You’ll provide one of your vehicles, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Timothy!” Rufus barks while he glares at my mother. “Give them their things and take them to the lot. The rest of you, back off.”

  Unbelievable. Aaron, his brother, the twins . . . all of them take half a step back, and I can breathe again. Christina sags in my arms, the relief of the moment too much for her. I feel the same way but manage to hold both of us up.

  “Kill the H2!” comes a shriek from the back. It’s Theresa, who’s standing on a chair, pointing right at Christina. It’s a childish, pathetic gesture, but there’s an immediate roar of approval throughout the room. I no longer feel any sympathy for her at all.

  Especially when I look around and see the effect this one skinny, stupid girl has had. All these Bishops, raised on hatred and ignorance . . . The fuse she’s lit is short—it takes only a moment for the crowd around us to ignite. Hands come from everywhere, behind me, on both sides, clutching at Christina. She screams in pain as someone gets a fistful of her hair. I lash out, all elbows and knees, driving some guy’s stomach through his spine, making another’s knee buckle. But it’s not enough, not even close, because a few seconds later, Christina is ripped from my side.

  She arches back as they lift her up, everyone trying to claim a piece of her, all of them trying to punish her for the crime of being H2. Even though at least three people have their fingers tangled in her hair, she turns her head. And sees me. She blinks, and the tears streak down her face as she stretches a trembling hand in my direction. The agony in her eyes draws a foreign, animal sound from my throat. I lunge through the bodies, fighting to get to her, my mind a solid wall of panic. I’m about to watch her torn apart. I’ve never felt so powerless.

  Something hard hits the side of my head and sets off bombs inside my skull, bright flashes of white-hot pain. I fall to my knees, and through the ringing in my ears, I hear my mother’s voice. No longer commanding, she’s screaming, too. One word, over and over.

  My name.

  I try to get to my feet, but someone punches me back down. I’m losing. I’m losing Christina. Losing everything. I’m—

  When the shot is fired, everyone goes still.

  “Put her down or I’ll put him down,” my mother shouts.

  A space clears around me, and I push myself to my feet, shoving away hands that may have been trying to help. I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is—

  Christina plows into me, sobbing, and I let out a sob of my own as I clutch her to my chest. My hands are shaking as I run them over her, trying to make sure she’s all there, that no pieces of her are missing. After a few seconds, I manage to tear my eyes from her and look around. A hundred pairs of eyes are on my mother, who is standing near the wall with the muzzle of her weapon digging into Aaron Bishop’s temple. I scan the floor around her, looking for who took the first shot, but then realize she must have fired it in the air.

  Breathing hard, Rufus holds up his arms, shining the scanner’s light over his family’s pasty faces. “We’ll have our time!” he shouts. “I promise you we’ll have our time.”

  Then he turns back to us and gestures for Timothy to hand my mother her bag and Christina’s pack. “These three will have their property back and safe passage out of here in exchange for this.” He waves the scanner at me.

  In his eyes, there is a challenge. He expects me to shout, to object; I can see it all there in his bloodshot glare. He’s not going to kill me, because he knows there would be consequences for his family. He thinks I’m a stupid kid, though, and he’s hoping I’m going to do something brash so he can put me in my place. I grit my teeth and hold on to Christina, and I do not look away, even when his lips curl into that cold, calculating smile. “Not so much like your father after all,” he says.

  We’ll see.

  My mother takes a step backward. “Tate, time to make our exit.”

  The journey to the parking lot feels a lot like tightrope walking on a high-tension power line. No fewer than twenty Bishop boys surround us, and it pisses me off to no end that half of them probably started the evening wishing they could get into Christina’s pants, and now they want to lynch her in the square. She stumbles along bravely, but I’m guessing it’s taken everything she has to survive the last few minutes. I know it’s totally caveman, but after she trips over her own feet for the second time, I scoop her up in my arms and carry her. Normally, she’d never allow something like this; she’d want to hold her head high and leave under her own power, but right now, she puts her arm around my neck and clings. David, who is walking silently beside us, aims his flashlight ahead of my steps.

  Timothy hands my mother her bag and a set of car keys. “Gray sedan, end of the line,” he says.

  My mother gives me the keys. She’s holding the gun in her other hand. “Get in the car, Tate.”

  I open the door, and Christina practically dives in. She puts on her seat belt and then draws her knees up to her chest and lowers her forehead onto them, like she can’t face the world right now. My mom joins us a second later. She hands me the gun. “Hang on to that for me.”

  I can’t help but find this moment surreal. I thought my mom was the peaceful academic type, not keeping any weapons around, whereas my dad never went anywhere without one—but it turns out she’s as badass as he was.

  She pulls out of the lot and drives slowly up the gravel road. I watch out the rearview for following headlights but don’t see any. We’re not a mile down the road before I lean forward and tap her on the shoulder. “Pull over.”

  “Tate—”

  “You know I have to go back and get it.”

  “No—”

  “Mom.”

  She pulls to the side of the road and slumps over the wheel. “I do know. He shouldn’t have it.”

  Christina’s fingers curl into the shoulder of my shirt. “What will they do if they catch you?”

  I stroke my fingers down her cheek. “I’d rather not think about it. But they won’t.”

  I actually don’t know if I’m right or not. I just want to make this easier on her.

  “Can I have Dad’s phone?”

  Mom pulls it out of her bag and stares at it. “The GPS should be working, but it seems like Rufus has some sort of jamming capability, because it isn’t picking up the satellite signal.
” She drops it back in the bag. “You’re going to get lost in the dark.”

  “I’ll improvise, then. Can I have the keys?”

  She hands them to me, and I use them to rip the fabric off the rear speakers. I break through the brittle plastic grate covering the woofer and pull it out. It looks like a little flying saucer. I yank it away from the wiring harness and then get out of the car while I pull the guts of the thing away from the magnet inside. Then I find myself a few rocks by the side of the road and use one as a chisel and the other as a hammer to knock the magnet loose.

  When I return to the car, Christina is staring at me with this half-terrified, half-puzzled look, but my mom smiles. “You’re making yourself a compass.”

  “You got it. Do you have a pen?”

  My mom reaches into her bag and pulls out a ballpoint pen. I pull the little metal clip off and magnetize it by sliding the speaker magnet from one end to the other several times. “I think we’re about one mile to the southeast of the compound. I can’t go back along the road, because they’ll be watching. I’m going through the woods from here. Shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes over this terrain.”

  She gives me a sharp look. “There’s security.”

  “I know. But I think I know a way through it.”

  Her eyes linger on me for several seconds. I know she wants to stop me, but then I realize she’s not going to. She thinks I can do this.

  I use the pen to draw my map on the inside of my forearm, and I hold it up to show her. “Does that look right?”

  She pulls my arm toward her and takes the pen from me. After a few seconds of scribbling, she lets me go. “Now it does.”

  I look at my arm and see she’s added a crossroad and shifted the orientation a few degrees. “All right.”

  “If they catch you, tell them Angus McClaren is aware that we’re here and expecting to hear from us. And tell them I’m calling him if I don’t have you back by dawn. He’ll instantly freeze all Bishop assets. We’ll see how Rufus protects his family when he hasn’t got a dollar to his name.” The darkness can’t hide the ferocity on her face.

  I toss the speaker magnet onto the floor of the car. I don’t need it now that I’ve magnetized the metal clip. “Good to know. One more thing?”

  “What do you need?” my mom asks.

  “Your Valium.”

  “Why?”

  I arch my eyebrow. “You never know when you need someone to get a good night’s sleep.”

  She’s silent as she gives me the bottle.

  Christina grabs my hand as I swing open the back door. “I’ll see you soon,” she whispers, then looks away and grits her teeth like she’s keeping herself from saying more. I’m thankful for that right now, because if she asked me to stay with her, I’d have a hard time leaving her side.

  I squeeze her hand. “You will.”

  The night air is sweet and cool on my skin as I kneel next to the water-filled ditch by the side of the road. The clouds have cleared, and the silver crescent moon reflects off the black puddle at my feet. An old liquor bottle is half submerged in the muck. I pull it out and manage to break off the bottom third so I have a cup with some jagged edges. I fill it with water and head into the woods. With the moonlight at my back, I plot my course using the map on my arm and the compass I’ve made by dropping the metal bit from the pen into my cup of water. If I stand still for a moment, the thing points due north. It keeps me oriented, and after a long, slow hike—avoiding a few painfully obvious booby traps the Bishops probably added to supplement the more sophisticated system designed by my dad—I am at the shore of the pond. From here, I can see the lights of the Bishop compound. I’m perilously close to the security perimeter. I hide my compass behind the trunk of this enormous oak with a huge, bulbous knot on its side, then squat next to the softly lapping water and wait for a few clouds to pass, allowing the moon to give me all its light.

  This pond is the weakness in the perimeter. The body of water is maybe a quarter mile long and kidney shaped, and I’m on the southeastern edge, where a narrow stream branches off from the pond and winds its way into the woods. It would have taken a lot to angle the invisible fence around this long stretch of water. What the Bishops did instead: they laid the system around the edge of the pond, cutting right over the stream. There are stone markers sunk into the earth on either side of the bank that show where the boundary of the security system is, subtle unless you know to look for them. Every Bishop does—they’d know to avoid the invisible line across this part of the pond. They probably stay down at the side nearest the clearing and avoid this spot like the plague.

  I take off my shoes and shirt and leave them on the shore. I pull out the bottle of Valium and examine it. Waterproof . . . ish. I shove it back into my pocket and creep down within about ten feet of the boundary, listening hard for any telltale electronic sounds that would tell me that my life is about to end. I gasp as my toes sink into frigid mud. The water is like ice here, having just bubbled up out of the earth. Fighting the chatter of my teeth, covered in goose bumps, I sink low, submerging myself in the stream. The automated rifles that protect the perimeter only scan from ground-level up, so if I’m underwater, I should make it through. I take one last opportunity to gauge my distance—miscalculation would equal a bullet to the head—and plunge beneath the water.

  It gets deep quickly, popping my ears, burying me in silence. I drag myself along the muddy bottom, completely blind, relying on the map inside my head. I have to go at least ten yards past the boundary markers. It’s the only way to know I’m safe. It’s slow going, because I need to stay as deep as possible to avoid catching the electronic eye of the camera. It takes only seconds for my hands to become numb clubs on the ends of my arms. But I count every stroke, every yard, every second, forcing myself to maintain rapid, purposeful movement. Finally, I let myself drift upward and then swim another dozen yards a few feet below the surface. Then, with a silent prayer, I roll onto my back and break the surface, just enough to draw a long breath.

  And I don’t end up with a bullet in the chest, so I think I’m okay. I swim to the shore, shivering as the breeze hits my skin. Tensing to steady the tremble in my hands, I pull the Valium from my pocket again and shake it, reassured by the dry rattle of the pills inside.

  Now I’m within the security perimeter, near the Bishops’ clearing. That was the easy part. The next part will be harder, but chaos has always been a specialty of mine. I pad forward in my bare feet, letting the rotting leaves and damp earth mute my footfalls. I run my hands over my wet hair and then down along my arms, brushing off drops of muddy pond water. My pants are still dripping as I reach the clinic. Its windows are dark. I edge up to the back door and give it a try. It’s open.

  I push the door slowly, wincing as it creaks, because I know there’s at least one person in here—Francis, their chief medic who’s lying ill in one of the rooms down the hall. I listen for a moment, but it’s silent, so I get myself inside and close the door again. I figure there has to be a supply closet somewhere, so I start opening a few doors. Some contain boxes of medicines, all carefully labeled. It’s amazing the stuff these people have—all sorts of heart medication, even what I think might be chemotherapy drugs. But I don’t need anything so complicated. I find a few bottles of iodine crystals in the second closet I search. Perfect. I also find a scalpel, which I pocket.

  In the third closet, I find the cleaning supplies, including a few gallons of ammonia and a roll of paper towels. I sit back on my heels and slide the jugs into the hallway.

  “Welcome back,” comes a voice from across the hall. I spin around to see David standing in the doorway of one of the clinic rooms, his arms crossed over his chest. Like he’s been watching me for a while.

  Well, shit.

  “Thanks,” I say, standing up slowly. I really don’t want to hurt this guy, but I’m already planning the qui
ckest way to tie him up with an extension cord and lock him in this closet. He’s a freaking weed, so it shouldn’t be too hard.

  His chuckle holds absolutely no humor. “No need to look at me like that. I’m going to help you.”

  “Huh?”

  “You came back to get the scanner, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He leans forward like he thinks I might be slow. “I’m going to help you do that.”

  “Why?”

  He frowns. “I love my family, but they’re going to hurt somebody, and they’re going to use that thing to justify it. Because if the person isn’t human, they won’t . . .” He lets out a sharp breath. “You saw them tonight.”

  Once again, I can tell. By the look on his face, by the sound of his voice. He’s not doing this to save some faceless person in the future. He’s not doing this to save his family from themselves. And he’s certainly not doing it for me.

  He’s doing this for Christina. For a few hours this afternoon, she made him wonder what his life would be like if he wasn’t stuck on this compound. He told me he wanted to get out, and that he wasn’t allowed. And today she showed up and gave him a glimpse of what’s out there, and he can’t shake it loose. That has to be it. Oh, that and the fact that she’s ten times hotter than any girl in this compound.

  Whatever. Hell, I’ll take what I can get.

  He looks at me with those bloodshot eyes. “You’re not going to hurt them, are you?”

  “I’m going to try my best not to, and if you’re helping me, that’s going to make it easier.”

  “What’s with the cleaning supplies?”

  I look down at the ammonia. “Diversion?”

  He nods. “They’re all in the lodge right now. Mostly the men. The women have taken the children home for the night.”

  “Good. Can you get to Rufus?”

  He grimaces. “I can’t snatch it for you. If they think I took it, they’ll turn on me. Maybe kill me. I’ll do what I can, but . . .”

  I pull the bottle of Valium out of my pocket. “I don’t need you to snatch it. I just need you to make sure he gets a good night’s sleep.”