Morning Sun

by Jeremy Flagg

  “No, sir. His vitals have terminated.” The man with the robot hand spoke. He didn’t move, but he assessed the situation. Is more of him machine? she thought.

  “Fuck,” Sims cursed.

  “I’m sorry, son,” the man in charge said. “I have an opportunity for you. We pulled your file.”

  “I have a file?” She could hear the confusion in Sims’s voice.

  “Waiting for entrance into the police academy. You also applied to the Corps years ago. We see that you decided to rescind your application?”

  “My mom got sick.”

  “We’re offering you another chance to serve, son. I oversee a very small—”

  “The Paladins. I know who you are, sir.”

  “We want you to consider serving. The world is a dangerous place, Mr. Sims, we need brave men to help keep it safe.”

  The invitation hung in the air, but Sims didn’t jump to snatch it up. Two dead bodies on the ground, and they conducted business as if they were sipping martinis at the bar. She couldn’t place her finger on it, but something felt incredibly wrong about their conversation, as if a deal with the devil was about to be made.

  Feet shuffled as the man behind the decorated commander moved forward. “I’m second in command of the Paladin program. You’ll be answering to me during your training. We expect within three months we’ll have you fighting ready and you’ll begin field testing with the unit.”

  “Who’s first in command?”

  Samantha understood the blow of the question. When the Paladins began operations on domestic soil, a public relations campaign was launched to explain why soldiers were kidnapping Americans. In charge of the program, a woman—a Child of Nostradamus. They claimed it took one of their own to capture and subdue them. Now this man, second in command, had to answer not only a female, but somebody who many didn’t even believe was human. Samantha felt a small victory against the asshole men out there.

  “She only leaves the base for field missions. You’ll be training under me. We both agreed, we need a man like you on our team.”

  “Like me?”

  “Outstanding tactical abilities, sharpshooter, explosives experience, yes, we need a man like you.”

  A woman only a few feet away was lifted and dragged inside the building. She’d be next. Her elbows ached from resting on the pavement; she almost looked forward to lock down, a chance to rest and contemplate her future. Every spare moment, she thought about the fence and what the world would look like on the other side. If anything, she happily anticipated never seeing another neon orange jumper.

  “...about the money.”

  The other man, the second in command, she didn’t like his voice. The way he spoke gave away a certain cocky nature. Something about his tone reminded her of Twisty’s last victim. “Your family will be well taken care of. We’ve already seen to erasing your debt and securing a spot in an elder-care facility for your mother.”

  “Shit.” They were winning him over one step at a time.

  Hands grabbed the back of her shirt, pulling her to her feet. The officer jerked her arm back, straining her shoulder as his partner secured the plastic zip ties around her wrists. She finally had the opportunity to stare at the men. The two bodyguards were more robot than man, their arms, feet, and parts of their faces appearing altogether mechanical. The second-in-command, he looked as sinister as he sounded.

  She grinned, an action unusual while being dragged away at gun point. Subjected to the will of men her entire life, forced to kill just to protect herself, she had a moment where she reveled in a momentary faith in the world.

  “Second-in-command to a woman,” she roared.

  The man turned, his eyes narrowing, quick to anger. For a second, she thought she saw the face of her former husband. She took pleasure in the fact that the pompous and arrogant man found himself the subordinate of a woman. It was not much, but it gave her hope.

  The guards held the doors for her, shoving her into the darkness of the prison. Inside, she’d return to the quiet, scared woman, fearful that at any moment she would be on the receiving end of a sharpened toothbrush. She looked back, into the sunlight. As the doors swung shut, she caught Sims and the other man shaking hands.

  “God have mercy,” she whispered.

  Sarah

  July 4, 1933

  My Dearest Sarah,

  I cannot save you, but you can save him. You owe the world nothing, but you can change the future. Please.

  With Regards,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  April 27, 2024

  “This sucks.”

  “I guess we can skip, ‘How’s your day?’ What sucks, Sarah?”

  She eyed the gentleman sitting opposite of her, trying to push her annoyance into the glare. He didn’t flinch. Instead he pushed his glasses up his nose and began scribbling notes on the pad of paper. He paused, biting the end of his pen as he formulated a thought and then finished the scribble.

  “What are you writing?”

  “Agitated, having a rough day, the same things I always write.”

  She flung herself backward on the couch, sitting awkwardly as she formulated her response. Deep breath. A momentary wave of pain coursed through her body, forcing her inhale deeply and focus on relaxing her muscles. One breath, two, then three; the pain passed and her world returned to normal.

  “The calcium deposits are still emerging?”

  “They’re bones. Don’t try to make it sound scientific. I’m covered in bones.”

  Sarah covered her hand, rubbing her knuckles with her palm. Bone covered the majority of her left hand, collecting heavily over the top of her fingers. When she clenched her fist, the bone scraped against her digits, reminding her of the limitations of her mobility as the growths continued.

  “How is your pain level?”

  “Jenkins, do you think the pain changed since yesterday? I still have bones pushing their way out of my skin. It’s tearing a little at a time. It hurts. It hasn’t changed in the last twenty-four hours.”

  The sound of his pen denting the pad of paper filled the air again. The psychologist did his job of observing her. The man had a knack for understating the obvious, but more often than not, he hit the issue head on.

  His tweed jacket and thick facial hair seemed like a cliché, as if he had watched one too many movies starring psychologists. If he dared to trade in his thick-framed glasses for thin wire ones his costume would be complete and he’d win an award come Halloween.

  “How are you acclimating to the new facility?”

  “It’s nice, you know, if you ignore the bars on the windows, or the armed guards.” She leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees, careful not to drive bone through the skin of her leg. “And do you know who I talk to about the showers? I have a hunch that lady guard might have a thing for women. The lip licking is alarming.”

  “I see your skill in sarcasm hasn’t diminished.”

  “The perk of being a teenage girl.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  “The vagina and age on my driver’s license—” She threw her hands up in the air. “That’s right, I don’t have one. ‘Cause I am living in a maximum security prison for research purposes.”

  “I must remind you—”

  “Yeah, this is not a prison, it’s a research facility. You can save it, doc. Call it whatever you want, I’m not allowed to leave. I’m pretty sure that’s the definition of a prison.”

  “How does—”

  “If you ask how it makes me feel, I’m going to lose my shit.”

  Jenkins’s eyes followed her, noting each movement she made. When the doctor found himself without words to continue, he studied her until the dialogue resumed. When she first sat across from him, it had been new, and she engaged in conversation willingly. As days turned to weeks, each daily session at the same time, one thirty in the afternoon, it became apparent it was less about her mental wellbeing and more about his p
sychiatric observations.

  The Child admitted to herself that her emotions were running hot. The newest roommate to be moved into her block had a history of being caged. While Sarah resided with the benign powers, what this new guy lacked in aggressive abilities he made up with his overly masculine demeanor. He reminded her of the captain of the football team from high school, except for his hypersensitive reflexes. No, at the Facility, even the most normal-looking people had something abnormal about them.

  In their battle of who would speak first, she found herself about to lose when the phone rang. Jenkins continued eye contact with her as it shook on his desk. The tones it made each time it rang grated on her. If he didn’t answer, she would hurl it across the room.

  “I think it’s for you.”

  The man did a good job of hiding his satisfaction as he stood and reached the receiver. “Jenkins.” He waited for a moment and turned his back to her. Although she had knuckles capable of tearing through skin, he offered her his back. The doctor was anything but foolish. She debated if the move was a slight on her non-threatening attitude, or if it showed his respect. Sarah saved that to deflect next time he asked about her feelings.

  “Sarah, I am needed with another patient immediately.”

  “Nah, go ahead, I was far from telling you what keeps me awake at night.”

  The psychiatrist grabbed his clipboard and exited the room. A guard in all black greeted him, pointing down the hall. She shrugged her shoulders, Jenkins furrowing his brow, getting annoyed she didn’t have the answer. He pulled the door shut as they headed down the corridor toward the recreational area.

  “So I’ll just entertain myself.”

  Sarah eased herself to her feet, meandering to the window. At one point, it may have overlooked the acres of land surrounding the Facility, possibly gardens below, or the outdoor dining area. Now, the window served as a reminder to the prison she hid within. It was sealed, preventing radiation from the nuclear explosions in New England from penetrating the walls. Now, a computer screen mimicked a window and UV lights almost fooled her into believing it was real.

  She turned her hand in the light, unaware of the warmth being produced by the bulbs. It was only when her cheek, one of the few places on her body still entirely covered in flesh, entered the rays that she missed the sun. In the distance, a tree blew with the wind, whipping sharply back and forth. At some point, she would have to request being allowed outside before cabin fever took hold.

  The phone rang again and she looked to the door, expecting Jenkins to come charging back in. She ignored it the first two times, but on the third, she stomped over and picked up the receiver to silence the damned thing.

  “Jenkins, where are you? The doors to A-wing aren’t opening.”

  Sarah tried to make out the voice, but in his fast-paced panic, she couldn’t place the speaker. He started again, but all she made out was a grunt and sound of yelling in the background. She squirmed as the man begged for somebody to stop. His pleas silenced and she assumed it was for less than pleasant reasons.

  The lights flickered and a tone sounded over the loud speaker. In the three weeks since she transferred, she had never heard it before. Usually the audio system gave announcements, any changes to the routine they had grown accustomed to. Even that was rare. A blaring noise meant that somewhere in the building something bad was happening.

  “Jenkins...”

  She approached the door, contemplating whether she should leave the safety of his office. The man was not exactly her favorite person in the world, but after weeks of talking with him, he was her favorite person in the prison. Her fingers hovered over the handle. At best she risked an early curfew for punishment, at worst, they’d shoot her for becoming an aggressive Child.

  Bones scraped against the door, removing small slivers of wood. The lock stopped the door from opening. With a strong yank, she made it shift, yanked from the frame. Against body armor, and the abilities she acquired from the Nostradamus Effect, the broken door couldn’t resist. The splintered wood reminded her of why the government held her in the Facility against her will. Immunity from sickness and radiation, mixed with muscles stronger than the average human, gave her kind the potential to be dangerous.

  The hallway appeared deserted. One way led to the more public areas of the building and the other toward the recreational area. If she found Jenkins, she might be able to rescue him. A rescue might have perks, including being allowed outside, or even better, have guests. The last person to visit her had been her mother and even that had been months ago.

  Her altruistic intentions turned to a more self-serving motivation. “Jesus, I’ve been in prison too long.”

  Sarah pressed her back against the wall, the growth from her right shoulder blade scratching the plaster. Each step brought her closer to the intersection that would allow her a straight shot to the recreational area. Quick glances in the other direction assured her that there was no help coming from the Facility. For whatever reason, she was on her own.

  Rounding the corner, she stumbled as her foot hooked on the body of the guard from earlier. Sarah knelt next to the woman, trying to discern if she was alive. Sarah started to reach for her throat, but froze, certain she couldn’t read a pulse through the bone growths on her hand. She toyed with the idea of taking the officer’s gun, but the thought of not being able to fit her finger over the trigger stopped her.

  The guard’s chest rose and fell, subtly enough Sarah might not have noticed if she had been further away. The Child stood, eyeing the hundred feet until the intersection. She took a step closer when the security camera suspended near the ceiling caught her eye. The surveillance machine followed her, documenting her every move.

  She prepared to give it the finger, but Jenkins fell backward out of the double doors. Ten minutes had not passed since she saw him last, but she hardly recognized him. Bruises gathered along the side of his face; his split cheek and blood oozing from his lip turned the witty man into the victim of a horror movie.

  “Jenkins, what happened?” She kneeled beside him, unsure of what to do to help. The tweed jacket nearly had its sleeves torn off and his shirt was covered in a splattering of tiny red dots. Her hand rest on his chest, searching for the rise and fall of his lungs.

  Jenkins’s legs held the door open, giving her a line of sight into the library. In three weeks she had only visited it once. The shelves contained a plethora of books. Computers lined the right wall, but without a connection to the internet, she lost interest. The musty underused smell created by the books reminded her of high school, memories not worth indulging.

  Another guard lay on the floor several feet inside the entrance, just in front of the checkout desk. Unlike Jenkins’s, his chest didn’t move. With the man wearing all black, she couldn’t discern the damage; the body, however, appeared to be placed like a limp rag doll.

  The tones from the ceiling refused to relent, sounding every few seconds in a pattern that raised her anxiety. Jenkins would remind her to breathe, perhaps visualize herself somewhere safe. The man would ramble on about how she needed to find an inner calm if she was going to survive. Right now, calm was the last thing from her mind.

  Inside the door, hanging on the wall, a phone rang, the same annoying sound as before. For a moment, she resisted the urge to answer it, unsure if she wanted to enter the space with so many bodies. She imagined the phone, shaking, yearning to be answered. Before she realized she had moved, her hand gripped the receiver and placed it to her ear.

  “Sarah.” The voice had a deep, burly quality to it. “We’re watching you on the cameras.”

  “I know,” she whispered, unsure of who remained in the library.

  “The guards are seeing to the Outlander vagabonds. Our friend in the library has taken it upon himself to use the distraction to cause havoc.”

  “So?”

  “The military is en route with more subjects. They will assist when they can.” The man’s voice went from deep
and determined to an almost silky smooth singing voice. “Until then, we need to you to detain him.” The moment it changed, luring her in to a false sense of security, she recognized the Warden. The man oversaw the Facility, and every Child avoided him when they had a choice. The portly man never touched her, but every interaction felt like a violation.

  “Whoa, you want me to what?”

  “Subdue the subject, Sarah.”

  “You want me to talk him down? What the hell makes you—”

  “Talk him down if you can. Put him down if you must. We cannot afford a Child of Nostradamus injuring any more guards than he has. He threatens the entire program.”

  “Good, then we can go home.”

  “Child, do you believe the government will let you return home with your abilities?”

  A crash from somewhere in the stacks preceded a pile of books tumbling to the ground. Behind her eyes an ache radiated through her sinuses, a pressure that would to an eventual headache. Sarah didn’t like this situation, and she didn’t want to play the Warden’s game.

  “If I stop him, what’s in it for me?”

  The tones stopped, the lights sputtering. The dead space between them dragged on. The man on the other end breathed into the phone, holding out, waiting for her to fold.

  “If you think I’m going to give in, you haven’t dealt with a teenage girl before.”

  “Sunlight.”

  “What?”

  “You want to see feel the sunlight on your skin, I can make that happen.”

  “How did you—”

  “Do we have a deal? The threat is eliminated and I’ll make sure you get sunlight on your skin.”

  “Deal.”

  He started speaking again and she dropped the receiver. The man offered her the only thing she desired as if he could read her mind. The pressure pushing at the bridge of her nose vanished, giving her a chance to think clearly about the situation at hand.