by JM Butcher
“Sir, your threats won’t work. Bring me your daughter. I’m warning you!”
“I’ll kill you before you touch Maggie!” I’ve never heard Dad threaten anyone.
“Sir!”
“Let me see your godda—” I hear a gunshot.
“Daddy!” I don’t know how loud I scream for Dad or if any sound at all comes out of my mouth. The ringing in my ears drowns out any sound. My back slides down the door until my butt hits the ground. Sobbing, I shake my head so wildly that it slams into my upright knees.
I put my hands together. I try to pray. I’ve never prayed. I don’t know how. Why would God do this to my family? I give up.
The door is kicked in. Two men with red uniforms enter the room, each grabbing an arm to lift me from the floor. I resist, but the two of them are much stronger than I am. They drag me across the floor to the stairway. My legs kick. My claws scrape.
“I didn’t mean to,” I exclaim. “They aren’t real. The thoughts aren’t real.” They don’t acknowledge my pleading. One of the men swings me over his shoulder and steps in front of the other soldier. As I am carried down the steps, a pair of shoes comes into view. And then legs. And then a torso. And then Dad’s face.
Dad is lying on the ground. His eyes are open, but they don’t move. From his chest, a red puddle slowly widens. My heart drops into my stomach. I manage to choke out the word, “Daddy?”
The man carries me to the door. The other follows close behind. No other soldiers are in the house, not that I can see. Fight or flight kicks back in. I wiggle and kick and manage to land an elbow onto the side of my captor’s head. I get him pretty good.
“Enough, already! Make her stop,” the man carrying me says.
My eyes travel to the kitchen and make contact with Tyler. He’s as frozen and pale as the moonlight shining through the broken window onto the living room floor.
I struggle until I feel a prick on my neck. My body slowly grows limp.
I yell, “The Queen, Tyler. Go find the Queen.”
Tyler jets out of the back door.
The soldier sets me on the floor. I stare up at him as my vision begins to fade. I turn my head to look at Dad’s motionless body lying on the floor. I look back up at the Gray Coat.
The last thing I see through my tear-blurred eyes is a black patch covering his left eye.
Chapter 8
Do I like busting doors down and forcing Unfavorables into custody? The short answer: absolutely. Not any more than I enjoy any other arrest. I am not an animal. I love my job and take pride in it.
My duty is to protect this country, to make sure it persists. It is much simpler when children are delivered by vigilant and loyal citizens. But if I have to confront crying parents who scream and fight for their children, then I do it with a smile on my face.
I pray to God for the day when we no longer have to break up homes. I pray to God for the day when we no longer have to worry about the youth trashing our towns, smearing our values, and putting innocent people at risk.
Unfortunately, that day is far away. So I will continue to serve the United Republics of America by any means necessary.
-Gray Coat Defense Officer Jeremy Stanton
I wake up lying on my back. The fluorescent lights lining the ceiling appear blurry and seem to burst through the bulbs, leaving rays of bright light with rainbow tips. It doesn’t help my nausea, but I can’t stop staring at the flickering bulbs. It’s as if there’s an order. The light from a dim bulb travels across one wall, then makes a hard right turn. It stops there, triggering another dim light to begin its journey. This one goes the distance, lighting up the stationary dim bulb. I watch the process repeat several times.
I watch the lights until my eyes start to burn. Then, I try to push myself up. My body feels too heavy to try too much at once, so I prop my back up against a wall.
A comforter covers the lower half of my body. It is white with yellow dandelions evenly spaced across the ragged, stained cloth. It reminds me of something that would be used on a bed at a nursing home, but the twin-sized bed is surprisingly comfortable.
Using the base of my palms, I rub my eyes. My vision remains blurred. I can make out uneven, gray cinderblock walls that seem to be moving in and out. The cracked concrete floor adds a dungeon-like feel.
I don’t completely realize that I’m not in my room until I see that the only window is clouded, like moisture has seeped through the sealing. It’s centered near the top of a dark door.
Where am I?
I try to rotate my head to examine the rest of the room, but a throbbing pain in my neck stops me. Reaching up to rub the tender spot, I feel a small bandage. Once I remove it, I see a small circle of red on the inside padding. Like blood from a bee sting.
Panic washes over me. I wasn’t stung. I was tranquilized.
Snippets from last night creep through my foggy brain. There was a pounding at the door. I was dragged down the stairs. I felt a prick on my neck.
Gray Coats. Is this a Gray Coat cell?
I kick off the comforter, as if it’s responsible for the moisture pouring out of my skin.
Trying to become as small as possible, I pull my legs to my chest. I want my room. I want…Dad. My heart sinks.
Something happened to Dad.
I had night thoughts and something happened to Dad.
Arguing. No, shouting. A gunshot. Someone was shot. Dad. He lay on the floor bleeding from the wound.
I wanted to save him. I couldn’t.
No. This can’t be real. It’s just my night thoughts. This is just my imagination. Night thoughts must do this to people—make them think up crazy stories. Crazy nightmares.
But if it isn’t real, why am I in this room? Where’s my bed?
And why can I feel my eye twitching?
Tyler. He was in the kitchen. I screamed for him. He made it out, right? Yes, he made it. I told him to make it to Melli. Melli will take care of him.
This all happened. It’s not my thoughts. It’s not a u-NIVERSE hologram movie played on the night sky at the drive-in. It happened.
I close my eyes and picture Dad’s limp body on the floor. I picture his eyes speaking to me: We’re going to be okay, baby girl. You’re going to be okay. Keep thinking. Keep thinking.
Keep thinking. Keep thinking. Keep thinking.
“Nooooo!” I wail and slide down. I hit and kick the bed, throwing my body around in a panic. “I don’t want to think! I want you. Daddy, I want you. Take my thoughts! Take my thoughts! I don’t want to keep thinking! Ahhhhhhhh!”
I momentarily stop my fit when I notice pain in my knuckles. I’ve been pounding more than the bed. Drops of blood squeeze through tiny openings in my fist and seep into the small cinder pieces stuck in the skin over my knuckles.
I sit back up. “Daddy,” I whisper into my tear- and blood-covered hands. “Daddy, I’d take it back. I’d take it all back. I’ll take the meds. Let me see you. I want to see you. Protect me. I’ll take it back.”
A knock at the door startles me. I drag myself out of bed and crawl to the corner of the room, doing my best to hide in plain sight.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you awake? I heard something.” A male voice. I leave him waiting for an answer. “Excuse me, miss. I brought you some food.” He slides a tray under the false bottom of the door. “I’ll come back later.”
Not until I believe he’s gone do I stand up and come out from my corner. I bump my knee into something hard. A porcelain toilet. Next to it, a roll of toilet paper sits on a sink. There’s mouthwash and toothpaste. No soap.
I gaze at myself in the mirror above the sink, holding the faucet knobs to keep my balance. Dark circles outline my half-open eyelids. A small scratch gives my cheek some color. The scratch is in the same place as Mother’s dimple.
My reflection in the mirror actually resembles Mother. At least the picture I hide in my locker. We have the same shade of brown hair. The length is, or at least was, the same. She alway
s looked tired like this. But she still looked beautiful. Maybe if my hair wasn’t wavy, I’d be as beautiful as her.
I turn the knob on the right side of the sink, but nothing happens. I try the knob on the left. A slow stream of steaming water falls from the faucet, causing me to instantly pull back my hands. I tentatively pass my hands under the faucet several times and watch the red run from my fingers and swirl down the drain.
Drying my hands with my shirt, I walk to the tray. There’s a piece of toast with purple jam, two slices of bacon, and a cup with grapes, melon, and apples. It actually outdoes my usual daily yogurt-granola breakfast.
I hope food will cure the nausea from the drugs. I shove the full piece of toast into my mouth. Viciously chewing the bread, I walk back to the bed. It’s a bit stale, but the grape jam is pleasant enough.
Next to my bed is a laminate nightstand. It’s strange to see a book left on it. I’ve never read a book, like a real book. Only u-tablet stories. Mother used to have a full bookshelf. She called it her library. The Gray Coats took them all when they took her.
I remove the book from the nightstand and set down the tray. I munch on three pieces of fruit at a time and gaze at the book on my bed. The book is tattered. The Handmaid’s Tale is written on the spine of the book. The author’s name is faded beyond recognition, except for the last three letters: OOD.
Chipping away at the final bits of bacon, I consider what the Gray Coats might be taking from my room right now, if they care enough to search it. Mismatched shoes? Jeans with holes? A tablet? Hopefully not the shirt stained with Melli’s makeup.
I close my eyes. Please not that.
Feeling a little more coherent, I think about Dad. What would he tell me to do now? He would tell me not to get too emotional. He would tell me to be brave. He would tell me to fight.
But he’s not here. My body trembles. Tears stream down my face.
They came for me. The one officer asked Dad for his daughter. That’s me.
I don’t understand how the Gray Coats got to me so fast. They’ve probably been surveilling me since Mother was taken, and they chose the first opportunity to come. The first time I had night thoughts.
“What did I do, Daddy?” I lower my head. “What do I do now, Daddy?”
Another knock at the door startles me. Still crying, I get out of bed and walk to the center of the room, instead of to the corner. I know I can’t hide here.
“Miss?” The same male voice as before. “I know you’re awake. I heard the water running.”
I try to choke back the tears and become as silent as possible, hoping he will go away. I fail and he doesn’t leave.
“Miss? Please.” No knocking, just his voice. “Are you decent?”
“No!” I shout through the sobs. “I’m horrible!”
“I mean, are you dressed?”
I haven’t even noticed what I’m wearing. I have on the black sweats and oversized pink nightshirt that I wear to bed almost every night. On the bottom of the shirt, there is a smudge of red from when I dried my hands.
“Are you…coming in?” I ask, doing my best to stifle the crying.
“If that is okay with you.”
Puzzled by the politeness, I ask, “Do I have a choice?”
“Absolutely,” he quickly replies. “I can come back later. Just wanted to check in.”
“Umm…” The tears stop and I take a deep breath. I’m going to need to talk to someone if I want to find out where I am. “Sure.”
“What is that, miss?”
“Yes,” I say, “you can come in.”
The door opens and a boy who looks my age, maybe a year older, quietly enters the room. He’s not wearing a Gray Coat uniform. Rather, he’s dressed in a plain gray long-sleeved t-shirt and dark denim jeans. No holes in the jeans. His dirty-blonde, tidily untidy hair is shaped with gel. I never understood why boys spend so much time making their hair look like they just got out of bed. This boy would fit right in with the cleared clique at my school.
“Margaret, right? May I call you Margaret?” The boy’s voice cracks. On second thought, he’s too polite to fit in with those kids.
Pulling down my bang-shield, I say, “No. Maggie. It’s Maggie.”
“Okay, Maggie it is.” I cringe and my eye twitches more rapidly. That’s what the White Coat said my first visit. Okay, Maggie it is.
The boy removes a handkerchief from his back pocket and raises it to my face. Without thinking, I hit him in the gut. His eyes widen in surprise, and he lets out a grunt before he folds over holding his stomach. To my own surprise, he rises without retaliating.
“I am so sorry,” the boy says. “You have something on…” He points to his cheek, then hands me the handkerchief.
I wipe the jam or blood or makeup—or a combination of the three—off of my face. I hold out the handkerchief.
“Keep it.” Looking at the smudge on my shirt, he offers a friendly grin. “It will make for a better towel than your shirt.”
“You don’t look like an officer,” I say.
“That’s because I’m not an officer, Maggie.”
“What are you?”
“I’m Hayden.” His smile widens. It’s a kind smile, not a threatening one, which confuses me even more. “And there are no Gray Coats here.”
My heart speeds up a little. “Wait. What? How? I was…”
“You were brought to a safe house.”
“So you rescued me?” I brush the bangs out of my face and impulsively shout, “Did you find my dad? Did you save him too? Is he okay? Is he here?”
Hayden’s smile quickly disappears. He pinches his eyebrows with his fingers.
“But you said you saved me from the Coats.” I frantically search the room for shoes. “He must be here. Take me to Dad.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie.”
“No. No.” I walk to Hayden and point my finger at him. “You said this is a safe house. Dad’s safe, right? He has to be!”
“Calm down, Maggie.” He reaches for my hand, but I pull it away. “Maggie, he’s not here.”
“He is here! He’s here! You said it’s safe!”
“I’m sorry, Maggie.”
Feeling even more defeated, I walk to my bed and drop to my knees. Staring at the ground, I ask, “So where are we? Who took me? Where’s Dad?”
“We’re in a compound in Cleveland.” Hayden’s voice draws nearer.
I glance up. “We’re in Ohio still?”
“Yes. This used to be a government facility.” His voice speeds up. “Actually, it was a bionuclear weapons lab, to be specific. It was deserted after the War. At least, I think it was. Cleveland was never going to be a Saudi target, so it made for a good secret lab. Kinda cool, huh?”
I lower my head. A tear drops from my face and splashes against the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Hayden says. “You don’t care about that. I know this isn’t easy.”
“No, you don’t know. You aren’t recovering from being drugged. You weren’t dragged from your house. You didn’t wake up in a cell…alone…” Alone.
He takes a breath. “You’re right. You’re not alone here, though. You’re safe.”
“From what?” I stare into his eyes and stand up. He takes a step back. “What are you keeping me safe from?”
“The Gray Coats, of course.”
It hits me that he never answered about who took me. “You took me, didn’t you?” No response. “Why? Why did you break into my house? Why did you shoot my dad?”
“It’s more complicated than that.” His voice cracks again. “I promise I wasn’t involved in any of that”
“Is he dead? Tell me. Tell me.” I charge forward and swing my arms at Hayden. “Is he dead? Why?” I collapse to my knees. My body shakes in sync with each sob and heave. “Why? Why did you do it?”
Hayden kneels and puts his arms around me. I want to throw them off and hit him, but I don’t. My body feels too heavy to fight. I put my face in his shirt and cry.
His heart beats as fast as my chip twitches.
“I’m sorry, Maggie.” He strokes my hair. “I don’t have all the answers. But when you’re ready, I’ll introduce you to Johnny. He will clear things up.”
I manage to push him away. “No. You do it. You clear things up.”
“I can’t, Maggie. He will. Johnny will.”
Looking into Hayden’s eyes, I ask, “Are you a good person?” Such a weird question. I’m not sure why I asked. Or if I care. I just want one ounce of hope. I want to want someone to trust. Not to be alone.
“I don’t know, Maggie,” he answers, with a somber expression. “But I won’t hurt you. Promise.” He puts his hand over his heart and gestures a cross.
I take a few deep breaths, pulling myself together the best I can. “Please leave,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” My voice is stern. “If you don’t have anything to say about my family, I don’t want to see you.”
Without question, Hayden stands up and walks toward the exit. “I mean it,” he says. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” He quietly shuts the door behind him.
I’ve heard a lot of promises in my life. Not many have panned out. For some reason, though, I believe Hayden. He wasn’t hostile. I’m definitely not in a prison cell, and Hayden was kind.
I have to believe him, right? That he’s a good person. That I’m not alone here.
What even is a good person?
I’m not good. I cost Dad his life, all because I was pressured into being somebody.
Chapter 9
I understand some concerns about the recent increase is Behavioral Exam failures. Parents and kids, alike, are worried. They question the validity of our techniques and results.
To the untrained person, night thoughts might appear random. I assure you, however, they are not. Our monitoring software flags symbols, words, and images that might appear disturbing or dangerous—that are “flag-worthy.” The software, then, rearranges such messages into a distinguishable order. The vetting process is quite thorough.