Stolen

by Cheree Alsop

  I leaned back against the wall and willed the fear from my body. I breathed deep of the scents that flowed through the tree house and embraced them, letting them fill my whole being. I thought of those who needed me. I had to go, but when I was able to defend them. I settled back slowly on the extra blankets Kyla had brought and studied the wooden ceiling.

  Whoever had built the tree house had done so with love. The planks were fit together with mortar that had worn slowly away with age and let a few stars show past the leaves of the old tree. The floorboards barely creaked when stepped on, and the night breeze couldn’t slip through the joints near my head.

  I set a hand against the wall and closed my eyes, imagining the care, love, and time locked into the fibers. I could smell countless children who had spent the night, smoke from campfires built below, the scent of a thousand rainstorms, the cold frost of deep winter, and the rich green breath of fresh cut grass. The scent eased the tension from my shoulders and I slept with the comfort of the grains beneath my fingers.

  Chapter 7- Kyla

  The sound of the alarm jarred me awake after the restless hour of sleep I had before it was time to get ready for school. I felt dazed as I forced myself out of bed, wondering if last night had been anything more than a dream. I grabbed a clean set of jeans from my dresser and by habit reached into the pocket from yesterday’s pair to transfer my knife over; only, the knife wasn’t there.

  My heart sank. I could see myself rushing down the ladder, the grass damp with dew under my bare feet. I had the knife in the tree house, and now it was gone. I must have dropped it, but admitting that meant admitting to myself that last night had happened, that Marek was real, and that he truly was, well, what he was.

  I pulled on the jeans, grabbed the nearest shirt in my closet, and ran down the stairs. When I appeared in the kitchen, Dad looked at me over the top of his coffee cup. “In a bit of a hurry, are we?”

  “I’m late for a Biology study group,” I lied. I quickly braided my hair before gulping down the cup of orange juice Mom held out to me.

  Dad’s eyebrows rose. “A study group?”

  “Me and some of the girls are getting together before Mr. Sanderson’s big test tomorrow.”

  “Probably just to talk about Dan Drowsky,” Kip said, rolling his eyes. He picked up his mostly empty cereal bowl and noisily slurped the milk.

  “Shut up,” I snapped. My brother was only fourteen, but already thought he knew more than both of our parents combined. “You’re just jealous that you weren’t invited. Amanda’s going to be there.” Kip’s face turned as red as his hair at the mention of the hottest cheerleader on the cheer squad. I caught him drooling over her picture in the yearbook a few weeks ago. If he wanted to play hard ball, I was up for it this morning.

  “Now kids, stop teasing each other,” Mom chided. She smiled at me. “I’m glad you’re getting together with the girls. Have a great time.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I kissed her on the cheek and took the buttered toast she offered. I leaned down and kissed Rosie’s yellow curls from where she sat in the high chair making gooey art with her scrambled eggs, then grabbed my backpack.

  “Bye, Dad,” I shouted over my shoulder.

  “Are you coming to the clinic today? You were there late last night,” Dad called back. “If you need a break to study for the test, go right ahead.”

  I thought about what the day could hold. “I might take you up on that,” I shouted before closing the front door. At least if they didn’t see me right after school, I had a good excuse.

  I couldn’t bring myself to look toward the tree house. It was hidden in the trees anyway, but I couldn’t shake off the slight chill that lifted goose bumps on my arms. One part of me wished that Marek was still there; the other part clung to the hopeless thought that maybe all of yesterday had been a bad dream.

  The missing lump in my pocket where my knife usually resided made a good argument against the latter.

  I hoped I wasn’t too early when I opened the door to Mr. Flinn’s room. I had to hide a grin when I saw old Mr. Flinn already writing notes on the whiteboard for the day’s classes. His handwriting was swirled and old-fashioned, extremely neat like the old books of penmanship I found at the book pawn.

  He used different colors of markers to highlight the important points he felt every student should know. I had never thought about how much time he must take each morning with his notes, and never realized that the facts came straight from his head. There were no open history books for reference on his desk.

  He tiptoed high to mark an especially interesting tidbit with an orange marker.

  “Um, Mr. Flinn?”

  The professor started and dropped the five or six markers he had been holding. He sighed, shook his head at the markers as if it was their fault they had fallen, then turned to me. “Why, Miss March, what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, um. Sorry to startle you,” I replied. I set my backpack on an empty desk and sat on the edge of it.

  “Oh, no, I wasn’t startled,” Mr. Flinn said. He turned and glared at the fallen markers as if daring them to disagree.

  “Well, okay.” I was unconvinced, but I continued, “I have a question to ask you.”

  “Ask away. That’s what I’m here for.” He peered at me over his glasses, his thin face suddenly serious.

  “Well,” I hesitated, then rushed on before the memories of the night before could get the best of me. “I was wondering if you could tell me what you know of the Shifters?”

  Mr. Flinn’s bushy white eyebrows rose. “Shifters? Every time I start talking about them, you young people ask me to talk about the Falconans instead. You think they’re more exciting. It seems as though everyone’s forgotten a major step we took toward reaching the Falconan age.” He looked flustered that anyone would skip anything in relation to history.

  “Almost everyone, Professor,” I reminded him.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes.” He perched on the edge of another desk and nodded. “You’re asking about the Shifters. Is there anything in particular you want me to cover?”

  I shook my head. “Everything we have time for.” I was grateful he didn’t ask why I wanted to know.

  He nodded again and fell easily into the teaching cadence with which I was already familiar. His eyes took on a distant cast as if he saw the picture created by his words. “As you know, during the third World War, countries closed their borders with shocking brutality. Our soldiers and other citizens who were living or traveling abroad were captured and either held hostage to trade back for their own, or killed without mercy. The numbers of the lost were devastating, especially in light of the fact that the government was unable to issue the draft to reinforce our military. Everyone was afraid. The number of soldiers going AWOL skyrocketed, and nobody enlisted. The government was forced to resort to other options for defense.”

  He sighed and moved into a chair, his face darkening. “They turned to genetic mutation and DNA combination. The goal was to create a super-soldier that had both the qualities of a man and the selective, superior qualities of certain animals. They wanted these genetically enhanced soldiers to be able to shift from pure human to being able to use their animal traits at will, thus making them the perfect undercover soldier in any number of situations.”

  Charles Brink, Mr. Flinn’s teacher’s aide, dropped some books on one of the desks and left, his mind apparently on other concerns than as to why I was having a one on one discussion with a teacher whose class I usually couldn’t wait to get out of. “However,” Mr. Flinn continued, undisturbed, “They found that they could only make a human who could shift from full man to full animal. They wanted certain characteristics of the animals, like the strength of a bear or the claws of a cougar, not the cougar itself.”

  “The Shifters, as they were called, were scratched out as failures. The labs turned instead to producing men whose genes were mutated for strength and mixed with those of a falcon, the fastest bird in nature. As you know,
the Falconans can’t change form and look mostly human, except they’re bigger and have wings and clawed feet.”

  My eyes widened. “I thought they wore clawed boots for the effect.”

  Mr. Flinn shook his head. “They have razor sharp talons strong enough to crush a man’s skull.”

  I fell silent for a moment, thinking of the Falconans I had seen watching the streets that morning. “The Falconans don’t fly. Were they supposed to be able to?”

  Mr. Flinn chuckled. “A sore spot at the labs, I’m sure. Yes, they’re supposed to fly. Currently, they can glide long distances on their wings, but the problem is that the Falconans are too heavy to actually fly. I’ve been told it’s something they’re working on, an evolving trait they hope to develop.”

  “A lot of people are scared of the Falconans. They don’t seem that human.” I traced the names and words that had been carved into the desk where I sat and kept my face averted, afraid of what Mr. Flinn would find there.

  “They’ve been well-trained not to show emotion. It makes them more formidable.” He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “Folk would be good to fear them a bit. With that many trained soldiers about squashing uprisings and guarding the borders, people start to feel like they’re the ones being guarded.” His voice lowered. “I hope that’s not really the plan.”

  A bell sounded for first period. I stood and grabbed my backpack to relocate it to one of the rear desks I usually occupied. “What happened to the Shifters after the experiments failed?”

  “I’ve wondered that myself for quite a while. Doesn’t seem fair to me the way a life can be considered a mistake just for being what it is.” He studied me and his eyes widened. His faded blue eyes twinkled with sudden excitement behind his glasses. “You’ve seen one of them, haven’t you? That’s the reason for all these questions.”

  I hesitated, then nodded.

  Mr. Flinn gave a sharp laugh and his face lit with a relief that seemed out of place in our conversation. “I knew it! I knew some of them escaped!”

  “How did you know?” I was suddenly alarmed. Had I told the wrong person?

  “The experiments.” He fell silent for a second as if debating whether or not he could trust me. He finally nodded. “I-I was assisting at night as a janitor at a hospital about fifteen years back to help pay for my wife’s hospital bills, God rest her soul, when some of the children started to disappear.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “These kids would undergo surgery, then they would be pronounced dead, but they weren’t. They would hide them in the back rooms and they would be gone the next day. When I was cleaning, I noticed that they were throwing away full files with the kids’ medical records, something hospitals aren’t allowed to do.”

  He glanced at the door as the first students started to file in. “I saw the trucks one night, black trucks with dark tinted windows. I followed them to a place outside the city, but I couldn’t get past the security gates. I know it was them. I tried, but I could never prove that they were taking the children for their testing because no one would enlist. They had no one else to experiment on.”

  “That’s horrible!” I said. I thought of Marek, hurt and alone, and hunted. Compassion ran through me at the thought of the fear in his eyes when he didn’t recognize me. I couldn’t image how it would feel to be taken away for experiments. Who knew what he had gone through?

  Mr. Flinn glanced at the students settling into seats. He stood and walked to his desk, motioning for me to follow him. He continued in a low whisper, “I was so worried about them when the labs announced their change in tactics. That’s why I’ve followed the Falconans so closely.”

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. When he put the glasses back on, he squinted. “The thing I can’t figure out is how they have so many Falconans in such a short time. No one is enlisting, and even if they continue to take children from hospitals, they’re children. The Falconans we see are grown adults.” He sighed. “The poor kids. Who knows what they’re going through?” His face suddenly brightened as he switched gears almost faster than I could follow. “Can I meet him?”

  I shook my head, trying to picture how Marek would react if I brought a stranger to see him. “He’s. . .shy,” I said, searching for a softer word for what I had seen.

  Mr. Flinn nodded. “Terrified, more like it, if he’s smart.”

  I gave a reluctant nod. “Extremely. Why is he so scared if the government doesn’t need Shifters anymore?”

  “He should be running for his life,” Mr. Flinn replied seriously. “The government made a mistake with the Shifters, and they tried to cover it up by pretending they were working on the Falconans all along. The problem is that word got out about Shifters long before we saw the Falconans. Millions of dollars, not to mention lives, were wasted. Shifters were a mistake, a huge mistake, and the government usually does what it can to erase mistakes. People begin to doubt an imperfect government, though all of them are imperfect. They have to erase the Shifters.”

  I realized the classroom was about full. My classmates were already busy copying down the notes Mr. Flinn had so tediously written on the whiteboards. “I’d better sit down. I appreciate the information.”

  “Any time,” he replied with a kind smile.

  I walked quickly to a seat in the back.

  “Miss March?”

  I paused in the act of pulling my History book from my backpack. “Yes, Professor?”

  “Take good care of him, okay?” He waited until I nodded, then said, “If you need any help, please let me know.”

  “I will, thank you.” I hurriedly set my book on my desk and opened my notebook to begin copying notes. My face was red from the questioning stares of my peers. I hoped none of them asked Mr. Flinn what we had been talking about.

  Chapter 8- Marek

  Light danced on my eyelids. I opened my eyes slowly and squinted at a ray of light that filtered through the cracks between the ceiling boards to touch my face. I lifted a hand and watched the sunlight play between my fingers. My side ached and the sweat of a light fever made the blankets stick to my skin.

  I rose slowly with a hand on my side and crossed to the table. Sitting in one of the wooden chairs made cleverly of branches and waxed twine, I opened one of the sodas Kyla had brought and used it to wash down another pill. I ate a few bites of a sandwich, then made myself wait so my roiling stomach could settle.

  A squirrel slipped through a hole near the trunk of the tree and ran about the tree house as though he owned it. He climbed to the bed and his nose twitched, then he turned and stared at me, his eyes wide and nose working furiously. I tossed a piece of crust toward the bed, but he scampered off and darted back up the trunk without looking back. I bent gingerly and tossed the crust down the opening in the floor to the foot of the ladder where I hoped the squirrel would find it.

  I longed to climb down the ladder and sit in the sunshine that warmed the grass and loam below, but a fear of being seen and the thought that I might not be able to climb back up again kept me still. I sat back on the bed and closed my eyes. An image of looming wings, the glint of a blade in a streetlight, and cruel yellow eyes made me sit up again. I willed my heart to slow and told myself that I was safe, but I didn’t believe my lie.

  Chapter 9- Kyla

  Morning classes rushed by in a blur; I spent my lunch hour in the library searching the Internet for anything on the Shifters. I found a few sites that mentioned posters’ own ideas as to how the Shifters had been created; others were set up as a sort of cult following for anything Shifter related, and one offered a sanctuary for Shifters but even I wouldn’t trust it.

  I gave up with the bell, frustrated but also interested by the lack of information. Usually, there was material and speculation in surplus on any topic. The shortage of sites about Shifters, and the vagueness of the few I found, made it seem as if someone was controlling the amount of information allowed.

  Home Economics was a class I usually detested bec
ause it felt like it took three hours instead of one due to Ms. Parklin’s droning tone, but today it sped by as I mulled over what Mr. Flinn had said. The last bell rang and I rose from my seat only slightly concerned that I didn’t remember a single topic that was covered in class that day.

  I raced through the junkie lot in too much of a hurry to go around, then took the tiny alley that led to the second parking lot. The safety in numbers theory would have helped if the jocks and cheerleaders used the second lot; but as it was, they deemed the first lot next to the school their own private place to park, and left the second to those who weren’t athletic or popular enough to have leagues of minions eager to reserve their spots.

  Unfortunately, to get to the second lot we had to cross the parking lot of the boarded up grocery store that the junkies generally used to loiter and sell their goods. I suspected by the red eyes and smoke halos that they burned as much as they sold. The rest of the school not sports, shopping, or drug inclined took the second school lot by default, not by choice. I found myself wishing I had my pocketknife as I made my way down the small alley after the grocery store. It wasn’t until I stepped out into the sunshine by my car that I was able to breathe easily again.

  Once home, I ran inside and dropped my school bag on the table. I grabbed some sodas from the fridge, took a spare, nondescript t-shirt of Dad’s from the Salvation Army bag, then made my way to the backyard. Fellow had followed me happily from room to room, his stubby tail wagging at fifty miles per hour. He now sat at the back door with his head low and nose pressed against the glass.

  “Don’t look so sad, Fellow. I’ll be back,” I reassured him. His tail gave a small, unconvinced wag.

  I walked between the trees to the tree house. The land I traveled had belonged to my grandfather, Kyle Matthew March, for whom I had been named. He had been offered millions of dollars to sell the land for industrial development, but had stubbornly refused, keeping it instead to pass onto his family. A huge razor-wire fence topped an eight foot brick wall that surrounded the property to keep the junkies out. The result was a quiet sanctuary within the heart of the city, our own private forest and my favorite place in the world.