Deviations
Crystal C. Johnson
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Dedication
To those who believed in me, and never stopped encouraging me.
It ended, not with a bang, but a whisper. It became our deviation.
CHAPTER 1
I crunch my way to the road. The false hope of heat extinguishes as brisk air forms icicles in my lungs with each breath. The leaves slowly fall to my feet in hues of orange and yellow. Looking around, I take in my surroundings. The houses in the suburbs look identical to mine. Except they’re painted different colors in hopes to keep the community united but unique. Each neighbor’s house is allotted one tree—a small Elm. The idea that placing a tree that is exactly the same on each lawn avoids contention makes me laugh. If only the world saw this as a solution to its problems: “Let’s give each of you the same tree, and bam world peace.” I doubt that would work. Pushing the idea from my mind, I feel the rhythm of the music and let it set my pace.
Near the edge of town I run past buildings that used to mean something, but have failed to stand against time. I stop to take a break and wonder if I will be remembered. When my younger sister, Davis, was born, I was nervous I’d be forgotten. She was cute, small, and new, and I wasn’t. My parents spent most of their spare time with this precious version of themselves. I began to think, if I’m to be remembered I must too become new. Every day I tried to become something new, someone they had never met before, but it never worked. My desire to stay present in my parents’ minds had nothing to do with being jealous or with not loving my sister; I did and do. I just didn’t want to be forgotten like the buildings had. Soon, I let that idea go and started settling into the important role my mom pressed upon me—becoming the older sister, the example, the role model.
I turn onto my street and see my dad idly waiting by the mailbox. We look nothing alike except for our green eyes, but I find most of my strength in him.
“Hey, kiddo. How was the run?”
“Liberating.” I pause to catch my breath. “Going somewhere?” My eyes drop to the bag next to him.
He smiles.
“Yes, your mom and I have an emergency at work.”
Being surgeons with two daughters wasn’t something my parents had planned. After I was born, my mom was supposed to take time off, but couldn’t tear herself away from her work. She felt without a career she would be just a mundane mom, and she couldn’t bear the idea of that. I’m not sure I can blame her, but a part of me does. My dad, on the other hand, would have loved to stay home and be a parent, but duty called.
“We’ll be gone for a few days,” he answers.
I fake a smile and turn away from him. “Okay” is all I say before I head to the house.
He calls after me, “Henly!”
I turn to face him and see his usually tall, confident demeanor is slouched and troubled.
“I love you, kiddo. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know.” I pause before entering and then ask, “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, just something bizarre happened at the hospital in the city and they want me and your mom to figure out what’s going on. Don’t worry.”
I can see the doubt in his eyes, but instead of badgering the truth out of him, I smile and walk inside. I’m sure he’ll fill me in on everything when he gets back.
I take extra caution to be quiet, even though most days I could yell her name across a quiet room and she wouldn’t even bat an eye. I walk into my house to find my mother frantically opening drawer after drawer. I try to avoid her, but it’s useless.
“Henly!” I hear her yell from behind me as I race up the stairs.
“Ana is yelling for you,” Davis whispers as I push the door to her room open.
We used to call her “mom,” but she never responded to the title. One day when we were on vacation, we tried to get her attention, but nothing worked so we yelled out “Ana,” and she immediately turned. It has stuck ever since.
“Shh,” I say flashing her a grin. “So, I guess it’s me and you for a couple of days.”
I sit on her bed and look at all the typical things she has in her room: ballet shoes, pictures of her and her friends at camp, and giant posters of her favorite bands. She’s a normal fifteen-year-old girl.
“Yeah, that’s what Dad told me. Where do you think they’re off to this time?” she asks, looking out the window.
I glance to see what she’s staring at—a man that mirrors her dirty blond hair and porcelain skin. They’re both tall and most would say their kindness is boundless. Her blue eyes are one of the only qualities she gained from Ana. Unlike me, who has inherited the majority of Ana’s looks. Our tanned skin, high cheekbones, and round eyes match. However, where her hair is short, mine is long, but it still produces the same brown wave as hers. Running, thankfully, was one of the few things
I was lucky to inherit from my dad.
“I have no idea,” I say, pausing to realize we never really know where our parents are off to. “Dad said they're going to the city.”
I take off my sweater and lay it on the chair behind me, feeling the cold enter my body.
“Do you ever wonder—”
“Henly, I need your help please. Now!” my mom interrupts Davis.
I feel the tension in her voice rise as her Spanish accent etches its way into her yell. Luckily, that didn't pass on to me.
Davis and I turn to each other and mimic her
bossiness in unison, “Please! Now!” We both laugh.
My mom has a way of trying to be polite, but for some reason, a lot of what she has to say are only nicely phrased insults—something I hope to never inherit.
I run downstairs, meeting her at the edge of the banister.
“What’s up?”
“Have you seen the passports? We need them ASAP,” she says, acknowledging me only as much as she would a scrub nurse.
I smile and head toward the office. Sometimes biting my tongue can be more painful than the repercussions of actually telling her how I feel. I walk into the office and survey the layers and stacks of books everywhere. The smell from the mahogany shelves rushes to me as I pass the chairs littered with paperwork. The walls are filled with achievement awards and diplomas that belong to both of my parents. Every book or paper left unturned is either written on or spread open to a page only he understands. My dad has a way of making any mess look classy, though. I head for the large desk in the center of the room.
Opening his drawer, I find the passports and then shuffle some papers around to waste time before having to face my mom again. She hasn’t outgrown her old-fashioned Spanish heritage, which in her mind automatically decrees we owe her our respect. I glance down into the drawer and see a manila folder. Grabbing the corner of it, I read in bold letters, “Solution.” That’s strange. Dad never brings his work home. Before I have time to open it, I hear my dad coming down the hallway. He enters the office as I drop the envelope back into the drawer. I make a mental note to remember to sneak a peek after they’ve gone.
“Here are the passports Ana wanted.”
“You mean Mom,” he says, searching through one of the open books on a chair. “You and Davis have to start calling her mom again, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
I laugh, feeling for him.
“Well, when she starts acting like one, I’d be more than happy to call her that. Until then, I think Ana works just fine,” I say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
“Hey, now you know she loves you—”
“Why do you guys need your passports? I thought you were just going to the city?” I cut him off.
The last thing I want to hear is the same old excuse, “she loves you, but she loves work too. And since you’re seventeen now, she’s just trying to prepare you for the rest of your life of independence.” I have heard this same speech for as long as I can remember. He sighs with defeat and answers, “We are, but they might fly us out to LA for a day or two.”
“Last time I checked, a flight from Denver to Los Angeles doesn’t veer out of the United States.”
“Your point?” he asks.
“You don’t need a passport unless you’re traveling outside the country.”
I rock back in his chair. He shakes his head and smiles as he pulls his nose out of the book he’s reading.
“It’s just easier this way,” he answers.
“So you’ll be gone longer than a few days?”
“No, Hen.”
I hate when he calls me that. The last thing I want to be referred to as is a chicken. “We’ll be back in a few days. I promise.”
Forcing a smile, I grab one of the bags sitting at his feet and walk him out to the car. I’ve gotten used to being the daughter of two surgeons. They’re always on call or on the go. Sometimes I feel selfish for wanting to keep them around so much. I know they’re someone else’s miracle, but it doesn’t stop how much I miss my dad when he’s gone.
He gives Davis and me a hug and smiles.
“Take care of your sister while we’re gone. I’ll call you when we land.”
“Ha! No, I think I’ll let her starve,” I say jokingly and poke Davis in the ribs.
We both smile and wave at our mom as she loads herself into the car. I turn away before she remembers to wave back. I couldn’t care less.
***
It’s early when the power goes out, and suddenly I’m aware of the eerie darkness. I grab my phone and use the light to guide my path down the stairs. In the kitchen there’s a lamp hidden in the back cupboard. It’s been years since we’ve had a blackout. I turn it on and think about checking on Davis, but realize she probably didn’t wake up when the lights when off; she could sleep through an earthquake. I look at my phone and see it’s four in the morning. The last couple of days have flown by, and my parents come home today—that is, if they haven’t decided to extend their trip, which wouldn’t surprise me if they did. I sit at the table trying to decide whether or not to go back to bed when the humming of electricity spreads relief throughout my body. I walk into the living room and turn on the TV to lull me back to sleep.
I hear the warnings on TV about a storm coming through the outskirts of Denver, which isn’t unusual for this time of the year. However, I still can’t shake the sense of eeriness. Being home alone gets old, especially in the middle of a storm, and even with Davis here. I sit up when I hear her in the kitchen. Right as I am about to turn off the TV, I hear a blurb about an outbreak of the flu with a reminder to viewers to get their flu shots early. This happens every year. I throw the remote on the couch and make a note to get one when my dad gets back.
“Hey, there’s a storm tonight so make sure to be home early,” I say, hoping she will keep me company in case our parents don’t make it back before the storm.
“Okay.” She smiles and then teases, “Still afraid of storms, are we?”
I mock her and walk out of the kitchen. What seventeen-year-old is afraid of a simple storm, one might ask? This girl, right here. With every storm that hits Denver I am reminded of the noises my house makes. They encourage a horrible fear that my house is a place for paranormal activity.
I’m relieved when I hear her change the topic.
“By the way, I’m catching a ride home with Andy, so don’t worry about it, okay?” she says as she grabs her bag and heads for the door.
I hear a honk in the distance.
“Who is Andy? Weren’t you just dating Stephen?”
She blushes. “It’s hard to explain, but no, not anymore.”
My sister, the heartbreaker, is the complete opposite of me. Where her blond hair lies pin straight down her back, mine lies on my shoulders in a wavy brown mess. She finds escape on a stage, and I find freedom on a clear path. Where she gives her heart freely, I guard mine. Sometimes I wonder if we really are related.
“Okay,” I say smiling.
I leave my house and drive to school. As I pull into the school parking lot, I overhear the radio explaining what do to if you’re near someone with a cold. I guess there’s been a large amount of people going to the doctor, but I guess that’s typical for this time of year.
Getting out of my car I can see my friends in the distance and as I get closer I can hear the usual chatter of the daily gossip abounds our table. I make an excuse to leave and head to my first period class. Walking in early, I discover the power is out again. The dimly lit classroom is silent, and as class begins, it stays remotely empty. On the other side of the window, white flakes fall, transforming autumn into winter. I start to think about my dad.
When he left, he wasn’t his usual self, which reminds me of the manila folder in the drawer I'd completely forgotten about. He hasn’t called as much as he usually does while he has been gone either. The bell interrupts my thoughts, though, and I disregard the abnormality. Looking around the room, I see classmates have filled in various seats, but for the most part, the class is still noticeably empty.
The rest of the day isn’t much different. The lunchroom is close to empty and last period isn’t any better. Everyone must be home sick. In my last class, I sit around and daydream about this weekend’s plans. As I’m lost in thought, I hear my teacher announce that, due to a scheduling conflict, school will be canceled until Monday for a teachers’ workday. I smile at the notion I’ll get a four-day weekend.
After class, I meet up with my friends and make plans for the break. I then text Davis to let her know I’m headed home.
The drive home is strange. It’s the first snowfall, but no one is outside. Most kids usually cannot wait to dive into the glistening powder in their front yard.
“That’s weird,” I say to myself.
I pull into my driveway at the end of the cul-de-sac and see it is empty. My parents haven’t made it back yet. The snow probably held them up. I walk into my quiet house and head upstairs. I decide I may as well get a quick run in before my parents get home. Heading downstairs, I put in one of my headphones and pass my dad’s office. Suddenly, I remember the envelope again. Pausing for a moment, I pull the headphones out of my ears, and against my better judgment, I walk down the hallway. Pushing the door open, I head for his desk and pull at the drawer, but it won’t open. I peek down to see if something has it jammed, but to my astonishment, it’s locked. My dad never locks anything. He has a nothing-locked, open-door policy. I think it’s his way of securing our virtue. I look around for the key, but it’s gone. I try one last time to wiggle it open, but it’s no use. Leaning back in his chair, my eyes scan the room for any sign of where my dad could have hidden the key. The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli, his favorite book, juts out of the bookcase across from me. Standing, I make my way to it, but hear the door to my house creak open. Quickly, I rush out of his office in time to find Davis, back against the door, smiling.
“Hey,” I say leaning against the banister rail.
“Hey,” she says awakening from her dreamy state.
“Going running?”
Sneaking to the window, I take a closer look at this boy who has my sister grinning from ear to ear. He’s definitely nice on the eyes. His short, blond, messy hair is pushed to the side. I turn to her and smile.
“Does he know about your snoring problem or about your bedwetting situation? I’m sure Dad would love to bring out the naked pictures of you as a baby.” I tease, laughing so loud the grin she’s wearing soon turns serious, and she pushes me out the door.
“Rude! I was five when that one incident happened!” she yells through the door, clearly annoyed.
I head down the driveway smiling. I probably should have let her enjoy her moment, seeing as how she didn’t tease me about my irrational fear of storms. I’ll have to apologize when I get back. My breath creates small clouds against the snow as it falls in clumps at my feet. While running my usual path, I notice the bareness of the yards—no dogs barking or kids playing, just awkward silence. Deciding to cut my run short, I veer off into a back alley behind one of my neighbors’ houses, a few yards down from where I live. I put my hands above my head as I slow down to catch my breath. I close my eyes as the cold air burns into my lungs, throwing me into a coughing fit.
My eyes fly open when I hear a loud pop that sounds a lot like a gun going off. Through gasps of air, I force my eyes to focus and see a black van pulling into a driveway—my driveway. Looking for the sound, I walk toward my house, feeling wary of the unfound noise. I keep my eyes on the van, but soon feel the blood drain from my face as I watch strangers carry out a small, body-like figure and toss it into the back of the black van. Suddenly there’s another van that has pulled onto my street. I search the neighborhood for answers, but no one is outside. Frantically, I pick up the pace and start in a dead sprint for my house.
“Run!” I hear him yell.
My dad’s voice cuts through the thick snow. I look around the block and see more black vans flooding into my neighbors’ homes. Chaos has erupted. Kids are screaming for their parents as they are being ripped apart and thrown like rag dolls into the back of the vans. I try to yell as they pull a child from his mother’s lifeless arms, but nothing comes out.
Water fills my eyes when I finally see my dad. He is thrashing against a man who has him pinned to the ground. My dad’s face turns different shades of purple as the man tries to keep him from yelling. Horror consumes me as I see a man in black draw his gun and fire at a mom who is trying to escape with her child.
“Run, Henly! Go!” my dad commands through gargled screams.
I back up, but trip over my feet. My muscles feel hollow as I try to force myself up. The man is coming for me. Nothing makes sense. He is carrying a gun and it’s aimed directly at my head. My dad’s yelling something, but I can’t hear him over the pounding of my heart. This can’t be happening. He’s getting closer. Come on! Get up! Move, now! I turn to run, but the man with the gun yells. I stop, my back toward him, my hands and legs shaking. My eyes squeeze shut—I’m going to die. The smell of burning wood and blood overwhelms me, and I feel the metal touch the back of my head. My mind is going a million miles a minute when I hear the shot. They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die, but the only thing I can think of is the fact I haven’t really lived yet.
CHAPTER 2
Falling to the ground, I wait for the pain, but nothing comes. My eyes open and the man holding the gun is lying a few inches from me—dead on the pavement. Rolling onto my stomach, I freeze when I see my dad lying on the ground with a gun in his hand. The next shot rings through the air, my dad’s body becomes deathly still, his blood tainting the snow red. He looks at me and mouths, “Run.”
I stand quickly and run as fast as my legs will take me. There’s a sharp pain in my calf. It’s cramping, but I can’t stop. It’s as if my body sets into race mode, I’m no longer worried about dying, I just need to run. If I can get to the old abandoned buildings I used to play in when I was a kid, the same ones I run past every day, I know I’ll be okay. It doesn’t make sense when I glance down at my leg and see red sweat dripping onto my shoe.
When I finally reach the buildings on the edge of town, my lungs burn. Thrusting the side panel open, I run down the flight of stairs, searching the walls for the small hole I used to fit into when I was kid. My hands find it, and without thinking, I slide into the hole and wait. Soon after, I hear feet shuffling into the warehouse. They’re breaking down doors and shooting at the windows. The scuffs of their boots echo against the thin walls. Through a crack in the wall, I am able to see a man at the base of the stairs. His blond hair is short and smoothed into place. He seems to be the one in charge, which is strange; he doesn’t look much older than me. His eyes stare at the wall, and for a moment, I fear he has found me.
“Check every room. We have to contain the situation and tie up loose ends,” the man commands.
They’re coming for me. I’m the loose end.
“Where did she go? I shot the little brat in the leg.”
There’s a small puddle growing around my leg. That’s when I realize my leg wasn’t cramping and it sure wasn’t sweat dripping down my calf. The air becomes scarce when I try to pull up my leg to see how bad the damage is.
“She couldn’t have gone far,” a feminine voice says with humor. “Did you kill the doc? Boss isn’t going to be happy.”
I hold my breath. Could he still be alive? The burly man looks at the woman.
“Probably. I have a feeling it isn’t going to be a goodnight for me or her.”
He stands, gun in hand, and looks through the room. His shadows follow him as he opens a door in the basement searching for me. When he suddenly stiffens and shoots, my heart drops to the floor. He found me and here come the bullets.
“Hey!” the woman screams, rubbing her ears. “Are you serious?” She points to the dead door. “You’re scared of a rat?”
“It surprised me, all right?”
He steps closer to her, getting in her face. His voice is deep and husky. The tall woman pushes him away and laughs.
“Sure. You have precise aim for the rat, but not the girl?”
“Shut it!” he yells.
The man who seems to be in charge walks in and demands, “Find her?”
“No, sir,” says the woman, changing her tone and standing taller. “But she couldn’t have gone far. All we have to do is track the blood. We’ll keep searching the surrounding perimeter.”
As they’re about to leave, the man afraid of the rat abruptly turns and begins to unload his gun into the room. Afraid to move, I clasp my hand over my mouth and stifle a scream. The bullet shells fall to the ground like rain, and I forget to breathe. Before I know it, I see nothing.
I jerk awake and force my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the small space. Trying to make sense of where I am, I lean the back of my head against the wall and wait for my sleepy state to pass. It’s night in the warehouse and everything is quiet, except for the creaks keeping me alert. For a moment, I’d forgotten about today, but the jarring pain in my lower left calf reminds me something has gone terribly wrong. Every time I move, it’s like being shot all over again. The pain makes me want to retch. Stretching my leg out in the small space, I try to see how badly I’m hurt, but I have no idea what I am looking for. I guess I’m not my parents’ prodigy after all. My mother’s face would be one of disgust. The daughter she sacrificed her body for becoming anything other than a surgeon would be a disgrace. My dad, on the other hand—my dad! He was shot. The reality hits me like a million bricks falling on top of me. What about Davis? I remember the body bag being thrown into the back of the van. I pull my hood up over my head and feel the tears fall.
My eyes fly open when I realize those men might come back. My fear of their return motivates me to quickly get out of the warehouse. Forcing myself to focus, I search my pockets for my phone, but it’s not there. It must be at home, or maybe I dropped it. I have to get the bullet out of my leg before I bleed to death. I could go to the hospital, but I doubt I’d make it. A thought occurs to me: I could go home and find my parents medical supplies. I’m only a few miles away, and they wouldn’t expect me to go back there, would they? I bite my lower lip and brace myself as I pull my upper body out of the hole. Tears fill my eyes when I try to pull my legs out. Blood seeps through my pants onto the floor. I have to stop the bleeding. Tearing off my sweater, I wrap it around my leg and grit my teeth as I tie the last knot into a tourniquet. Dark spots dance around the sweater, reminding me again how fragile I am. I’m either going to pass out or vomit. I pray for the vomit. If I pass out in the open, they could come back. I try to move, this time bringing up the bile I was praying for. My body contorts as it tries to spit everything out. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I ready myself to stand.
The pain is overwhelming. I try to stand, but fall harder, like a sack of flour being tossed to the ground. I decide against another attempt and crawl to the stairs. Pulling myself up, I lean against the railing and take in a deep breath. This is going to be painful. I take a few steps and scream. Thankfully, my leg soon goes numb, which makes it easier to finish the climb.
The sun is rising when I make it to the top of the stairs. The sweat drips down my forehead and onto my face. Blinking the sweat from my eyes, I peek out of the window and see the streets are barren. As I turn the knob, it squeaks. Scared of who might be out there, I flinch away. But, I know I can’t waste anymore time. I force myself through the door and try my best to run.
The sun is high over the sky by the time I reach my street. Tears soak my cheeks; the place where I grew up is now unrecognizable. Red covers the majority of the snow, windows are shattered, and the woman who was torn from her child lies lifeless on the icy sidewalk. As I reach my house, the cold rips through my body. I look down and then behind me. I’ve left a bloody trail for anyone to follow. My eyes then find the puddle of blood belonging to my dad. Afraid of losing what’s left of my sanity, I limp inside. I shut the door and fumble the lock with my frozen fingers. I blow into my hands, trying to warm them. I turn and move my frozen body to my dad’s office to get the medical supplies. Opening the door to his study, I find a broken down room: drawers wrenched open, books torn to shreds on the floor, and a bookcase ripped from the wall. I make my way toward the adjacent bookshelf, the only one that still stands, and find the medical supplies scattered on the floor. I gather what I can and sit next to the desk.
I find my dad’s emergency stash of whiskey in a drawer and grab it. Looking at the bottle reminds me of a time when I was little and my dad was teaching me how to ride my bike.
I turned to him through pouty lips.
“Dad, I can’t do it.”
He kneeled to meet my gaze and smiled.
“All you need is a few seconds of relentless bravery to overcome anything.” He cupped my face with one hand, rubbing his thumb across my cheek.
“I’m afraid.” I say as I feel the fear seep in.
“How about this.” He pulled me back to my bike. “Allow yourself thirty seconds of bravery, and we’ll see what happens.”
His smile was comforting as he helped me back on my bike. I tensed, but forced myself to be brave as he let go of me. I soon got the hang of balancing on my own, and when my bravery was at an all-time high, I turned and smiled at him. That was all it took for me to lose control and fall to the ground. There was a fair amount of blood after my knees hit the asphalt. I cried so loudly my dad thought I'd broken a bone. He grabbed me and carried me to his study. He couldn’t find any rubbing alcohol, so he grabbed his whiskey and said, “This will burn a little, but it will feel better soon.”
***
The memory is a sharp reminder I am alone—no one to carry me or fix me. I search for the painkillers, but they're nowhere insight. Might as well make good use of the bottle. I take a drink of the bitterness, and it burns right through me. Readying myself, I close my eyes and pour some on the bullet hole. I scream as the whisky drips down my leg and into the hole. I blink to clear my eyes of tears and take a long swig of whiskey. This time it fills me with warmth. I don’t drink at all—ever—but in these circumstances, I don’t think I know anyone who wouldn’t. Thirty seconds, right? I pour the remainder of the whiskey on my leg until it goes numb. That’s my cue. I take the medical tweezers and jab them into the hole to find the bullet. Bad idea. My body purges itself of the whiskey, and the lights dim.
My eyes open in a puddle of my own bile. If I had anything more to throw up, I am sure I would. Instead, I gag on my stomach acid. I sit up the best I can and wipe my face with my shirt. I try to stretch my leg, but fall short when the throbbing pain makes me dizzy. I look at the wound. The tweezers are jammed in the bullet hole in my leg from my fall; the pain is suffocating. I might pass out again. I think about looking for another bottle of whiskey, but decide against it—moving seems unbearable.
I hear something in the distance as I pull myself into my dad’s chair. It’s loud, like someone has broken down the door. Glass crunches and breaks beneath heavy footsteps. Turning my head, I see a picture of my dad and Davis. They are both smiling. It is from August last year when we were at the beach. I smile and mourn the simple memory. They’re not here. I wish they were here. Strength leaves my body as I sit limp in the oversized chair. My dad warned me to run for nothing. Now I am almost as dead as he is. My eyes close. If they want me dead, they won’t have to wait long. Blurry figures flood into the room as I brace myself against the chair. I grip the desk in front of me, my knuckles turning white. The blurry figures crunch through the piles of books. Are they here for me? My neck jerks as something pricks my skin. I don’t fight it. I just let go.
CHAPTER 3
“Henly.” The voice is as sweet as velvet.
“Huh?”
The heat of the midday sun kisses my skin. Turning to see who’s called my name, I find Davis. Her face is bruised.
“Davis! What happened to you? Are you okay?”
As I touch her face, concern overwhelms me. I try to focus, but the sand between my toes has me preoccupied. Families are set up all across the beach, jumping in and out of the ocean, some making sand castles, others basking in the sun. The picture from my dad’s office has transformed itself in front of me. I’m here. Was everything that happened before a dream?
“Everything is better now.” She smiles and pulls her face away from my hand.
“Okay,” I say fuddled.
My hands fall to play with the sand. Letting it run through my fingers, I watch it sprinkle to the ground. I catch a glimpse of kids no older than five or six run into the oncoming waves, but something strange happens. The sand clumps in my fingers. Looking down, I see the sand engulfed in red.
I look back to Davis and say, “You’re bleeding.”
The blood is pouring from her chest into buckets and onto the grainy sand, clumping it together. Grabbing the towel I’m laying on, I try to stop the blood, but it just keeps growing. I yell for help, but no one else is listening. My vision is blurring.
“Someone please help me!” I yell frantically.
“It’s okay, really. Just let go,” she says, looking out into the ocean.
“No! I’m not letting you go!” I yell.
It dawns on me that my sister is gone and I'm...I’m dead? No, that doesn’t seem right. I can’t be dead. My sister is gone, but I am not dead. I look at the empty space that was Davis and fall to the ground in a ball. What is happening to me?
The men and women on the beach abandon their play and move toward me. I turn to run, but a man grabs me by the shoulders and pins me down. They’re all yelling at me to run. My body tenses as I thrash against them. So, I’m not dead. As I struggle to break free, a woman stands above me. She looks familiar. There's a gun in her hand, and it's aimed directly at my head.
Through a laugh she yells, “Bang!”
***
My eyes slowly open to a girl trying to reassure me; she’s doing a terrible job at it. Her skin is cold and heavy and pale, but her light eyes show empathy as she smiles and tries once again to reassure me. Ignoring her plea, I try to move. Where am I? I twitch under her pats and a needle scratches under my skin. I’m strapped to a table with different medical contraptions sprouting out of me, my torso barely covered by a thin, white medical gown. My exposed body flinches when I feel another needle prick my foot. There’s a group of people in the far corner. Quietly, they discuss something about me being unresponsive. Squinting, I look around at the white walls. They’re so bright it’s hard to focus on anything for too long.
“You need to calm down for the serum to work. If not, you’ll heal incorrectly.” Her tone is less sympathetic, but still somewhat soothing.
Heal incorrectly? What does that even mean? I want to scream, but my mouth won’t move. What are they doing to me? The leather straps burn as they rub against my bare body. The only option I have left is to glare, so I do. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her as she walks out of the door. She doesn’t come back. Instead, a man, who looks to be in his late teens or early twenties, does. His hazy eyes peer down at me, and I see he’s holding a vial filled with some kind of liquid. My breathing becomes unevenly rapid, and my heart goes frantic as he inserts the needle into my IV.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers in my ear. “You’ll feel better soon.”
My eyes are fixed on his as I feel a warm and fuzzy feeling and then nothing at all.
When I awake, I find myself in a bright white room. The tile pressed beneath me is cold. Blinking a few times, I steady my vision and search the room for the pretty nurse or the man who tried to help me earlier, but they are nowhere to be found. I lightly trace the pink burn marks from being tethered to the ground around my wrists. Reluctantly, I peel my almost barren body off the floor and stand. The black cotton dress falls right below my knees and fits two sizes too big. The blood quickly rushes back to my ligaments, and I’m forced to hold onto the wall to steady myself. My pupils dance in and out of focus until they settle on the two-way mirror in front of me.
“Hello!”
Panicked, I pound my fists against the thick glass. Maybe I’m strong enough to break it. Bracing myself, I hit the glass harder. I suddenly stop when I hear a voice.
“Step away and identify yourself.” The voice sounds mechanical.
I look straight through the glass, not knowing what to say.
“Where am I?” Fear creeps into my voice.
This has to be a nightmare. I pinch myself, but the pain is verification I am wide-awake.
“Name.”
It’s all I hear. It isn’t a question. It’s a demand.
Anger rises when I remember the men who found it easy to hunt me down like an animal. I am not going to let them take anymore from me. My lips form into a straight line, and I step away from the glass. I cross my arms, and through the overpowering fear that grows, I refuse to give them anything else. His voice comes to my mind again, “Thirty seconds of bravery.” I will not tell the anything.
“Are you going to cooperate?” the flat voice asks.
“No,” I say before I sit down in the far corner of the small room.
“Maybe tomorrow you’ll be more inclined to do so,” answers the voice, and then with a click, it’s gone. The white room instantly turns black.
Every few hours, my sleep is cut short when the blinding light turns on. I hear the voice again, demanding my name, but again I refuse to tell it anything. I hear groans through the darkness and assume there are more people locked in here with me, which begs the question of where I am. I try to focus on my breathing, but the anxiety spills over—the not knowing is the worst part. They deposit just enough food for me to survive on through a gap in the door, which provides minimal light. The food smells like paper and leaves, and it doesn’t taste much different. As the days progress, the food supply gets smaller. There’s a bathroom in the far corner of the room that leaves nothing to the imagination.
It goes on like this for days, maybe weeks, all because I refuse to speak or tell them anything. The repetition of being alone in the darkness has shaken me from my childhood nightmares. Now the darkness has become familiar and comforting. When the lights are gone, no one is poking or prodding me.
Finally, after what feels like eternity, the blinding lights flash on, but I hear nothing. Moving to the far corner of the room, I watch a table rise from the floor in front of the two-way mirror. When I look behind the door clicks shut and a man appears. He sits in a chair and folds his arms on the table.
“Come. Sit,” the rough voice says, sounding bored.
There’s a pile of clothes folded next to him. Studying him, I realize he’s the one who injected me. I rub my eyes and see that he is on edge. The muscles through his shirt become tense when I stand, but his face is calm.
“How are you?” he asks indifferently.
I look around the room in confusion. After all of this time, now they want to get chummy.
“Henly, we’re not here to hurt you.” I hear a brief tone of compassion, but it soon fades as does my confidence when he says my name—he knows me.
His lips are drawn in a straight line and his shoulders are turned square toward me. I glare at him and see the fierceness in his honey-colored eyes. The man across from me shows no sympathy.
“How do you know my name?” I question him through gritted teeth.
His response is void of any emotion as he says, “That’s not important.” He looks down at the paper in front of him. “Where are you from?”
I don’t know if it’s the fear or my newfound
courage, but I refuse to answer. Who knows what these people have planned for me? I fold my arms and lean back in the chair.
“Look, I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, so can we just get this over with?”
I don’t respond.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he says coldly.
I see him nod to the door. The familiar young woman walks in. Her curly red hair is pinned into a loose bun, and she’s accompanied by two armed men. The young woman doesn’t smile when she gives him a vial.
She turns to me and says, “Cooperate.” Her blue eyes are pleading.
He grabs her by the arm and whispers something I can’t hear. My attention is on the guards coming toward me. I bite my lower lip when I feel the armed men grab one arm at a time and begin to strap me down. Flailing my arms, I kick at the table, but it’s no use. I’m too weak. I look at the hazel eyes across from me. He puts the vial into a gun-like device, and soon I feel the point of the needle prick into my neck.
“Denver!” I yell, but it isn’t enough.
I wince as he injects the black solution into my neck. The two men turn away from me and walk out. So much for my newfound courage. Now I feel weak and dizzy. He unstraps me and sits down across from me.
“Good,” he says, scribbling on the paper. “Can you state your name for the record?” He points to the camera above his head.
“Henly Sawyer,” I say bitterly, tasting the blood from my lip.
He continues, “Father’s name?”
“Drew,”—I clear my throat—“Andrew Sawyer.” He was my dad.
“Your mother?”
“Ana Sawyer, and my sister is Davis Sawyer,” I say, trying to get the questions over with.
“What is the last thing you can remember?” he asks.
I fold my arms and answer, “I was sitting in my dad’s office.”
Looking down at his paper, he scribbles something.
He then asks, “Anything before that?”
“Your black vans. They were everywhere. People were dying, and I—I ran.” I let it sink in. While everything was in chaos, I ran like a coward. Without thinking I ask, “Where am I? How long have I been here?” Balling my hands into fists, I get up from the chair. I’m afraid the men will come back and strap me down again. I know it’s a bold move, bolder than I have ever been, but I will not let them see me weak.
He looks at the glass as if asking for permission. I look too and stare at the girl—the figure before me—I don’t recognize it. Her cheeks are hollow, her green eyes darker around the iris, and her runner’s build has evaded into a thin frail girl. Her brown hair now lies greasily against her ribcage. There’s a harshness to her that wasn’t there before. When he turns to me I realize the girl in the mirror is me.
“On November eleventh,” he begins, “the world was exposed to a virus. When we found you, you had been shot. We fixed your leg and ran some tests.” He gestures to my leg.
My hand falls to the wound that has healed; a small scar remains.
My voice is shaky when I speak, “What day is it, today?”
“May eighteenth,” he responds.
I’ve been here for six months? What have they been doing to me? I search my body for more wounds. I move as far away from him as I possibly can and jump when I hit the wall. Staring at him, I see empathy—or maybe pity. It’s hard to tell.
“You’ve been in quarantine since then.” There’s a roughness to his voice that isn’t in his eyes. “We need to know if you were exposed to the virus.”
My stomach contorts. People were exposed. Was I exposed? No—I couldn’t have been. Then I remember the men in the black vans. Were they there to round up all those infected, including me? Regardless, how would I know?
“I don’t know,” I say slowly, sliding down the wall. “Why are you asking me? Shouldn’t you already know?”
He looks away from me to the pile of clothes next to him.
“You will be admitted into gen pop this afternoon.” He pushes the clothes toward me and continues, “You’ll be assigned living quarters. Tomorrow we’ll see where you fit best in Aurora.”
Standing, I grab for the clothes, but quickly pull away when I feel the warmth of his hand. I don’t look at him as he walks out of the room. Anxiety overwhelms me when I think about leaving my small box behind.
“You should have cooperated.” The red-headed young woman sticks her hand out. “I’m Quinn, by the way. I’m here to take you to your room.”
I don’t shake her hand. I grab the clothes and walk past her.
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