TWENTY-ONE
I’M WAITING WHEN THE VAN PULLS UP THE driveway. Three figures sit in the back, two people in the front, one of whom opens the door and steps down. Agent Stiles. The sun hits her sleek hair, firing it almost blue.
I let the curtain fall back into place. Sucking in a deep breath, I turn and locate my bag.
I only packed what was on the list Agent Stiles gave my mother. Underwear, toothbrush. My favorite shower gel. A few changes of clothes and an extra set of shoes. The bag hangs lightly in my hands.
My parents come down the stairs at the sound of the doorbell. Even Dad stayed home to see me off. He pulls me into his arms and hugs me so hard I can hardly breathe. “You’ll do great,” he murmurs against my hair. “They know you’re special. That’s why they chose you. You’re not like the others—”
I pull away, cutting him off. “I’ll miss you, too, Dad.” I can’t hear him say that I’m not like the others . . . that I’m better than all the rest of them. Not when I don’t know if it’s true.
To know that, I have to know that what’s inside them isn’t inside me. And I can’t know that for sure. I don’t know anything except that I’m going to absorb everything they teach me. I’m going to learn and make something of myself. I’ll find new goals and new dreams.
Mom opens the door to Agent Stiles. The woman nods at us and then turns, marching to the van, expecting me to follow.
“We’ll see you soon,” Mom says, even though we know no such thing. I let her say it. It seems the thing for people to say when parting ways.
I nod, hugging her.
I turn to my brother and a lump forms in my throat. He pulls me into his arms, clutching me with wide-splayed fingers. “I’ve got your back.”
“I know.”
His voice lowers so that only I can hear. “You come home if it doesn’t work out. I’ll help you. . . . There are places you can go, hide. . . .”
The van honks.
“I gotta go.” I step free and squeeze Mitchell’s arm, trying to convey to him that I’m going to be okay. He looks at me intently.
“I hear you,” I assure him. Lifting my bag, I’m out the door, moving swiftly down the front walk, not looking back on the only home I’ve known.
The side door to the van yawns open for me. Gil sits in the bench seat behind the driver, waving merrily and motioning for me to take the space beside him. Like we’re heading to some kind of fun summer camp. I hop inside, nodding at Agent Stiles as she slams the door shut.
I glance behind me to the shapes sitting there. Sean and a boy I’ve never seen before.
Sean looks at me but he doesn’t speak. His expression is stoic, impossible to read. His fuller top lip presses into an unsmiling line. I wonder if he knows that I had something to do with his being here. I wonder if he cares.
I hold his gaze for a moment and then face forward again.
We’re moving now, leaving my house behind.
They’re taking us to a place called Mount Haven. This much I glean during the van ride and one plane trip. Our group grows as we travel. By the time we land in New Mexico, there are nineteen of us. Agent Stiles and five others escort us. We get plenty of stares as we’re led through the airport and ushered through security. At least ten of us bear the imprints, and people actually press to far walls and clutch their children close as we pass. We are monsters in their eyes. Real live bogeymen in the flesh.
Although Sean speaks very little, he stays close to me and Gil, his eyes constantly moving, assessing everyone. Everything. I guess there’s comfort in the familiar—and that happens to be me and Gil. Or maybe he just feels protective of us. Again. Like in the Cage.
With Gil, there is no risk of awkward silence. He keeps the conversation flowing as we munch on the sack meal they provided, driving deep into the mountain wilderness, leaving civilization behind. Not that it’s very civilized anymore.
It’s dark when we arrive at Mount Haven, passing through a gate set amid a tall stucco wall. As soon as we emerge from the van, they divide us. Boys to the right, girls to the left. A reed-thin, military-looking man introduces himself as Commander Harris. His head is cue-ball smooth. Light gleams off his shiny scalp. We stand beneath the bright glare of spotlights as he looks out at all of us, weighing us with hawk-like intensity for a long moment before directing the guards to take us to our quarters.
Blinking, I look after Sean and Gil, my chest growing tight with anxiety at leaving them. Gil grins and gives me a thumbs-up. I know him well enough by now to know he’s trying to be encouraging. I nod, still wishing I could have gone with him and Sean. Sean’s gaze holds mine, communicating something. What, I don’t know.
I watch Gil and Sean for as long as I can, until I’m afraid I might run into the girl in front of me. Facing forward, I mind my steps while scanning the building and grounds. There are only seven girls. A woman leads us. She’s dressed gender neutral in a khaki shirt and slacks. I haven’t seen Agent Stiles since the airport. Somehow I don’t think I’ll see her again. Or if I do, it won’t be good.
I heard one boy on the way from the airport tell another boy in the back row of the van that Mount Haven used to be a mental institution. I don’t know how he knew this, but with bars on the windows, I can believe it. Still, it’s not a gloomy place. Not like an asylum from a horror movie or anything. Nothing that grim. The whitewashed walls stand out against the star-studded night. The building is shaped like a V, two wings stretching out on either side of a rotunda in the middle. At three stories, it could house well over fifty-odd students.
“I wonder if we’ll get our own rooms,” a girl up front murmurs, looking back at me hopefully. She’s so thin, her limp blouse falls against pointy-sharp shoulder blades. I doubt she’s had a meal to herself, much less a room. I can’t help but wonder what her special skill is. Did she score perfectly on her ACT like Gil? Or is it simply that she’s a girl? Stiles mentioned the dearth of female carriers. Did my test scores really matter? Or was it just that I was female and had a pulse? But no, Coco isn’t here, so there must be something to my selection.
The line stops suddenly, and the skinny girl in front of me, too busy staring up at the building, collides with the girl in front of her. I hardly draw a breath before they’re tangled together, screaming and thrashing and tearing at each other on the ground. It happens so quickly, I struggle to process it.
The remaining girls immediately break ranks and close around the writhing figures, watching, shouting indecipherable words. Only my lips don’t move. I shake my head and look to the guard, certain she will break up the fight.
She lazily reaches for the radio on her belt. “Hey, Jensen, we got a situation with the girls.”
The reply comes back scratchy. “Stand by.”
I look back down, watching in horror as the other girl climbs atop the skinny one. She outweighs her by at least forty pounds. The skinny one arches her slim body, struggling to buck her off. It’s useless. She can’t do anything. The bigger girl grabs a fistful of Skinny’s long hair and holds her steady as she pounds her in the face with her free fist.
Still, the guard does nothing.
When I look down again, I gasp. My stomach churns sickly. I can’t even recognize Skinny’s face anymore. There’s so much blood now.
I add my voice to the din: “No. No. Stop!”
I dash at hot tears with my hands, blinking rapidly. I can’t look anymore.
“Help!” I shout at the guard.
She arches an eyebrow and nods at something behind me. I turn. Three guards approach. A baton swings in the hand of one of the men, and I quickly learn it’s not a simple baton. He reaches down and jabs the bigger girl. She shrieks and rolls off her victim. But he doesn’t stop. He presses down with his stick, sending volts of electricity into her thickset body. The girl jerks madly, flopping like a fish. She starts to bleed from the mouth and I’m convinced she’s bitten her tongue.
He leans down to address her, his voice loud enough to carry over her cries and grunts. “You will not jump another carrier again unless it’s part of a training exercise, understand?” He eases up for a moment to hold her gaze. “Understand? Another attack and there will be more of this.” He digs the prod into her side again for emphasis.
Unable to watch, I turn away. My gaze narrows in on the other guards, their faces smug, satisfied.
And suddenly I know. I haven’t escaped anything. I’ve walked right into it.
We’re led to the second floor of the building’s east wing. The elevator opens to reveal a wide lounge. A few tables help fill the space. A couch and loveseat are positioned in front of a television. I smile bitterly, imagining the seven of us watching reruns of Glee together. Unlikely.
“Welcome.” Another individual waits for us, standing in the center of the room. She’s dressed in civilian clothes and hugs a clipboard and several file folders to her chest, rocking on her heels. She smiles at us as we drift forward. Her face is so tanned and sun-weathered it’s hard to estimate her age. A pair of guards flank her. They don’t smile. It’s as if she’s the only one allowed to.
“Take a seat.” She motions to the tables. “We have a few things to go over before we give out room assignments. Count yourselves lucky. With so few girls on the floor, you can each have your own room.”
I sit at the same table as the skinny girl. Maybe because I feel sorry for her. Or maybe I simply feel safer with her. She’s hardly a threat with her broken face and slight body tucked in on itself. I can smell the coppery scent of her blood. It’s a hard reminder of where I am and what can happen if I drop my guard. Of what can happen even if I don’t.
Another girl joins us at the round table. She moves with an inherent grace, holding her elegant, well-shaped limbs close to her body. Her dark hair gleams blue-black. The only thing darker is her gaze. Her black eyes watch me warily, eyeing my neck.
The four remaining girls sit at a neighboring table. The one who beat up Skinny crosses sinewy arms over her chest and assesses all of us with supreme confidence. Blood stains the front of her shirt, and it looks somehow right on her. Her face is horribly broken out with acne and pitted with old blemish scars. She bears no imprint. As though aware of this—and it’s some manner of shortcoming that marks her as soft—her stare passes between me and the other imprinted girl at her table, a redhead who busies herself by chewing on her thumbnail.
The redhead’s green eyes glitter in an unnerving manner, reminding me of an animal that’s ready to bite the first person who tries to touch her. I cross my arms, my hands chafing over my skin.
“The seven of you will sleep on this floor. The boys are quartered in the west wing. Every night, your doors will automatically lock, every morning they will unlock.”
I glance at my hands, thinking locked doors aren’t a bad thing among this bunch. I might actually get some sleep.
“Let’s begin with introductions, shall we?” The guard opens her first file. “Zoe Parker. Florida State Soccer Champion two years in a row. Midfielder.” She nods and glances at the redhead approvingly. The girl drops her thumb from her lips and lifts that wild green gaze to the guard. “That takes stamina. Impressive.”
She moves on to the next file. “Amira Bustros.” The girl with the ink-dark eyes beside me stiffens and slides her gaze to the woman fearfully. “You’re first-generation American. Your parents are from Lebanon. You speak fluent Arabic.” She continues nodding. “Useful.”
She flips open another folder and nods to the most petite member of the group. “Moving on. Marilee Davison. You’re a gymnast. Been training since age three.”
That would explain her tiny stature. She must be older, but she looks like a twelve-year-old.
“I was a gymnast.” Marilee juts her chin out defiantly. Her squeaky, girl-like voice makes me wonder if maybe she isn’t closer to eight.
“Yes, well, we’ll see about that,” the woman answers vaguely. “Your background will come in handy.”
“Davina Hamilton.” Her eyes scan my file. I wait, every muscle inside me pulling tight. “Piano, violin, guitar, and voice. Accepted into Juilliard. Very nice.”
I don’t waste my breath reminding her that that’s all in the past. Accepted and then rejected. But she knows as much. I’m here, after all.
The girl who beat up Skinny snorts and mutters beneath her breath, “A freakin’ Mary Poppins. Maybe she’ll sing for us.”
I shoot her a look. She holds my gaze, her thick forearms tightening across her chest. The woman continues down the list and I return my attention to her. Skinny’s name is Sabine Stoger. She moved here as an infant from Austria and speaks both German and French. Sofia Valdez is from Texas and speaks Spanish. Clearly being proficient in a language is an asset to them here.
The last name on the list is the stocky girl who attacked Sabine. Addy Hawkins, a track-and-field star. She preens as her qualifications are read, staring at each of us in a way that declares she is the strongest, the best: “Addy the Awesome and Terrible.” In case pounding Sabine hadn’t illustrated that.
Apparently, she jumps a mean high bar and throws the javelin. She qualified for the US Olympic team in both events before she was detected as a carrier. I shiver, imagining her throwing that spear. Only I don’t see her throwing it into the ground. I see her impaling someone with it.
“My name is Dusty,” the woman announces as she closes the last file.
“Dusty?” Addy snorts.
Dusty stares at her coolly before continuing. “I’m in charge of you seven while you’re all here. You’ve been selected because you possess special talents. You’ll be expected to cultivate these strengths and add other skills to your repertoire. If you’re not already bilingual, you will be expected to learn an additional language. If you’re in poor physical condition, consider that temporary. You will become a perfect specimen by the end of your stay here. If you can’t fight with any finesse, you will.” Her gaze sweeps over each of us, letting these words sink in. “Your DNA already tells us you can kill, but to succeed here you must become controlled, you must master your baser impulses and serve a purpose that is higher than yourself. We’ve assembled a staff to help you reach this goal.”
No one breathes. I stare at this woman. She’s more than a guard, I recognize that at once. Suddenly, I see her as some kind of Yoda figure, offering hope.
She removes several sheets of paper from her clipboard and hands them to us. “These are your schedules. Memorize them. There is no excuse for tardiness. We expect total obedience or you will be ejected from Mount Haven.”
I sense Amira tense beside me. It’s a fate I don’t want to face, either.
“You’ll send us to the camps if we don’t make it in here,” Addy states more than asks. It seems she’s the only one bold enough to say anything.
“If you’re lucky, you’ll be transferred to a detention camp.” Dusty’s expression turns grim. “You want to make it here. Trust me in that.”
Transference to a detention camp would be lucky? What would be the unlucky alternative?
Unthinkingly, I hear myself answer, “Agent Stiles told my mother if this didn’t work out I would go to a detention camp.”
Dusty looks at me then, her gaze hard as steel in her sun-browned face. My earlier hope that she’d be a benevolent mentor withers under her stare. “Agent Stiles is no longer here. I am.”
With schedules in hand, we’re led from the lounge area. The doors to our rooms are a pristine white just like everything else. A small, thick-glassed window is positioned at the top of each door—a reminder that we’ll never have total privacy here.