Uninvited
Page 24
“They can’t do this to you.” Mitchell looks from me to Mom, his eyes pleading with her, seeking support. She stares ahead, her features pale and drawn.
I touch my brother’s arm, sliding my hand down to his. “No running, Mitchell. I’ve got to stay.”
He steps back until he collides with the wall. His face scrunches up and a choked cry breaks loose, rattles from his chest. He slides down the wall until he hits the floor. I watch as he buries his face into his hands. I feel every one of his jagged sobs like a claw-swipe to my heart.
Part Two: Mount Haven
The situation of overcrowding must be attended. Please stop sending carriers to this location. Our present population demands relief. I can reach no solution against the rising tide of disease that has befallen this camp. We lost six carriers this month alone, and even a guard died, infected with the same illness that has plagued the camp since we opened. . . .
—Correspondence from director of Camp 19 to Dr. Wainwright
TWENTY
WITHIN TWO MINUTES OF THE PRESIDENT’S address, we receive an automated phone message informing us that we would be contacted soon with information regarding my assignment and that I’m not to leave my residence for any reason under threat of arrest. Funny, that doesn’t even strike a chord of fear in me. Not when I’m about to be forced into some kind of camp for carriers.
Days pass. Mom flinches every time the phone rings on the counter. If Mitchell’s around, he goes still, his eyes fixing on her as she answers. Dad, if he’s even home, quickly flees into another room. The days roll into a week. I move about in a fog. I know they haven’t forgotten about me. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me.
The media shows around-the-clock coverage of carriers being rounded up and forced onto buses. Well, maybe not forced. Most go along with it.
There are a few instances of runners that make it on to the news. One car chase outside Detroit replays every thirty minutes. A carrier tried to escape with his family. He used to be a high school art teacher until he was identified as a carrier and dismissed from his job. I shouldn’t watch. It’s just a blatant ploy to sensationalize what’s happening, but I’m helplessly captivated, watching as the Mini Cooper drives off a bridge and crashes into a gravel pit, killing the entire family instantly. A wife and two small children. They show footage of the burning car. For a split second, you can even see the dark shadows within the vehicle.
All that night, I dream of dying in a car explosion, flames licking at my flesh, devouring me as I fight to get out. The weird part is my family stands outside the vehicle, watching me trapped inside the car, doing nothing to reach me or put out the fire. Mom, Dad . . . they make no move to help me. Even Mitchell. He weeps and pulls at his hair, but can do nothing.
I can’t deny that I feel a bit like that in reality. That my family is doing nothing, merely standing on the sidelines as I go up in flames. They’re passively watching everything happen to me. There’s nothing they can do. I know this. I said as much to Mitchell when he suggested we run away. Still, I can’t help feeling abandoned.
Walking into the kitchen, I find Mitchell watching TV. All evidence of the one he broke is gone. Someone moved a television from a guest room into the kitchen. It’s smaller and sits on the counter. Mitchell balances his weight on a bar stool in front of it.
“Hey.” He looks up, his spoon freezing from scraping the last of his yogurt from the container.
“Hi.” My gaze drifts to the screen and the protestors congregating in front of the White House. An anti-Agency group waves posters and shouts at the anti-carrier group. The anti-carrier group outnumbers the anti-Agency group. Police patrol on horseback, trying to prevent rioting in the clogged streets.
I grab a soda from the fridge. “Isn’t there anything else on television?”
He flips the channel to a local station. Instead of its regular television show, a reporter stands outside Oak Run, a faith-based summer camp in Kerrville where kids learn the Bible alongside how to rock climb. A few of my friends went there. I never did. Mom always sent me to music camps and voice programs throughout the summer instead.
The reporter tells us that the government has requisitioned the camp for carriers. With housing for six hundred campers, staff not included, it’s an ideal setup for all carriers in South and Central Texas. I assume it’s where I’ll be going whenever they get around to collecting me.
I lean on the counter and study the fortified fences with winding ropes of barbed wire at the top. Guards with guns man the front gate and roam the fence line. Several red-colored buildings dot the background, nestled in the hills among thick trees.
It is just one of many new internment camps popping up across the country overnight, rushing to meet the demand. Staring at the screen, I feel my throat closing up.
Mom strolls into the kitchen. “What do ya’ll want for dinner tonight?” She looks at me. “Davy, you could make your delicious French toast?”
I blink at her, hating how she’s acting as though everything is fine. Normal. When it’s so . . . not. “I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Oh.” She looks down at her hands, and I feel wretched. I don’t know how much time I have here. I’d rather spend what’s left getting along. I walk over and kiss her on the cheek.
“Let’s order Chinese,” I suggest, wrapping an arm around her. She relaxes, softening against me.
Her lips curve in a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That sounds good.” I scan her face, trying to memorize it, realizing I don’t know when I’ll see her again—after they take me. The gray is starting to appear at her temples and I realize she’s behind on coloring her hair. She’s usually so on top of stuff like that.
“It will be okay, Mom.”
She nods, and I realize this is as much as we’ll ever discuss about it—about me. Her daughter with HTS.
And that’s okay.
I don’t expect her to save me. I don’t expect anyone to do that. I’m alone in this. Just like Sean said. Whatever happens, I don’t have anyone. I have to learn to live with that.
The knock at the door finally arrives.
Only it’s not Pollock. It’s a woman. Dressed in a sleek pantsuit, her dark hair pulled back into an equally sleek ponytail, she looks like what I imagined a government agent would look like.
With a flash of identification and murmured words I can’t hear from where I lurk in the living room, Mom ushers her inside.
“Davy, this is Ms. Stiles.”
“Agent Stiles,” the woman corrects.
Mitchell enters the room and his entire demeanor changes. He pulls back his shoulders as though bracing for a punch. I notice the way his eyes follow the agent.
She smiles at me. “And you must be Davina.”
“Davy.”
Her smile stays in place. “Davy. Yes. I’ve heard a lot about you. Or read, rather.”
“Really? What have you read?”
“Oh, this and that. You’re an accomplished young lady.” Young lady? Not carrier? Not killer? “Your college essay was particularly good. You have a way with words. I even saw your recording for Juilliard.” She nods in approval. “Very impressive.”
She had access to my college essay? My audition tape? What else did she know about me?
“Can I offer you a drink, Agent Stiles?” My mother, ever polite.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I have several more houses to visit in the area today. I’ll be quick.”
Other carriers? My pulse quickens, wondering if she’s going to call on anyone I know. Any of the carriers from Keller. Sean. Gil.
She opens her satchel and pulls out a few sheets of paper. “This is a contract for Davy to attend a government-managed training school.”
She hesitates, looks at me, then Mom. Like she wants this to sink in before she continues.
“You mean Davy doesn’t have to go to one of those detention camps on TV?” Mitchell gets to the point.
Mom’s face creases in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. . . . How is it different?”
“In lieu of entering into a detention camp, Davy can receive specialized training. Only a select number of carriers are receiving invitations to this program.”
Mom takes the papers, hope starting to wash away her confusion. “What kind of special training?”
“For how long?” Mitchell cuts in.
“Instructors will train Davy and other carriers between the ages of twelve and eighteen to better . . . channel their destructive tendencies. They’ll be given the tools to not only function in society but to serve their communities . . . their countries.”
I can only stare. My heart races. It’s too good to be true. I could be part of the world again. I could belong . . . and serve a purpose. Be more than a dishwasher. More than someone it is okay to abuse.
Mom skims the papers. It’s doubtful she’s even reading them the way her hands tremble. Like me, she probably only hears what the agent is offering me. She clutches the papers like someone might dare to wrest them away from her and steal this future from me.
Mitchell cocks his head. “Why Davy?”
Stiles studies him a moment before answering, “Your sister was an exceptional student. A talented musician and singer. We’re looking for carriers like her that showed promise in their past lives. . . .”
Past lives? Like I’ve died and am now reborn into something else, something less, something bleak and undesirable. A blight.
She continues, “Young carriers who possess special qualities and skills we can optimize.” Her gaze falls on me, and she smiles vacantly. “It is our belief that you can be taught . . . your violent urges redirected into something more positive.”
You can be taught. Something about those words makes me feel like a dog being sent to obedience school. I dismiss the feeling though. She’s offering salvation, an escape from a detention camp.
“How long is this . . . training?” Mom asks, and I hear what she’s really asking. When will I come home? Will I ever?
“However long necessary for her to reach a level where she can be assigned a duty and perform with adequate success.”
I shake my head. Isn’t that bureaucratic smoke-blowing at its finest? “Perform with adequate success.” What did that even mean?
“What if I can’t?” I hear myself ask.
She looks at me, her expression mildly annoyed. “If we decide you’re untrainable, then you’ll be moved to a detention camp. Where you were headed before you were flagged for special ops training. It’s not a fate I would choose, were I you.” Again, the empty smile is back, and this time it feels vaguely threatening. “So don’t fail.”
I nod mechanically.
Agent Stiles adjusts her grip on her satchel and glances at her watch. Her gaze drifts toward the front door before looking back at me. “You need to decide now. It’s your call. Training or detention camp?”
There’s really no choice. As she stares at me, I see she knows this, too.
I nod at Mom. “Sign it.”
She moves to the desk. I follow closely, watching as she signs her name and then hands me the pen to sign.
“Excellent,” Stiles announces, taking the papers from me. “A van will be collecting you tomorrow morning between seven and eight. Be ready.” She takes a satisfied breath, squaring herself in front of me. “You’re one of a chosen few. You should consider yourself very honored.”
Honored? I want to point to my throat. Did she miss that?
She continues, “We’ve been granted permission for roughly fifty carriers. We conducted a nationwide search. It was difficult to choose. Harder to find quality females.”
She makes me sound like livestock. Not a person. Not human.
Then that other thing she said sinks in. Fifty carriers nationwide. That’s not many at all. But she mentioned needing to visit other houses in the area today. Could Sean be one of them?
I touch my brother’s arm, sliding my hand down to his. “No running, Mitchell. I’ve got to stay.”
He steps back until he collides with the wall. His face scrunches up and a choked cry breaks loose, rattles from his chest. He slides down the wall until he hits the floor. I watch as he buries his face into his hands. I feel every one of his jagged sobs like a claw-swipe to my heart.
Part Two: Mount Haven
The situation of overcrowding must be attended. Please stop sending carriers to this location. Our present population demands relief. I can reach no solution against the rising tide of disease that has befallen this camp. We lost six carriers this month alone, and even a guard died, infected with the same illness that has plagued the camp since we opened. . . .
—Correspondence from director of Camp 19 to Dr. Wainwright
TWENTY
WITHIN TWO MINUTES OF THE PRESIDENT’S address, we receive an automated phone message informing us that we would be contacted soon with information regarding my assignment and that I’m not to leave my residence for any reason under threat of arrest. Funny, that doesn’t even strike a chord of fear in me. Not when I’m about to be forced into some kind of camp for carriers.
Days pass. Mom flinches every time the phone rings on the counter. If Mitchell’s around, he goes still, his eyes fixing on her as she answers. Dad, if he’s even home, quickly flees into another room. The days roll into a week. I move about in a fog. I know they haven’t forgotten about me. It’s only a matter of time before they come for me.
The media shows around-the-clock coverage of carriers being rounded up and forced onto buses. Well, maybe not forced. Most go along with it.
There are a few instances of runners that make it on to the news. One car chase outside Detroit replays every thirty minutes. A carrier tried to escape with his family. He used to be a high school art teacher until he was identified as a carrier and dismissed from his job. I shouldn’t watch. It’s just a blatant ploy to sensationalize what’s happening, but I’m helplessly captivated, watching as the Mini Cooper drives off a bridge and crashes into a gravel pit, killing the entire family instantly. A wife and two small children. They show footage of the burning car. For a split second, you can even see the dark shadows within the vehicle.
All that night, I dream of dying in a car explosion, flames licking at my flesh, devouring me as I fight to get out. The weird part is my family stands outside the vehicle, watching me trapped inside the car, doing nothing to reach me or put out the fire. Mom, Dad . . . they make no move to help me. Even Mitchell. He weeps and pulls at his hair, but can do nothing.
I can’t deny that I feel a bit like that in reality. That my family is doing nothing, merely standing on the sidelines as I go up in flames. They’re passively watching everything happen to me. There’s nothing they can do. I know this. I said as much to Mitchell when he suggested we run away. Still, I can’t help feeling abandoned.
Walking into the kitchen, I find Mitchell watching TV. All evidence of the one he broke is gone. Someone moved a television from a guest room into the kitchen. It’s smaller and sits on the counter. Mitchell balances his weight on a bar stool in front of it.
“Hey.” He looks up, his spoon freezing from scraping the last of his yogurt from the container.
“Hi.” My gaze drifts to the screen and the protestors congregating in front of the White House. An anti-Agency group waves posters and shouts at the anti-carrier group. The anti-carrier group outnumbers the anti-Agency group. Police patrol on horseback, trying to prevent rioting in the clogged streets.
I grab a soda from the fridge. “Isn’t there anything else on television?”
He flips the channel to a local station. Instead of its regular television show, a reporter stands outside Oak Run, a faith-based summer camp in Kerrville where kids learn the Bible alongside how to rock climb. A few of my friends went there. I never did. Mom always sent me to music camps and voice programs throughout the summer instead.
The reporter tells us that the government has requisitioned the camp for carriers. With housing for six hundred campers, staff not included, it’s an ideal setup for all carriers in South and Central Texas. I assume it’s where I’ll be going whenever they get around to collecting me.
I lean on the counter and study the fortified fences with winding ropes of barbed wire at the top. Guards with guns man the front gate and roam the fence line. Several red-colored buildings dot the background, nestled in the hills among thick trees.
It is just one of many new internment camps popping up across the country overnight, rushing to meet the demand. Staring at the screen, I feel my throat closing up.
Mom strolls into the kitchen. “What do ya’ll want for dinner tonight?” She looks at me. “Davy, you could make your delicious French toast?”
I blink at her, hating how she’s acting as though everything is fine. Normal. When it’s so . . . not. “I don’t feel like cooking.”
“Oh.” She looks down at her hands, and I feel wretched. I don’t know how much time I have here. I’d rather spend what’s left getting along. I walk over and kiss her on the cheek.
“Let’s order Chinese,” I suggest, wrapping an arm around her. She relaxes, softening against me.
Her lips curve in a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That sounds good.” I scan her face, trying to memorize it, realizing I don’t know when I’ll see her again—after they take me. The gray is starting to appear at her temples and I realize she’s behind on coloring her hair. She’s usually so on top of stuff like that.
“It will be okay, Mom.”
She nods, and I realize this is as much as we’ll ever discuss about it—about me. Her daughter with HTS.
And that’s okay.
I don’t expect her to save me. I don’t expect anyone to do that. I’m alone in this. Just like Sean said. Whatever happens, I don’t have anyone. I have to learn to live with that.
The knock at the door finally arrives.
Only it’s not Pollock. It’s a woman. Dressed in a sleek pantsuit, her dark hair pulled back into an equally sleek ponytail, she looks like what I imagined a government agent would look like.
With a flash of identification and murmured words I can’t hear from where I lurk in the living room, Mom ushers her inside.
“Davy, this is Ms. Stiles.”
“Agent Stiles,” the woman corrects.
Mitchell enters the room and his entire demeanor changes. He pulls back his shoulders as though bracing for a punch. I notice the way his eyes follow the agent.
She smiles at me. “And you must be Davina.”
“Davy.”
Her smile stays in place. “Davy. Yes. I’ve heard a lot about you. Or read, rather.”
“Really? What have you read?”
“Oh, this and that. You’re an accomplished young lady.” Young lady? Not carrier? Not killer? “Your college essay was particularly good. You have a way with words. I even saw your recording for Juilliard.” She nods in approval. “Very impressive.”
She had access to my college essay? My audition tape? What else did she know about me?
“Can I offer you a drink, Agent Stiles?” My mother, ever polite.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. I have several more houses to visit in the area today. I’ll be quick.”
Other carriers? My pulse quickens, wondering if she’s going to call on anyone I know. Any of the carriers from Keller. Sean. Gil.
She opens her satchel and pulls out a few sheets of paper. “This is a contract for Davy to attend a government-managed training school.”
She hesitates, looks at me, then Mom. Like she wants this to sink in before she continues.
“You mean Davy doesn’t have to go to one of those detention camps on TV?” Mitchell gets to the point.
Mom’s face creases in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. . . . How is it different?”
“In lieu of entering into a detention camp, Davy can receive specialized training. Only a select number of carriers are receiving invitations to this program.”
Mom takes the papers, hope starting to wash away her confusion. “What kind of special training?”
“For how long?” Mitchell cuts in.
“Instructors will train Davy and other carriers between the ages of twelve and eighteen to better . . . channel their destructive tendencies. They’ll be given the tools to not only function in society but to serve their communities . . . their countries.”
I can only stare. My heart races. It’s too good to be true. I could be part of the world again. I could belong . . . and serve a purpose. Be more than a dishwasher. More than someone it is okay to abuse.
Mom skims the papers. It’s doubtful she’s even reading them the way her hands tremble. Like me, she probably only hears what the agent is offering me. She clutches the papers like someone might dare to wrest them away from her and steal this future from me.
Mitchell cocks his head. “Why Davy?”
Stiles studies him a moment before answering, “Your sister was an exceptional student. A talented musician and singer. We’re looking for carriers like her that showed promise in their past lives. . . .”
Past lives? Like I’ve died and am now reborn into something else, something less, something bleak and undesirable. A blight.
She continues, “Young carriers who possess special qualities and skills we can optimize.” Her gaze falls on me, and she smiles vacantly. “It is our belief that you can be taught . . . your violent urges redirected into something more positive.”
You can be taught. Something about those words makes me feel like a dog being sent to obedience school. I dismiss the feeling though. She’s offering salvation, an escape from a detention camp.
“How long is this . . . training?” Mom asks, and I hear what she’s really asking. When will I come home? Will I ever?
“However long necessary for her to reach a level where she can be assigned a duty and perform with adequate success.”
I shake my head. Isn’t that bureaucratic smoke-blowing at its finest? “Perform with adequate success.” What did that even mean?
“What if I can’t?” I hear myself ask.
She looks at me, her expression mildly annoyed. “If we decide you’re untrainable, then you’ll be moved to a detention camp. Where you were headed before you were flagged for special ops training. It’s not a fate I would choose, were I you.” Again, the empty smile is back, and this time it feels vaguely threatening. “So don’t fail.”
I nod mechanically.
Agent Stiles adjusts her grip on her satchel and glances at her watch. Her gaze drifts toward the front door before looking back at me. “You need to decide now. It’s your call. Training or detention camp?”
There’s really no choice. As she stares at me, I see she knows this, too.
I nod at Mom. “Sign it.”
She moves to the desk. I follow closely, watching as she signs her name and then hands me the pen to sign.
“Excellent,” Stiles announces, taking the papers from me. “A van will be collecting you tomorrow morning between seven and eight. Be ready.” She takes a satisfied breath, squaring herself in front of me. “You’re one of a chosen few. You should consider yourself very honored.”
Honored? I want to point to my throat. Did she miss that?
She continues, “We’ve been granted permission for roughly fifty carriers. We conducted a nationwide search. It was difficult to choose. Harder to find quality females.”
She makes me sound like livestock. Not a person. Not human.
Then that other thing she said sinks in. Fifty carriers nationwide. That’s not many at all. But she mentioned needing to visit other houses in the area today. Could Sean be one of them?
