Ashes (18 page)

“Okay. I trust you.” The only reason she trusted him was that she didn't have a choice— and because she'd heard for herself the noise of traffic, however sporadic or remote. They really were close. But would there be anyone willing to give two kids a ride
who
looked like the two of them did?

She hoped. Adam kept leading.
Soon,
she fought to convince her mind.
A few more steps.
A few more
breaths
. A few more…

Light flashed in front of her, nearly blinding. A horn cut the dead night air, startling them both. In their haste, they had darted out too far. But the truck driver was clearly spooked. His rig turned hard and slid as the brakes shrieked to a halt atop the slick white lines of the road.

Emery and Adam stood there, unsure, uneasy.

The truck driver cursed several times, rolling down the window to make sure his voice was heard, and then stuck his head out into the rain to get a better look at them. “What the—”

Emery watched Adam's chest expand. Only now did he start breathing heavily.
She
never stopped.

“You kids come outta that there woods? You look like you're running from Satan himself.”

Tears of rain dripped from their faces, their eyes. They both nodded.

“Well, where the h—” The trucker abruptly began laughing, like a cynic who'd just stumbled upon a reason to believe in something. “I must've had a few too many drinks at Marty's. Good God, you both got some filthy color on you, for sure. Enough mud on you to scare an old fart like me half to the grave. Where'd you come from exactly?”

“Look. We need to get lost
now
,”
Adam
replied forcefully. “Can you help us?”

“Depends, short stack. Where are you and that pretty little zombie friend of yours headed?”

Emery folded her arms and watched Adam turn red.

“Easy there,” the trucker snidely said with that same peculiar laugh. He scooted his hat back a little on his forehead, revealing he didn't have much hair to show off. Some rain trickled into his truck. “I'm just futzing with you. If I
was
my father, I would've capped you both for robbing me of my skin and darting out like that. I could've killed you.”

“Can you help us or not?” Adam said, growing impatient. The rain was starting to cleanse him physically, but mentally, Emery knew there was still something uncleansed underneath. No time for small talk.

“Now, I asked you where you're headed, and if you can't give me a straight answer—”

“New York.” Adam hesitated. “Bethpage, New York.”

The trucker grinned wildly. “I'd say this is rather fortuitous, then. I'm coming from Boston, got a shipment to Farmingdale and some family in West Babylon. Looks like tonight's your lucky night.” The slick shine of his yellow teeth made Emery's skin crawl, but she wasn't sure if there really was something weird about him or if she was acting paranoid.

She looked at Adam, and with one glance she knew it was okay to step toward the truck.
 
Emery hadn't bothered to look at the vehicle, but when they got up closer, she noticed it was blank, but the side body looked painted over.

There was a part of her that wanted this stranger to be a guardian angel, but a strange sensation came to life inside her. Another step closer, another step away from that terrible place. Wherever Bethpage was, maybe it was better. She hoped to God Adam would protect her, if he
could
protect her.

Adam followed Emery into the cab.
 

“Come on. Step right up. I don't
got
all blasted night. I'm one nut hair away from missing a deadline.”

“What are you carrying?” Adam questioned.

“Whoa-whoa, wait a tick.” The driver reached behind him and got a towel, placing it on the seat. His facial expression told them they were now free to sit down. “Good Lord, you two smell like a sewer.”

Silence.

 
“Just close the door behind you, kid.”

Adam and Emery sank into the seats, Emery in the middle, sandwiched behind the stick shift. Her pulse quickened.
 

“Name's Bruce.”

“I'm Adam.”

The driver looked at her next, waiting for her to introduce herself.

“Emery,” she finally said.

“Now that we're all acquainted and official, you two would be wise to fasten your buckles. I got a thing about deadlines and a penchant for driving hard.”

Emery wasn't sure if she was more surprised that this driver was willing to pick up two strange kids who reeked of crap or that his vocabulary appeared so refined.
For a trucker.
She immediately made up a mental story of him dropping out of Princeton to deliver produce, but it didn't distract from how bizarre tonight had been or how uncomfortable this driver made her feel.

Emery breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and leaned against Adam as Bruce pulled back onto the road with a grunt.

24

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING here?” the small boy asked. “How did you get here?” His face was confused with shadows, far away from where Arson stood, lost in the center of the cold hallway of the school. Arson knew this place. How recently he had found himself trapped here.

At first Arson didn't speak. But the frightening shudders once entombed within him wanted new life.

“I said, what are you doing here!” the boy asked again.

“I'm not sure,” Arson finally replied, stepping closer.

“Don't. I don't want you to see me.”

“Why?”

“I just don't.”

“Who are you?”

“No. We're not playing that game.” The boy stayed hidden. “You know this place, don't you?”

Arson nodded. He stared at the walls. Every heartbeat was a jagged and chaotic mess. His surroundings eventually finished shaking and fell into focus. The blurs and lines and colors collided in the dark-light. Posters and jerseys crowded the halls. Jewel cases were lined with athletic awards and photographs of people he used to hate. There was no doubt, no question that this chamber was every bit as lost and confusing as he remembered.

In these hallways, kids were worshiped, like they had powers. Arson wished now that he could light his fingertip and make it all disappear. Prove to the world that he too was special, had powers. But he didn't. For a while now, his powers had abandoned him.

His brain was so screwed up. Why couldn't he simply control what he remembered? Did he want this, or was it part of a plan? Asking wasn't the issue. It was the lack of answers that infuriated him.

Cold. Gloomy. Dark. Just like the middle school he'd somehow wandered through in his past dreams. This place was high school. He was sure now. A few things were different from the middle school halls, but it was mostly the same, a similar kind of ruined world.

“Why are we all alone? Where is everyone?”

“Everyone?” the boy replied, like he was surprised Arson would even ask. “I don't know. Why don't you tell me? Were you expecting a party?”

Arson was about ready to lose it.

“You wanna hurt me, don't you?” the boy said. “Well, go ahead. I'm never getting out of here. You'd be doing me a favor.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate it here. They never let me out.”

“Who?”

“The memories. The past. I'm stuck. Like you.”

The boy stood up with muffled sobs, but his face remained distorted inside the black. Arson wanted to see him—feel him—know he was real because he couldn't shake the thought that none of it was.

Just then, the boy took off down the hall. Arson tried to follow his shadow, but he couldn't. Simply blinking was too long of a distraction. The only thing that remained was the darkness.

* * *

Hoven was a vulture surrounding them. Carraway, Krane, and Lamont sat like prey in chairs around Arson's comatose body. Their eyes circled.

“How did this happen?” Hoven asked calmly. Krane knew the man was boiling underneath.

“Adam is strong, s-s-sir. You knew what he was cap-cap-c-capable of. And he's very angry.”

“I thought we suppressed it.”

“Some of it, maybe, but obviously not fully. Not to mention, he feel-feels that we have betrayed him,” Krane said, his hand still shaking as sweat beaded off a wrinkled forehead. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”

“Well, let's send him a sympathy card, then,” Hoven mocked, polluting the air with his vile words. “This wasn't supposed to happen. In the last three days, the two most powerful subjects this facility has ever encountered—it's like they're being taken from me!”

“One of them is still here.” That was Lamont, feeling the need to add his two cents.

“Oh, you mean this one here? He's in a coma, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Yeah. But look at the screens. Morpheus is still pickin' up a signal. His body may be fried, but that twisted mind of his is still in Wonderland.”

Hoven turned briefly to stare at the hanging monitors then rubbed his temples. “Dreams or no dreams, we're losing control.” Hoven's mouth folded. He loomed. “How 'bout you, Nick? Care to contribute anything to this enlightening dialogue?”

“I wasn't there when 217 escaped, sir. I can't speculate.”

“You can't speculate,”
Hoven
uttered, his voice like an imprisoned and angry chorus, at any moment ready to explode into a violent crescendo. “And where were you when this
escape
was taking place, hmm?”

Carraway kept quiet.

“Right. When it's time for answers, everybody's deaf and dumb. It astounds me how people so bright can be so weak and stupid.”

The Sanctuary, with all its open space, felt claustrophobic and terrifying as the vulture skulked around the meat. “Frankly, I don't care what you were doing, Nick, or why, only that you facilitated this escape.”

“Sir, I—”

“Shut your hole! I'm not finished.”

Carraway sank back in his seat.

“If you were not there to stop this from happening, then you facilitated.” His lips formed the words perfectly, each sound and syllable harshly echoed. “We have a mess on our hands, gentlemen. It's nasty, and I don't like it. Can any of you comprehend the gravity of the situation?”

“I'm quite s-sure we can…sir,” Krane replied.

“This isn't a science project, Manny, this is business. This is a war. I've already got enough blood on my hands, men. All we need is for this to leak to the press. One pious reporter to go rogue and get in the middle of all we have worked so hard to secure. Maybe I'm the only one who sees this. A screw-up like this is all it takes, that's it, and this Sanctuary gets torn down, with all of us inside. Get the picture?”

“I thought we controlled the press,” Carraway snidely fought back.

“We do. But something can always slide through the cracks. We don't control the others.
The ones who built this place.
The ones who pay our salaries, our healthcare, our families, in order that they remain uninvolved.
That's all we need, for the president to get involved.”

Hoven hovered over them. Reflecting green lights spiraled over and through him, providing a frightening atmosphere for him to breathe out. Every footstep, every gasp, was supplemented with a terrible emerald stare.

“Sir, Adam can't survive out there. So much has changed since we took him. He needs us. He'll return with us. He'll re-r-r-re-realize he's all a-alo-alone out there.”

“How can you be so sure, Manny?”

“He'll be lost, sir. Adam needs to belong. He needs purpose. We g-gave him meaning. We-w-w-we showed him what he was capable of.”

“He took 218.”

“The Phoenix child is of little consequence to us now,” Krane said, trying to inhale through a broken, bleeding nose.

“He's looking for her, in that mind of his,” Hoven said, nodding toward the comatose body. “I'd call that consequence, Doctor.”

“Y-yes, you are correct. But where there is Adam, there is the girl. We w-w-w-will bring him back, and the girl as well.” His rib made a cracking sound he didn't like. He winced, but the pain stuck.

“The game keeps changing.”

“Adaptation.
It's
beginning, sir. We need to ch-ch-c-change. Like they do.”

“What?”

“They're changing. I've begun to notice it with this boy the most. The arson's blood, it keeps adapting. His brainwaves, they're changing too.
A constant flux of movement.
If my calculations are correct, I don't foresee he'll be in a coma much longer.”

“All speculation for now, Doctor,” Hoven replied.

“Yes, and therein lies the rub. The energy never st-s-stays in one place for long, which makes it increasingly more challenging to locate and absorb his mental codes.” Krane leaned up slightly, his teeth clenched at the thought of readjusting his ribs or the bandages. “His DNA structure, the whole of it, is unstable.
Con-constantly becoming more unique.
It is growing, the way Adam's once did.”

Arson's body suddenly jerked, and they didn't move for a second. One weary second crawled into the next.

Hoven's face formed a cryptic grin. “So, Manny, it would appear that the situation gets better.”

“The Source has gone for now, but we have collected more than enough samples to begin the tr-tri-trials at our other locations.”

Hoven eyed Lamont first,
then
located Krane. “Manny, I'm keeping you here because you are familiar with all of this better than most. But don't think for a second that we'll make it out of this unscathed. One more mistake like this, and this facility will be considered compromised. I can't have that. I will not have them take this away from me!”

Krane nodded weakly.

With hunched shoulders, Hoven loomed over the steel bed where Arson lay—a thin body connected to hardware and scattered machines.
Wires and needles and Morpheus working together to feed nearby monitors with wandering images.
A dark school hallway.
Static.
Open doors and empty rooms.
To someone who'd never seen any of this, it would look chaotic, but there was a sick order—the order of the mind—that gave reason and purpose to everything unfolding on the monitors.
 
 

“It's fascinating, isn't it?” Hoven's voice slithered out. “Morpheus and him.” He stood over the body. “Their connection. Even in a coma, you mystify me, 219. Don't
worry,
we'll get her back home where she belongs. You'll all be mine.”

“There is something else, sir,” Krane said.

“What?”

“While I am confident that the arson's mind will wake up in time, the coma
is
affecting his cerebral pathways. The landscape has evolved. I want you to be aware of it. There are so many trap doors in his mi-m-mind. The potential to complicate our ef-f-f-efforts is great. These dreams may become more and more…violent. I think a part of him believes they're real. It is my understanding that if the arson cannot separate what is re-r-r-real from imaginary…”

“…
he'll
be stuck in Wonderland,” Lamont chimed.

Hoven took a peek at the images as Krane played back some from the night before. The monitors glistened with pain and blood. Horror.
A boy who set an animal on fire to sit there and watch it burn.
Then a mother bleeding from the stomach as a burnt knuckle reached through her flesh from the inside.

And then something neither of them had expected. “This was the strangest of th-them all.” Krane skipped ahead to another image.
A needle being injected into a young boy's arm.
Across from him on a table was a girl Krane recognized, a face he hadn't seen in close to twenty years.

“Is that…?”

“Adam,” Krane said. “And Frances…the arson's mother.”

“There must be a mistake,” Carraway interrupted. “What exactly are we watching here?”

“His memories.”

“But these aren't
his
memories. He wasn't even alive. The boy mentioned something in our session about this, but I wasn't sure…wait, how can this be?”

“The arson is quite extraordinary,” Krane replied. “The w-won-wonder does not end with Adam.”

“Are you sayin' that this kid is havin' dreams of things he ain't never lived before?” Lamont asked.

“Look at all that we've seen Adam do. Is it so strange to us?”

“How long have you known, Manny?” Hoven asked, more like a demand than a question.

“A few weeks.
Since the beginning of his trials.
But I wasn't sure what these memories were. I'm still l-l-learn-learning some things too.”

A sudden jolt later and the images flickered to a hospital room full of smoke and splashes of blood. And then, without warning, the jitters and the monitors became empty school hallways.

“The mind, in our dreamscapes, can some-sometimes blur scenarios together.”

“It still doesn't make any sense. You're certain these are his dreams, only the memories aren't?” Hoven sternly asked.

“Dead certain. Morpheus discovered these final two late last night with a clear scan. But look here.” Krane pushed a button on the remote and the screen switched again. “He's back in that school hallway.”

“What is he doing in there?”

“I don't know. For one r-reas-reason or another, he's drawn to that place, and places like it. I think there's some-something he must…face there.”

“The past,” Carraway offered, sinking back into his seat.