The Smaller Evil (10 page)

ARMAN WAS IN A DAZE.
A wretched one. What else could he do but accept that he was either completely delusional and had imagined the last six hours of his life or . . .

Or
what?

Or nothing, he realized. There wasn't any other option. He was batshit crazy. He had to be. Because dead bodies didn't disappear and vans didn't vanish into thin air and heirloom knives didn't return from the depths of darkness.

Except when they did.

Hence the daze.

The adults standing around Arman kept talking. And they did it in that way adults always did. Like they knew best. Somehow it was decided that Gary would walk with Arman back up to the cabin where he'd been staying. Gary was a doctor, it turned out, a real medical doctor, and he wanted to tend to Arman's head wound. Apparently there was a first aid station somewhere up there, too.

Doctor or no doctor, Arman did
not
want to walk with him—he didn't like the guy's arrogance or his drippy voice or even the way
his weird gauzy clothes dragged on the ground because his legs were too short for his body—but Arman was in no position to argue. Both Mari and the dark-haired woman insisted. Only there was something about their insistence that felt off to Arman. Like he was being pandered to. Or appeased. He resented that. There was a stark difference, he thought, in being cared for and being taken care of.

But in the end, Arman agreed—because it wasn't a choice and really never had been—and started the walk back up to the cabin with Dr. Gary at his side, carrying his bag for him.

“You're going to need stitches,” the doctor told him.

“Really?” Arman had never had stitches. The idea wasn't a pleasant one, thinking of his body as unwillingly open. Exposed to the world for everyone to see.

“We'll need to go to the research building for that. I don't keep all that equipment in my cabin.”

“What research building?”

“You'll see.”

They walked more. Arman got the feeling the dislike between them was a mutual thing, but the silence made him grow restless.

“What's going on in there?” He pointed back toward the domed meeting hall, which was still visible over the tall grass and the wildflowers blanketing the meadow.

Dr. Gary gave a terse nod. “That's Inoculation. It's a long process.”

“How long?”

“They'll be there until at least dinner.”

“But what are they doing exactly?”

“Well, to be fully Inoculated, you first have to identify what it is that's making you sick. We don't target symptoms here; we work on
a model of vector control. So that's what they're doing. Identifying where disease transmission is occurring in their Outside Lives, so that they can put a stop to it.”

“Hmm.” Arman thought of the disarray his own mind and body were in. What vectors were responsible for
his
disease? His parents, he supposed, but it had to be more than that. When Arman closed his eyes and pictured himself as a dot in the center of a bull's-eye, surrounded by all the systems he operated within on a daily basis—home, school, his social life, youth group, basketball, the entire US government—the number of possible vectors affecting him seemed infinite. But didn't that mean Occam's razor should apply? If
everything
made him miserable, wasn't the likely origin of the problem him?

No. Stop it. There's nothing wrong with you. That type of thinking is why you came here in the first place. It's why you need to change.

It's why you need Beau.

Except Beau was gone and possibly dead, and Arman, in his effort to run away, was the one who'd lost him. And wasn't that the strongest evidence that there was something wrong with him?

Didn't that prove, deep down, in the most empirical of ways, that he was a bad person?

“What are you thinking about, Arman?” Dr. Gary's cool voice sliced its way into his daydream.

Arman twitched. “Nothing.”

“You seem upset.”

“I
am
upset.”

“We teach that, too, you know. How to regulate your emotions. How to remain rational in times of crisis so that you can choose the correct path toward healing.”

“Aren't
you
supposed to heal people?” Arman asked with a glare. “I mean, seeing as you're a doctor and all.”

Dr. Gary's lips widened into the most placid of smiles. “You're right. I am a doctor. But where much of the medical work I do is reparative, the work we do here is
empowering
. You see, not only are we trying to help individuals evolve to a place where they can manage their own immune systems, but we also know it's possible for people in very heightened states of consciousness to control
all
planes of existence: physical, emotional, spiritual. That's true independence. That's
freedom.
There'll be no need for doctors at that point.”

Arman was doubtful. “There won't?”

“Oh no. I mean, we're not there yet. But that's where we're going. That's going to be the next phase.”

“Next phase in what?”

“The
evolution
. The one happening right here.” The doctor gestured out at the compound property. “Our first phase has been focused on recruiting and training. On building our base. But now we need to go further.”

“How?”

“The way all research is done. Or at least the way it should be. With
control
. By closing our borders and becoming completely self-sufficient, we'll be able to maintain a sterile environment. There'll be no contamination from the outside world. Our Enforcement strategy will make sure of that. And that's when our work will really begin.”

“Beau didn't say anything about closing the compound.”

“Beau's been focusing on growth. That's really his area of strength. But he'll come around. It's going to be beautiful, Arman. When the mind and body achieve true harmony, there will be no limits. None. You can be or do anything.”

Arman didn't know what to say. The whole thing sounded strange. And not all that appealing, if he was being honest. He'd come here to learn how to deal with the outside world, not live with a bunch of old people forever. What would happen when they all died? “You know, I'm only supposed to be here a week.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will be,” the doctor said soothingly. “We're being very selective about who stays for this phase. It's not for everyone. It's going to take a lot of resources.”

• • •

They kept hiking and Dr. Gary kept talking, though Arman had long stopped listening. As they passed the cluster of cabins where Arman had been staying, Dr. Gary led them into the woods, veering off the main trail to brush beneath the low-hung branches of pine trees. Arman followed reluctantly, staring up the hillside. The cook's house wasn't much farther, just a few hundred feet, and despite his confusion, he refused to believe those breathless, urgent moments between them that morning had been anything but real. There'd been no dream, no fantasy, he'd ever had that had felt like
that.

Finally they reached the two-story, flat-roofed building Arman had noticed yesterday on his way to the bathroom. The one with the dark windows.

“What is this place?” he asked. Unlike the rest of the compound, there was nothing warm or rustic about the building. It was institutional. Bland. It exuded gloom. “People don't sleep here, do they?”

The doctor pulled a set of keys from his pocket to unlock the front door. “Here? No. It's used for storage mostly, these days. But I do keep an office here.”

“An office?”

“That's sort of a joke. It's not like I have a lot of patients.”

“But you called it a research building.”

“Well, that's what it used to be. Back in the day. When Beau was actually interested in that sort of thing.”

“What kind of research?”

“Human potential.”

Once inside, they headed down a long corridor that reminded Arman of the administrative wing of his grungy high school. It reeked of depression and foregone dreams. Passing by shut door after shut door, he noticed names had been painted above each entryway:
JUSTICE
.
MER
CY
.
PRIDE
.
RESISTANCE
. All virtues, it seemed, although not necessarily Christian ones. He tried peeking into one of the small windows only to find it painted black.

“What's in there?” he asked.

“I told you. Storage.”

“But why are the windows painted?”

“You ask a lot of questions, don't you?”

Arman cringed. “Sorry.”

The doctor's office was at the end of the hall. The word above his door was
WISDOM
, which Arman found reassuring. Again Dr. Gary used his key ring, switching on the overhead light, ushering Arman in.

Surprised, Arman looked around. The space was far bigger than he'd imagined, and while the surfaces were dusty and the air stale, it was definitely nicer than the doctor's office he went to back at home—the one with the waiting room full of shrieking children, surly teens, and stressed-out mothers. This room was large, open, and flooded with dappled light coming in through the plate-glass windows that looked out over the hills and toward the ocean beyond.

“Have a seat.” Dr. Gary gestured to the black leather chair set in the center of the room.

Arman took a step toward the chair. Then hesitated.

“I know this all seems a little out of place,” Dr. Gary said. “But like I told Beau, if I'm going to work here, really work, it needs to be my
best
work. That's why I've brought all of this equipment down here and why I wanted to set up my office in a space with real amenities. In the long run, it helps to keep us independent.”

Arman sat tentatively in the chair while Dr. Gary cleared his desk, shoving books and papers, even a laptop, onto the floor and into boxes. Then he turned toward the far wall. Began opening cabinets, setting items on a metal tray.

“What kind of doctor did you say you were?” Arman asked.

“Those questions again.”

“Forget it.”

“No, it's okay. I was trained in emergency medicine. Did ER work for years. Trauma. I knew it was what I wanted to do since I was a kid. I've always been good in a crisis. Level-headed. And I loved it at first. The power of saving people. Of having answers. But over time I realized I wasn't saving anything. Sure I could bring a heart-attack victim back to life or take a bullet out of an organ, but by the time those people got to me, the damage had already been done. I was the solution for failure, which really isn't an answer at all.”

“Oh.” Arman picked at a hangnail he thought might be growing infected. He was sorry he'd asked anything in the first place. It wasn't like he'd wanted to hear the guy's life story.

“Are you allergic to any medications?” the doctor asked.

“No.”

“Are you currently taking any?”

“Isn't that against the rules? Taking medication?”

Dr. Gary tipped his head. “Good to know you've been paying attention to something around here.”

Arman didn't respond.

“Now, how bad would you say your headache is right now, on a scale of one to ten?” the doctor asked.

“A seven, I guess.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Sunday.”

“What state are we in?”

“California.”

“Good. How's your vision? Seeing double? Anything out of focus or just feel not right?”

“Not really.”

“Any nausea? Vomiting?”

Arman shook his head.

“Did you lose consciousness when you got hurt?”

“I don't remember.”

“What about confusion? Any disorientation? Having trouble understanding what's going on around you?”

“Well, yes. Yes and yes. You know that.”

“These symptoms are fairly common with concussions. So is memory loss.”

“So what does that mean?”

“I'm not sure it
means
anything
.
I'm just trying to explain why you're confused.”

“But you actually think it's possible that I somehow hit my head and imagined this whole thing? Everything that happened today?”

“Definitely possible. Although it might indicate that there's other
stress going on in your life at the moment, as well.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. I'm not that kind of doctor.”

Arman bit back a laugh. Stared up at the ceiling. “So I'm crazy. That's what you're saying?”

Dr. Gary sat on a rolling stool. Pushed himself close to Arman until their knees were touching. “Look, I understand you had experiences today that felt real to you. But I also know that memory can be a tricky thing. It doesn't always tell the truth the way we think it does.”

“But—”

“Beau's
fine
, Arman. Trust me on that. You'll see tomorrow when he returns. Meanwhile, you're going to rest. Head injuries can take a long time to heal. Now I want you to stare at the wall behind me.” He pulled a penlight from the tray and flashed it into Arman's eyes. After a moment, he rolled back. Handed him two pills and a cup of water.

Arman looked at the pills. “What are these?”

“They're to help with the pain you're feeling. Acute injury is one of the few times we make allowances for medication. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“My feet have blisters,” Arman said. Then he sat up. “Hold on. Look in my bag, will you? There should be a box of Band-Aids in there, right on top. They're from that market. That'll at least prove I was there!”

“The Los Padres Market?”

“Yes!”

Dr. Gary went and got Arman's bag from where it sat on the floor. He unclipped the front flap, opened it, and held it in front of Arman.