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Prologue
Hunching down in my hiding spot, I fight to catch my breath. A dirty vinyl barricade surrounding three dumpsters offers me shelter, dampening the sounds and smells of the truck stop. Instead, there is only the sound of my thunderous heartbeat and the smell of rancid garbage. I’ve tucked myself into a small space between two of the dark green dumpsters, trying to steady my heart so I can hear what is happening around me.
Footsteps enter the fenced-off space, the shattered glass and debris causing the steps to crunch against the concrete. Covering my mouth with both of my hands, I try to slow my shallow breaths. I hold my breath entirely as the footsteps get closer and listen as the person does a thankfully feeble check of the area behind the trash cans, missing my hiding spot entirely.
“All clear behind the building,” a deep voice says, followed by the crackling of a radio.
I tuck my head between my knees and take deep shaky breaths. The appearance of these men confirms my fears that the small knot on the side of my head may indeed be a tracking device. I can’t seem to shake them, and I can’t let them keep following me.
A few tears fall, but I maintain my composure. Quietly as possible, in case the guards decide to check the area again, I unzip my backpack.
My hand instinctively reaches for the battered flip phone, opening it to scroll through the blurry pictures of the five men I escaped to save. As far as I’m aware, they don’t even know I exist, but they’re in danger from the very people who are after me.
Knowing there isn’t enough gauze or bandages for what I need, I look through the meager first aid kit. Hitchhiking got me here when it was no longer safe or affordable to take the bus, but it came with its dangers. My arms and face are cut up, but I escaped the overeager truck driver who so kindly picked me up off the highway in the pouring rain so many hours ago. I left him to bleed out on the other side of the truck stop where he parked to “get some privacy”. A shudder passes down my spine at the thought of his body on mine, hands pawing at me. He was big and nearly impossible to fight off, but I did what I had to do.
I palm the pocket knife that saved me. I feel the weight in my hand, dense and heavy, and run my fingers along the rough texture of the letters along the rough gunmetal grey handle. The quick-release of the sharp edge, the jerk of the action as I open and close the blade, helps calm me as I steel myself for what I need to do next. I use my last remaining alcohol pad to clean off the blade - this knife is going to have to save me for a second time today.
I’m being tracked. I can’t keep them safe if I’m leading the threat right to their doorstep. The whole point of me coming here is to warn them.
The relative silence is interrupted by loud beeping. The sounds are too close to be coming from the parking area and get louder as the rumbling sounds of a truck move closer to my hiding place. Gathering my stuff, I back out of the small space and peek out as a garbage truck lowers its arms to lift the farthest dumpster.
I take deep breaths and try to shake off the trembling in my hands. It’s now or never.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I picture each of their faces and whisper their names like a mantra. Bennet. Lukas. Jackson. Luis. Micah. Bennet. Lukas. Jackson. Luis. Micah.
If I could go back in time, I would force myself not to react to the photos I saw in the lab. I’m used to tempering my reactions, understanding that anything that piques the scientists’ interest will ultimately cause me more pain. But I wasn’t expecting to see them - five perfect faces, five perfect sets of eyes that drew me in like missing pieces of myself. Apparently, the scientists weren’t expecting it either, and I overheard their plans to bring them in. I couldn’t allow these men to suffer what I’ve gone through my entire life - to be probed, tested, experimented on, and forced to do the bidding of a group of scientists who don’t even consider you human.
I broke out to warn them, to save them.
Bennet. Lukas. Jackson. Luis. Micah.
Taking a deep breath, I lift the knife to my head where I can feel the knot of the tracker. Pushing the sharp tip of the knife into my scalp, I press down until I reach the implant. The pain is excruciating, blood pouring like a fountain over my hands, down my face, mingling with my tears and soaking into my clothes.
I persist, gritting my teeth to keep myself from crying out, my breaths choked. The searing pain makes me gag as I dig into my skull, attempting to pry the implant from my head. My fingers touch the edge of the small chip and grip it. There’s a thick string that seems to be connected to my skull. As I pull on the string, a wave of dizziness and nausea overtakes me, and black spots mar my vision. Choking back vomit, I breathe deeply and brace myself. I wrap my fingers around the tiny implant and with one final breath, yank it from my head with all the strength I possess.
A terrible tingling sensation crawls over my entire head - like my brain is covered in tiny electrical waves. Moments from passing out, I force myself to move. Avoiding looking at the bits of flesh and hair still attached to it, I toss the little chip into the dumpster in front of me just as the truck lifts the bin. Gingerly, I move to the other side of the vinyl barricade, keeping out of sight. When the dumpsters are all emptied and the truck drives off, I allow myself a few minutes of rest and hope the chip will lead them away from me. Before I know it, the sky is darkening. I need to keep moving.
As exhaustion and dizziness drag me down by the second, I stumble into the wooded area behind the truck stop. I don’t allow myself to stop moving until I am far enough into the trees I can no longer see the lights of the truck stop. Blood is still trickling over my face and matting my long hair. A wave of dizziness hits me so hard that I brace myself against a tree and vomit repeatedly. My vision is fading in and out, and I’m having a hard time focusing.
I stumble around in the dark for what could be minutes or hours for all I know, trying to right myself as I’ve lost all sense of direction. I’m no longer able to go any further, sinking down to rest my back against a tree. Removing the thin sweater that I put on to cover the aftermath of my altercation with the trucker, I wrap it around my head, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Once I get it tied tightly, I allow myself to succumb to the darkness.
Micah
My phone buzzes and I see the unknown number on the display again. It says unknown, but I know. He hasn’t changed his number since high school. He also, apparently, hasn’t given up on me.
Waiting for the notification of a voice message, so I can swiftly delete it, I hear a crash downstairs. Quickly, I make my way down the staircase, hearing commotion in my father’s study. At first I only hear him muttering to himself, but then I hear my mother talking to him in soothing tones.
“Would you please sit down? I’ll help you find what you’re looking for. Relax, we don’t want Micah hearing you. He’s home, remember?” My mother placates him in a low voice.
Pressing my back against the wall, I listen intently. I’ve known something is wrong, but my mother is the queen of sweeping trouble under the rug, insistent on pretending that the Williams family is perfect. Even behind closed doors, everything has to be precise and polished. It’s one reason I haven’t returned in nearly two years, another link in the chain that makes being home stifling.
My father mutters some more, something about “where I kept those files” but his voice keeps trailing off.
“Michael, you don’t need your files. You’re supposed to be taking some time off, dear. Relax, come outside and do some gardening with me.”
“I NEED PROOF GODDAMNIT!” He bellows it so loud I’m sure half the neighborhood heard.
There’s no point in me lurking in the hallway. Walking into the office, I ask, “Is everything okay in here?”
