For a moment that seemed to stretch without end, the only sound in the hallway was the program coordinator’s labored breathing. “All of the codes are in the control room,” the man said, finally. Moving as little as possible, he inclined his head toward the first door on the right.
Kyle steered the man to the door. “What’s the code to get in?”
Instead of answering, the coordinator glanced at Jason. “Who sent you to Thornhill? Was it the RfW? You know you won’t get away with any of this.”
Kyle twisted the coordinator’s arm. “The code. Don’t make me ask again.”
“Seven-six-one-three-eight-two.”
Jason entered the numbers and the light on the keypad flashed green. He slipped into the room, followed by Kyle and the program coordinator. I shot a nervous glance at the stairwell door and the broken coffee mug before following.
The room we found ourselves in was dark save for the glow from a bank of computer monitors. All but one displayed a screensaver of the Thornhill logo rotating in 3D.
“Late-night sugar high?” I asked, eyeing the pile of junk food wrappers surrounding the one computer in use.
The coordinator shot me a disgusted look. “The codes are next to the door.”
Jason slipped a gray binder from a rack bolted to the wall. He flipped through it and then tore out a hole- punched page. “Got it.” He glanced at the coordinator. “Now what do we do with him?”
“Tie him up? Lock him in a closet?” I bit my lip and tried to think of options.
“He knows Jason isn’t really a counselor and he’s seen our faces. We can’t just leave him here.” Kyle shifted his hold on the man. One hand was still clawed and deadly. I tried not to look at it too long or too hard.
He was still Kyle. No matter what happened, he would always be Kyle.
“We have to take him with us.” Jason ran a hand through his hair and over his neck. “We can stash him in the old staff quarters or something—just for a few days.”
He kept talking, reasoning it through with Kyle, but their words ceased to register as my eyes locked onto the monitor across the room. Though my gaze had passed over it moments ago, I hadn’t really noticed what was on the screen.
I walked forward, heart in throat.
A spreadsheet filled the screen, but over it was an open video file. The clip had been paused on the image of a girl sitting behind a table. A girl with shoulder-length curls and a torn shirt.
The computer was only ten steps away, but those ten steps felt like ten thousand. In the video, Serena sat behind a heavy metal table—the same table I had seen in the picture of her on Sinclair’s touch screen. Only this time, Serena’s arms were in restraints and there was an IV stand behind her.
“Mac? What are you—” Jason sucked in a sharp, audible breath as he drew closer and realized what I was looking at.
I had seen Serena moments ago and her hair had been cut even shorter than mine. “This was shot the night we arrived.” My voice came out high and thin. “That’s the shirt Serena was wearing during the raid.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “What is this?”
The coordinator didn’t answer. Hand shaking, I grabbed the mouse and clicked play. Serena shrank back as a woman in a tan counselor’s uniform, Langley, entered the room. The counselor carried some sort of metal rod in her hands. Before I could process what was happening, she brought the bar down on Serena’s fingers.
Serena’s scream burst out of the computer’s speakers and echoed in the room. In the video, a large digital clock flickered to life on the wall behind her. Jason made a grab for the mouse as I backed away. He shut the video player and the sudden silence was deafening.
Another open video lay underneath the first. Jason dragged the cursor toward the red
Serena’s hair was short in this one, but unlike in the cell, it was neat and combed. A woman in a white coat stepped into the frame and faced the camera. She adjusted a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. With a jolt, I recognized her as the woman who had signaled out Serena during admissions.
“One-five-six-seven’s transformations have slowed since she began phase two. Longest delay: four- minutes-sixteen-seconds between stimulus and shift.”
Serena turned her head. “Please,” she begged, her voice so broken that things inside my chest snapped, “I can’t do it again.”
The woman with the glasses held up a syringe and approached the table. Tears coursed down Serena’s face, but she was powerless to resist as the needle pierced her arm. The clock flickered to life once more.
Jason reached for the mouse when Serena’s body began to tear itself apart. “Wait!” I clicked pause as the mystery figure crossed the room. Warden Sinclair.
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes and my throat constricted. So this was her idea of helping the wolves in her care. This was rehabilitation.
“They’re actually doing it.” Kyle’s voice was thick with a bass growl. “They’re actually working on a cure.”
“That’s not a cure,” snapped Jason. “That’s torture.”
The room blurred. “There was never any new disease.” A rush of anger filled me, and I had to clench my hands to keep from grabbing the monitor and hurling it to the ground. “They made them sick. They made them sick to keep them from shifting.”
“What did you give her?” Kyle’s voice raised the hair on the back of my neck. He tightened his grip on the program coordinator and the man’s face twisted in pain.
“If I tell you, they’ll kill me.”
Jason swore and headed for the door. He paused on the threshold and glanced back at Kyle. “We don’t have time for this. You stay with him while Mac and I get Serena.” His gaze dropped to the coordinator. In a voice that hinted at blood and pain, he said, “We’ll take him with us and get answers out of him later.”
I knew what Jason was implying, and I knew I should care—we were supposed to be the good guys—but right now I didn’t. I couldn’t. All I could do was follow him into the hall and to Serena’s cell.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Not even a little.”
Jason checked the paper he had pulled from the binder and punched the code into the keypad. The light flashed green and he pulled open the door. I slipped past him and into the cell.
The room was plain and white and smelled of bleach and copper. Its one yellow light cast a jaundiced glow over the tile walls. A toilet and sink occupied one corner, while the other played host to the bed.
Serena was still curled in on herself. It was like she hadn’t moved the entire time we had been in the control room. She was dressed in white clothes that hung off her small frame. Her skin—what little of it was visible—was covered in a sheen of sweat.
“Serena?” I stepped forward and she curled up even tighter, almost as though she were making herself as small a target as possible.
I glanced at Jason; he looked as lost as I felt.
I turned back to Serena and frowned. Her hands were bound. Steel manacles connected by a foot of chain encircled each wrist.
Slowly, I took a second step toward the bed and then a third. “Serena? It’s me. It’s Mac. . . .”
She lifted her head. Awareness bled into her eyes. “Mac?” Her voice was a rasp. She gave her head a small shake and squeezed her eyes shut. “Go away.”
I flinched, assuming she was blaming me for everything that had happened. “Serena . . .”
“You’re not real. You all keep coming, but none of you are ever real.” She tapped the side of her head against the tile wall. One. Two. Three. “You’re not really here.” Tap. Tap. Tap.
Each tap was a spike to my chest.
“Look at her wrists.” Jason had eased farther into the room. He touched my elbow. “Mac, look at her wrists.”
