“I guess it’s just you and me, kiddo.” I sigh loudly. “I guess it always has been.”
I tell her about the harvest back on the farm. Planting, and what it was like on a Sunday at home. How Mom would make us all sit around the table, elbows off, and how I wore bolo ties when I went to church.
How I wanted a farm and a bunch of kids someday, even though my pops always thought I hated it. And I never told him, ever, how I didn’t.
I tell her how I regret not telling him.
“You’d have liked him a lot, Marilyn. He was a real good guy, despite the fights we’d had.”
I even make up stories about who she is, tell her how she looks like she’d ride horses or ponies, or whatever tiny girls do to feel tall. I tell her she probably has a pops like mine, only with a great big bushy beard or something like that, because she looks a bit more refined than me. I tell her she’s got a friend, even if she doesn’t know it, because she’s been listening to my bull crap for so long, I owe her one.
I don’t talk about Joelle. Even thinking her name sets me into a deep depression.
I don’t bring up Daisy. I feel like I’m missing a limb not having her with me. I don’t feel saner not seeing her; I feel like I’m falling apart. And I don’t bring up the monster, even though he gets closer and closer each time.
So I stay on safer subjects, happier ones.
I tell her if we went back in time, we’d get some red Solo cups and have a party at my big farmhouse. And maybe she’d be the kind of girl to take a walk with me by the lake.
And I try not to notice things about Marilyn, though I still do. The slope of her brow is elegant like a lady’s, not a girl’s.
Her hands are pretty, too, and delicate. And they’d cut her shirt open to use the paddles a few times, only to reveal long, deep scars on her chest and stomach. Not that I was trying to look, but it was hard not to notice.
It’s probably a secret she wouldn’t want a stranger to know, so I promise myself never to mention it if she wakes up.
“Oh, won’t you please wake up, Marilyn.” I kick the glass between us before I tuck in for the night.
Then, I lie on my back and count the ceiling tiles. Seventy-seven in total. Number forty-three has a crack in it. Number sixty-one is more faded …
“You awake?” Rubber Man lets himself into my room, and I get to my feet.
I’ve grown over time. With my special body, I don’t need to work out, or run, or even eat well to stay fit. I’ve been in this hellhole for almost a year, and it shows—I’ve shot up in height, so my pants ride above my ankles and my shirt needs to be half-unbuttoned to make room for my broader chest.
I’m taller than my old man ever was, so these effects must be from the experiments. Even the doctor has to look up, and his eyebrows raise as he notices I’m not the same boy who came in here eleven months ago. Back then, I was seventeen and my body, though bulky, was still a teenager’s. At some point in this bubble, I grew into a man, and then, into a rather large one.
He picks up the Bible and nods at me. “I’m glad you’ve been reading it again.”
“Again?” My voice is deeper, too.
“I know about your departure from your beliefs. Your father lost faith after burying which sister?”
I sense the transition creep up on me for the first time since arriving.
The doctor cocks his head with a smile. “Testy, testy. We’d better up your dosage, Tom.”
I resist the urge to stand taller. His calling me Tom felt good. Like I’m not a kid anymore. “My faith is my business.”
“Too true.”
“I need answers.”
He tsks with disappointment. “All in good time, my boy.”
I try not to deflate at his use of “boy.” I liked my momentary maturity.
He puts down the Bible and looks at me more seriously. “Sometimes faith isn’t about finding answers, Tommy. It’s about being okay that things are answered in their own time.”
His voice is pitched exactly as my father’s had been the last time I’d spoken to him, and it makes me take a step back.
The doctor had just said the last words my father had said to me—verbatim.
“Who are you?” I ask, realizing for the first time Rubber Man may be exactly that—rubber, and not a real person.
He smiles, and I see something else looking back. “Your father is a good man.”
“Was.”
He laughs softly and ceases to curl his lips the way a human does. The doctor holds up a hand to stop me from speaking. “Listen to me. We don’t have much time. She will be weak at first. In fact, impossibly fragile, as all very strong things are. She’ll need protection.”
“What?”
He motions to Marilyn.
“I need to protect her? Why me?”
“I imagine when she wakes up, she’ll be asking the same exact question, my friend.”
“Wakes up? Will she? How will I help her, when I’m trapped in a bubble?”
“Again, all things answered in time, Tom.” Rubber Man turns to leave, and I lunge forward, grabbing his shoulder, and force him to stop.
“Tell me why she’s so important! Who is she?”
He looks confused. “You don’t know? You really haven’t figured it out? All of you Specials were just trials.” The doctor removes my hand with surprising strength. “She’s the final product.”
I stand there, gaping.
After he leaves, I walk to the end of my bubble to search hers. And there, on her arm, is the brand. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?
Three letters.
E V E
The Authority had done what the Underground could not.
The first perfect Special was complete.
THE END
Acknowledgements
I’d first like to thank my family, both in and out of my home, for dealing with the emotional rollercoaster authorship has gifted us with. My husband and daughter have put up with countless hours of papers piled messily on anything with the audacity to be stationary. I thank you two for giving me everything I needed to continue this crazy game.
My editor, Kimberly. She rocks my little writing world by being the very best editor on the planet (as usual). So good, in fact, I went Independent just to keep her. She knows my style, and though she’s tough, she welcomes challenges and mentors me through. I’ll be forever in your debt, Kim.
My graphics and formatting guy and cousin, John Gibson, who’s coped with the insanity of publishing as things went from nothing to last minute in an instant. Always wise and supportive, and incredibly patient—thank you.
My bestie Michelle Kluttz (the first fan of Gods of Anthem), who’s read this book more times than anyone should have. Every time I wanted to give up, she’d yell, “Noooooooo!” and I thank you so much for being that awesome.
My very best listener and friend, Gloria, who’s always had faith in me. Sometimes that’s all a person needs.
Stephen Campbell! Thank you for the countless messages educating me along the way and listening to me when I’d hit that brick wall. You really don’t know how much help you’ve given, and your keen business advice has saved me from disaster after disaster. Thank you!
My betas. I’ve had enough reads in the early stages to make my hair grey. Keely Christensen, Kimber Coffman, Amanda McCrohan, Neeny Boucher, Daniel Moore, Beau Johnson, John Monk, Alisha Basso, Aria Michaels, Michael Chambers, Jim Adams, Lorraine Sears, Amy Bartelloni, Yessi Smith, D. Nichole King, Jonathan Yanez, John Gibson, Cherrie Ravanera, Laura Thalassa, & Michelle Kluttz, I know I’m leaving people out! But thank you all from the bottom of my cold, cold heart.
About the Author
Logan Keys is originally from Southern California, but currently she’s swimming with sea turtles in Hawaii. Her short story horror compilation Unhinged went Amazon best seller in both the UK and US, and her other stories and poems, The Killin’ Folk, Blue Shades Sweetheart, Vile, Here-After, and Their Prom were
all published in various magazines.
“I enjoy stories that shine a light onto the parts of human nature lesser seen; emotive prose full of tension and duplicity.” – Logan
Copyright © 2015 by Logan Keys
Le Chat Publishing
John Greenleaf Whittier. (1807-1892) Maud Muller. Poem
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—and any events or locals used is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design and Formatting by John Gibson
www.thebookdesignguy.com
Edited by Kimberly Grenfell
Imagination Ether Press
Table of Contents
Title Page
Links
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Fifty-five
Fifty-six
Fifty-seven
Fifty-eight
Fifty-nine
Sixty
Sixty-one
Sixty-two
Sixty-three
Sixty-four
Sixty-five
Sixty-six
Sixty-seven
Sixty-eight
Sixty-nine
Seventy
Seventy-one
Seventy-two
Seventy-three
Seventy-four
Seventy-five
Acknowledgements
About the Autor
Copyright
Table of Contents