Wayward, page 16
“How deep is the microchip?” Ethan asked.
“Not terribly,” the doctor said.
He opened the bottle of iodine.
Poured some onto a cloth.
Scrubbed the back of Ethan’s left leg.
“We affix them to the biceps femoris.” The doctor jabbed the syringe into the smallest bottle. “Few little pinches coming,” he said.
“What’s in that?”
“Just a local anesthetic.”
Once the back of his leg was numb, it went fast.
Ethan couldn’t feel a thing, but in the reflection of the mirror, he watched the doctor lift the scalpel.
He felt some pressure.
Soon there were smears of blood on the doctor’s latex gloves.
A minute later, he traded the scalpel for the tweezers.
Twenty seconds later, the microchip plunked into the metal tray beside Ethan’s head.
It looked like a flake of mica.
“Do me a favor,” Ethan said as the doctor pushed a piece of gauze into the wound.
“What’s that?”
“Do a sloppy job on the sutures.”
“Smart,” Pam said. “It’ll buy you some Kate cred if she thinks you cut it out yourself. Like maybe you’re going rogue.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
The doctor lifted the needle holder, a length of dark thread dangling.
* * *
The pain from the incision was beginning to warm in the back of Ethan’s leg as he and Pam moved down the Level 1 corridor toward the cavern.
Ethan stopped at the door to Margaret’s cell, leaned in toward the glass window, and cupped his hands around his eyes.
“What are you doing?” Pam asked.
“I want to see her again.”
“You can’t.”
He squinted through the glass into darkness.
Couldn’t see a thing.
“Have you worked with her?” Ethan asked.
“I have.”
“What do you think of her?”
“She should be put in the incinerator with all of our specimens. Come on.”
Ethan looked at Pam. “You see no benefit to learning from the abbies? They do outnumber us by a few hundred million.”
“Oh, you mean so we can coexist? What kind of let’s-hold-hands hippie shit are you suggesting?”
“Survival,” Ethan said. “What if they aren’t all mindlessly violent? If they actually possess a real intelligence, then communication is possible.”
“We have everything we need in Wayward Pines.”
“We can’t live in this valley forever.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I don’t consider the conditions in town ‘living.’ ”
“What would you call it?”
“Imprisonment.”
He turned back to the cage.
Margaret’s head filled the circular window, inches away.
She stared into Ethan’s eyes.
Lucid.
Utterly calm.
“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.
Her black talons began to tap against the glass.
16
It was a two-bedroom Victorian on the northeast side of town, freshly painted, with two pine trees in the front yard and Wayne Johnson’s last name already stenciled on the black mailbox.
Ethan stepped up onto the front porch and rapped the brass knocker.
After a moment, the door opened.
A rotund, balding, gray-skinned man looked up at Ethan, squinting against the light.
He wore a bathrobe, and what hair he still had looked slept-on and uncombed.
“Mr. Johnson?” Ethan said.
“Yes?”
“Hi, I just wanted to swing by and introduce myself. I’m Ethan Burke, sheriff of Wayward Pines.” It felt strangely dirty claiming that position.
The man stared at him, confused.
“Would it be all right if I came in for a minute?”
“Um, sure.”
The house still smelled unlived-in and sterile.
They sat at a small kitchen table.
Ethan took off his Stetson and unbuttoned his parka.
Casserole dishes and plates wrapped in tinfoil lined the counters.
Neighbors no doubt had been called and urged to bring lunch and dinner to Mr. Johnson during this first difficult week.
The three plates within eyeshot looked untouched.
“Are you eating?” Ethan asked.
“Haven’t really had much of an appetite. People have been bringing food over.”
“Good, so you’re meeting the neighbors.”
Wayne Johnson ignored this.
The Wayward Pines Welcome Manual issued to each resident upon their arrival lay open across the table’s faux-wood veneer. Seventy-five pages of dire threats sugarcoated as “suggestions” for living a happy life in Pines. Ethan’s first week as sheriff had been spent memorizing it cover-to-cover. The book was currently open to the page that explained how food was distributed through the winter months when the gardens were in deep freeze.
“They tell me,” Wayne said, “that I’m going to be working soon.”
“That’s right.”
The man put his hands in his lap and stared at them.
“What will I be doing?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Are you one of the people I can actually talk to?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Ethan said. “Right now, you can ask me whatever you want, Mr. Johnson.”
“Why is this happening to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Or you won’t tell me?”
There was a section toward the beginning of the welcome manual entitled “How to Handle Questions, Fears, and Doubts About Where You Are.”
Ethan pulled the manual over and thumbed through to that section.
“This chapter might offer you some guidance,” Ethan said.
He felt like he was reading off a very bad script, which he didn’t believe in.
“Guidance for what? I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what happened to me. And no one will tell me anything. I don’t need guidance, I need fucking answers.”
“I understand your frustration,” Ethan said.
“Why doesn’t the phone work? I’ve tried to call my mother five times. It just rings and rings. That isn’t right. She’s always home, always by the phone.”
Ethan had been in Wayne Johnson’s shoes not long ago.
Frantic.
Terrified.
Coming unhinged as he ran around town trying to make contact with the outside world.
Pilcher and Pam had set out to make Ethan believe he was losing his mind. That had been their integration plan for him from the start. Wayne Johnson’s was different. He was getting what most people got: several weeks to explore town, explore the boundaries, and have several freak-outs before the tough love kicked in.
“I walked the road out of town this morning,” Wayne said. “Guess what? It just looped back around into town. That isn’t right. Something’s off. I just drove here a couple days ago. How is it possible that the road I came in on is no longer there?”
“Look, I understand you have some questions and—”
“Where am I?”
His voice filled the house.
“What the hell is this place?”
His face was red and he was shaking.
Ethan heard himself say, “It’s just a town, Mr. Johnson.” And the scary thing was he hadn’t even considered his answer. It had just sprung out of him like it had been programmed. He hated himself for it. He’d been told that very thing over and over during his integration.
The man said, “Just a town? Yeah. Just a town where you aren’t allowed to leave or have contact with the world outside.”
“Understand something,” Ethan said. “Every person in Wayward Pines has sat where you sit, including me. It gets better.”
Congratulations. Now you’re out and out lying to the man.
“I’m telling you that I want to leave, Sheriff. That I don’t want to be here any longer. That I want to go home. Back to my life like it was before. What exactly do you say to that?”
“It’s not possible.”
“Not possible for me to leave?”
“That’s right.”
“And what authority do you think you have to hold me here against my will?”
Ethan stood.
He was beginning to feel sick.
“What authority?” the man asked.
“The sooner you make your peace with your new life here, the better things will be for you.”
Ethan put on his hat.
The back of his leg was beginning to hurt.
“I wish you’d just say what you mean,” Mr. Johnson said.
“I’m sorry?”
“If I try to leave, you’ll kill me. That’s the gist of it, right? The hard bit of truth you’ve been dancing around?”
Ethan patted the welcome manual. “Everything’s here,” he said. “All you need to know. Inside the town is life. Outside is death. It’s really that simple.”
As Ethan walked out of the kitchen and back toward the front door, Wayne Johnson called after him, “Am I dead?”
Ethan’s hand was on the doorknob.
“Please, Sheriff, just tell me. I can handle it. Did I die in that accident?”
He didn’t need to look back to know the man was crying.
“Is this hell?”
“It’s just a town, Mr. Johnson.”
As Ethan walked outside, a single thought ran through his head.
Pam would be proud.
And he felt, for the first time in his life, truly evil.
* * *
Ethan timed his walk home from work to stop by the jewelry store and then to pass by Theresa’s real estate office just as she was quitting for the day. He rounded the corner onto Main, the back of his leg throbbing at the incision site.
The sky had gone overcast and the streetlamps were on and it was bitterly cold.
There she was, a half block down, locking up for the night.
She wore a gray, woolen trench coat and a knit hat that tied under her chin—just a few sprigs of blond hair poking out. She hadn’t seen him yet, and as she fought to tug the key out of the lock, the vacancy in her face broke something inside of him.
She looked shattered.
Threadbare.
He called her name.
She glanced back at him.
She was in a dark place. He could see that instantly. Would’ve bet money she’d been fighting tears all day. He reached her and put his arm around her.
They walked together down the sidewalk.
There were a handful of people out, locking up shops, walking home from work.
He asked how her day was and she said, “Fine,” in a voice that undercut the meaning of the word.
They moved catty-corner across the intersection of Sixth Street.
Theresa said, “I can’t do this.”
There were tears in her voice now, her throat clogged with emotion.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“I know.”
“But not here. Not like this.”
“Can they hear us now?”
“If we aren’t careful. Speak softly and stare at the ground. There’s something I didn’t tell you last night.”
“What?”
Ethan hooked his arm around her waist, pulled her in close, said, “Hang on a second.” They went past a streetlamp on the corner that Ethan knew housed a camera and a microphone. When they were fifty feet from the lamp, he said, “Were you aware there’s a microchip in the back of your leg?”
“No.”
“It’s how they track you.”
“Do you have one too?”
“I just had mine removed. Temporarily.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later. I want to take yours out. It’s the only way we’ll be able to really talk.”
Their house stood a little ways down the hill.
“Will it hurt?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ll have to cut you. We’ll do it in the chair in the study.”
“Why there?”
“It’s a blind spot in our house. The only one. The cameras can’t see us there.”
Her lips curled into the tiniest smile. “So that’s why you always want me in the study.”
“Exactly.”
“Sure you can do this?”
“I think so. Are you up for it?”
Theresa drew in a deep breath, blew it out.
“I will be.”
* * *
Ethan stood under the archway between the kitchen and the dining room, staring at Ben, who sat at the table, swallowed in a big coat with a blanket draped over his shoulders. The only sound in the house was the squiggle of the boy’s pencil across a sheet of paper.
“Hey, buddy,” Ethan said. “How goes it?”
“Good.”
Ben didn’t look up from his drawing. “What are you working on there?”
Ben pointed at the centerpiece of the table—a crystal vase holding a bouquet of flowers that had long since succumbed to the interior cold. Cast-off, colorless petals wilted on the table around the base of the vase.
“How was school today?”
“Good.”
“What’d you learn?”
This snapped Ben out of his concentration.
It was an honest slip—a holdover from Ethan’s life before.
The boy looked up, confused.
Ethan said, “Never mind.”
Even inside the house, it was cold enough for Ethan to see his son’s breath.
The rage came out of nowhere.
He turned suddenly and walked down the hallway, jerked open the back door, crossed the deck into the yard.
The grass was yellowed, dying.
The row of aspen trees that separated their property from the neighbor’s had dropped their leaves practically overnight.
The floor of the woodshed was still littered with scraps of bark and chips of pine from last year’s load. Prying the ax out of the flat-topped splitting stump, Ethan had a vision of Theresa out here, chopping firewood alone in the cold, him still in suspension.
He stormed back into the house, dark energy riding on his shoulders.
Theresa was in the dining room with Ben, watching him sketch.
“Ethan? Everything okay?”
“Fine,” he said.
The first strike split the coffee table down the middle, its two sides caving inward.
“Ethan! What the hell?”
Theresa in the kitchen now.
“I can see…” Ethan raised the ax. “My son’s fucking breath inside our fucking house.”
The next strike devastated the left half of the table, fracturing the oak into three pieces.
“Ethan, that’s our furniture—”
He looked at his wife. “Was our furniture. Now it’s heating fuel. There a copy of the paper lying around?”
“In our bedroom.”
“Mind getting it?”
By the time Theresa returned with the Wayward Light, Ethan had broken the coffee table into small enough pieces to put inside the stove.
They wadded up sheets of newsprint and stuffed them under the kindling.
Ethan opened the damper, lit the paper.
As the fire grew, he called for Ben.
The boy appeared, sketch pad under his arm. “Yes?”
“Come draw by the fire.”
Ben looked at the butchered coffee table.
“Come on, son.”
The boy took a seat in a rocker beside the woodstove.
Ethan said, “I’ll leave the door open for you. When that fire gets going, add another piece.”
“Okay.”
Ethan looked at Theresa, cut his eyes toward the hall.
He grabbed a plate from the kitchen and followed her back to the study.
Locked them inside.
The light coming through the window was gray, weak, and fading.
Theresa mouthed, “You sure they can’t see us in here?”
He leaned in, whispered, “Yeah, but they will be able to hear.”
He sat her down in the chair, touched his finger to his lips.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a slip of paper, which he’d folded thirty minutes ago at the station.
Theresa opened it.
I need access to the back of your left leg. Take off your pants and turn over. I’m sorry but this is going to hurt a lot. You have to keep quiet. Please trust me. I love you so much.
She looked up from the note.
Scared.
Reaching down, she began to unbutton her jeans.
He helped her slide them down her thighs, something inescapably erotic as he tugged them off—the impulse to keep going, to keep undressing her. Was after all their fuck chair.
Theresa turned crosswise and extended her legs into the air like she was stretching.
Ethan moved around to the side of the chair.
Ninety percent sure he was out of view of the camera, which, from what he’d seen in Pilcher’s office, aimed down at the bookshelf across the room.
He set the plate on the floor and removed his coat.
Kneeling down, he opened one of the large flap pockets and took out everything he’d raided from his office that afternoon.
Bottle of rubbing alcohol.
Handful of cotton balls.
Gauze.
Tube of superglue.
Penlight.
A pair of forceps he’d pocketed from the OR in the superstructure.
A Spyderco Harpy.
