Deviation (18 page)

My eyes swing over to a red digital clock at the edge of the desk. It’s almost morning by Twig City standards. Will I get to see Lonnie? Or Ida? Is this why Titus brought me here?

“What about Project D? Any movement?” Titus asks.

“None, sir,” Silverton says. He points at another darkened monitor and I wonder how knows the difference between them all. “The same as when you left yesterday.”

“And the new batch of products was dosed on schedule?”

“Yes, sir. Without a hitch. You know I run a tight ship.”

“I expect nothing less. We’ll need to begin the waking process within a couple of weeks. I can’t afford to be put off schedule on this one. They’ll need to be moved into population as soon as they’re able.”

“You got it. I’ll make sure everyone knows it during the next team meeting.”

“We’re going to take a walk. I want to show my daughter the recycle bin.”

A muscle underneath Silverton’s right eye twitches. Something like anxiety coils in my stomach. “Yes, sir. Let me know if you need anything,” Silverton says. His features have smoothed out again. If he thinks it’s odd for me to be here, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he doesn’t look at me once the entire time. I wonder what his eyes would reveal if he did.

I want to stick around and see what’s on that monitor, the one Titus called Project D, but Titus is already leaving the way we came and Alton waits at the door for me to follow. I exhale and make my way out.

We pass back through the room with the new bodies. I try not to look too closely. I don’t want to recognize someone as an Authentic I’ve met on the outside, but more than that, I don’t want to be reminded of how fake I am.

I am almost to the door when I realize Titus is no longer in front of me. “You don’t want to see how you were conceived?” Titus asks. I turn back to where he stands beside the closest occupied basin.

“I … no.” I hate that he used such an Authentic term for creation but I don’t mention it. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.

“A shame. It can teach you a lot about who you are.”

I bite my lip, so many different responses warring inside me. My shoulders sag as I realize there’s only one true response to his words. And I know it’s the one he wants to remind me of anyway. It’s likely the reason he brought me here in the first place. “I’m not anyone,” I say finally.

“Not true.” He shakes his head. “You’re my daughter.”

Even worse.

Back in the hall, Titus turns left and we retrace our steps in silence. Somewhere in the building, a faint chime sounds and lights brighten overhead. It is the morning alarm. A strange familiarity washes over me at the sound. I never thought I’d hear it again, much less from above ground.

I imagine Lonnie rolling to her feet and shaking a drowsy Ida awake so they can be first in line for any breakfast meat the kitchen will offer. Ida won’t care for it, but she’ll hurry for Lonnie’s sake. She is a caregiver but she isn’t tough. She needs so much care herself and I—

I swallow, stamping the thought back down the moment it tries to surface. I’m not there to care for her any longer.

Tears threaten but there’s no time. Titus has stopped us outside another door. It is identical to the first but I know better than to assume anything about what lies on the other side. And I don’t doubt for a second the term “recycle bin” is more complicated than it sounds.

I follow the men inside and, at first glance, there is nothing horrifying. It’s a mostly empty room that smells of disinfectant. A narrow counter lines one wall with a stainless steel sink and wall-mounted dispenser of anti-bacterial soap. On the other side are two chairs, metal and uninviting. They don’t suggest any real time is spent sitting in here. In fact, none of the furnishings do. I look to the chairs and back to the sink trying to figure out why I’ve been brought in here. I suppress a shiver and rub my arms against a chill.

All three of the men have wandered across the room to stare at the far wall. Halfway there, I realize it’s not a wall but a viewing window into a darkened second space. Titus watches me expectantly and I reluctantly make my way forward. There is a cold, stony feeling in my gut. Titus holds his hand over a switch. Something tells me I don’t want to see what’s in the adjoining room.

When the room lights, my insides heave. My entire world tilts.

I blink but when I open my eyes the images don’t disappear. I clamp my lips and eyes shut, shaking my head and silently chanting the words
no, no, no, no, no
. I was right. I don’t want to see.

“This,” Titus says, his tone brisk and unaffected by the gruesome scene before him, “is the recycle bin.”

He’s waiting for me to say something. I try to speak but when my mouth opens, my heave becomes a choke and I can’t breathe and tears are rushing down. I can’t stop them. I don’t care. I don’t know what to say or do. My hands are numb. It’s disgusting.

Two stainless steel tables sit in the center of the room. Both hold a body that is stiff and unmoving and covered with a white sheet.

But that’s not what petrifies me, sealing my feet to the floor.

Cubbies created by metal shelving line the room. Each box contains a jar of varying size and contents. A horrifying variety of hands, arms, and feet severed above the ankle float in thick, viscous liquid. Displayed on every specimen contained is a clean cropping of a tattoo across flesh: a six-digit number settled at the base of a tree.

My stomach revolts. I am overcome with the sensation of floating outside my own body. I desperately want to look away but, I’m forced to notice one of the jars closest to where I stand. A large hand with a tattoo printed near the wrist. I read the number, hating every second the image is burned into my retinas. 6594845. Like a rubber band snapped too tight, I am propelled back into the solid reality of my own insides. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could un-see. Un-know.

I recognize the number. It’s Gus.

“What is this?” Deitrich is the one to speak. I would thank him if I could because for a moment, Titus stops watching me with that enjoyable cruelty in his eyes.

“It’s called the recycle bin.” Titus answers easily, as if what we’re looking at really is some attempt to better the environment.

“What does that mean?” Deitrich asks. He sounds nervous, I think. Or maybe it’s me projecting.

“When a product is terminated, we keep a piece of them for accurate DNA records and for future replication if necessary.”

“No shit?” Deitrich asks. Titus doesn’t bother with a reply.

From the corner of my eye, I see Deitrich’s eyes widen. He stares back and forth between Titus and the view through the window. I wonder if he didn’t realize the parts displayed were actual bodies until now. They do look plastic or sculpted even; an art exhibit on display.

But with Gus as evidence, it’s all too real.

“All of your terminated products are stored here?” Alton asks in a tone that sounds more clinical than anything else. His words carry not a single trace of compassion or feeling for the mangled pieces of
people
before him. Nor does he sound the least bit bothered by the fact that the small patch of marked skin on his wrist will someday end up here.

“More or less. This is actually a holding room. There is a vault in the back where each piece is permanently stored after initial testing and cataloging. You could call these the recent additions.”

“Are we going to tour the vault then?” Alton asks.

“No.” Titus doesn’t leave any room for discussion.

No one speaks for a moment that feels like an hour. I want to leave. To run all the way home and use the buzzing, panicky energy up so that when I arrive, I can collapse into bed and not wake again until I’ve been assigned another life. One that doesn’t include an afterlife spent inside a crisper drawer.

But there is nowhere to run. To go home would mean running straight back to the monster I want to escape from. All I can do is swallow back the tears and hold my ground. When I am sure I can speak without sobbing, I clear my throat. “Why did you bring me here?” I whisper.

Titus leans closer, his eyes narrowing. My body twitches with the urge to step back but I lock my knees and force my feet to remain planted. “Take a good look,” he says, his voice dipping low. “Those parts could belong to any number of products. They could belong to someone you know.”

I whip my head back up to the window and scan the numbers on the cases in a frenzy. I’d only seen Gus before but if he means someone else, someone specific …. 679, 784, 343… I read off only the first three numbers on the cases, certain he’s bluffing but not certain enough to tamp down the irrational fear at the possibility he’s not.

Finally, when I’ve scanned all of the cases and not found another number I recognize, I exhale and turn back to Titus. The hint of a smile plays on his lips. “You were worried.”

“What the hell did you expect?” I snap then press my lips together hard the moment the words are out.

Titus looks just as stunned. I chalk it up to the waning adrenaline coursing through me. One of these days, he’ll push me too far and I won’t care enough to stop myself. Today’s not that day, though, and I brace myself for whatever assault is coming. But Titus only nods once, his eyes shining with something I can’t decipher.

It’s happening again.

“Good. Angry is good. It means you’re worried and afraid, as you should be. I brought you here to show you what will become of your friends if you cross me again. I want to make myself very clear. You will end up here one day. You have no control to change it. And I think you accept that fact well enough. But your friends, well, their fate and timing are up to you.”

He pauses as if letting that sink in.

“And your boyfriend?” Titus adds. “If he puts his hands on you again, I’ll personally cut them off and put them in a freezer bag. Which I think I’ve just proven is not an empty threat. Have I made myself clear?”

I nod, loathing my own shame and subservience. I want to murder him, to cut off his tongue and put it on display in the lobby. Or let the others use it for tennis downstairs.

“Good.” He straightens and his features smooth out. His hands deftly refasten the button on his jacket. “Let’s go home.” He hits the light switch and the scene on the other side of the window is plunged into darkness. I only have the space of a breath to relax because the moment I blink, I realize the images are still there—burned into my memory forever.

Alton is the first to head for the door. Deitrich hesitates. I put aside my own horror and realize he looks almost as stricken. I suspect this was all new information for him as well. Our eyes meet. His are full of shock and confusion and more than a little fear. I feel a pang of compassion for him but I can’t say a word. Not in front of Titus. Alton clears his throat and Deitrich frowns. Like shutters being drawn, his expression shuts down and there is nothing to see.

“Let’s go, you two,” Titus prompts from the doorway. He’s typing something on his phone, oblivious to our exchange.

It isn’t until we’re several yards down the hall that a new horror dawns on me. I wrestle with it, positive I’m doing exactly what Titus wants and playing into his threat. If I voice my fear now, he’ll know his effort to blackmail me back under his control has worked. Which is a silly thought. Of course he knows. He’s never doubted.

“Titus,” I call, coming to a stop. “I need to see them,” I say when I have his full attention.

He doesn’t even ask who before he says, “No.”

I square my shoulders. “I need proof you haven’t already terminated them or I won’t do a single thing you ask.”

He whirls and stomps back to where I stand with my arms crossed to hide my trembling. “Even if I have, you’ll obey for the sake of your boyfriend.” He glares at me.