Lake

 

 

One of the machines begins beeping rapidly.

Orfyn says, “We need to get out of here.”

I gaze at the unconscious kids as frustration replaces my shock. I need to help them. But how? Oryfyn is right, though. Putting our positions as Nobels at stake will only prevent us from being able to figure out what’s going on.

We sprint down the stairs and enter the bizarre elevator. After the doors on the other side open, Orfyn peeks down the hall. “We’re in the clear.”

We fast-walk it until reaching the conference room, where we begin to tiptoe, but no voices come from behind the double doors. I don’t breathe until we reach the door leading to safety. Orfyn pulls it open a crack, peeks through, and waves for me to follow. Seconds after the door shuts behind us, a man with black, glistening hair rounds the corner from the unrestricted area.

“What are you two doing here?” His eyes shoot to the wall of ghastly creatures. “And what the hell is that?”

“It’s a classic theme,” Orfyn says with a straight face.

“I don’t want to see that dreck every day. Get rid of it. Now.”

“I don’t keep that much white paint in my bag,” Orfyn says with a shrug.

I keep my mouth shut since he’s handling the situation far better than I ever would.

The Darwinian studies Orfyn as if he’s a parasite. “I’ll get Maintenance to take care of it. Both of you, get out of here.”

Orfyn methodically packs up his supplies while the Darwinian glares at him, then slings the canvas bag over his shoulder. He puts a lot of thought into what he paints. I still want to understand why the Darwinians need to consider the consequences of their actions. And I have to remember it until I have the opportunity to write myself a note.

The Darwinian says, “You’d better believe I’ll discuss this incident with your Guardian.”

“I don’t have one,” Orfyn says.

I ask, “Why not?”

“Good question,” Orfyn says.

I’d just assumed Cecil was Orfyn’s Mentor since I know Deborah oversees Alex, Anna and me.

The Darwinian points. “Go. Now.”

We reach the exit door and simultaneously press the bar that releases us to the outside. Fake schoolyard air never smelled so restorative.

“Let’s go over to that tree to talk,” Orfyn says.

Before finding Marty, I would’ve rejected his suggestion because I do my best thinking alone. And Orfyn is far too distracting. But discovering a row of unconscious kids with shaved heads changes one’s perspective.

We head over to the same tree that Stryker and I had huddled under in the rainstorm. Orfyn grabs a branch, pulls himself up, and settles on a thick limb four feet off the ground. “Want some help up?”

“I can do it, but first I need a minute.”

I open my journal and document, Elevator. 3rd floor. Marty unconscious. Shaved head. Feeding tube. The thought of that room makes me shudder. I add, Six others.

I glance up at Orfyn, who’s intently watching me create reminders. I’m glad he came with me, but I need to ask him to keep the news about my journaling to himself. I don’t want the others to start questioning my competence.

I stare at the page. There’s something else I was going to document, but now I can’t recall what it is. Deborah believes my memory glitches are temporary, but it’s happening more frequently. A flutter of fear ripples through me, and I try to dismiss it. I’ll be better as soon as the pills Deborah prescribed me start taking effect.

I prop my journal against the trunk and attempt to lift myself into the tree. I end up looking like I’m having a seizure. Orfyn grabs my arms and easily hoists me up. His touch sends sparks through me. I scooch down the branch to create space between us so I can think more clearly.

He leans his head back. “Aren’t clouds amazing?”

After what we just discovered, he wants to discuss condensation? “Can we focus on—”

“See that one?” He points to the left. “It looks like a dog. What do you think?”

I glance up to appease him. “It’s a cow.” The cloud shifts in the air currents. “Now it’s a … a horse.”

“How about that one?” He points a few inches to the right.

I spend some time studying it. When I think I have it, the cloud transforms into something entirely different.

“I used to spend hours watching them on the orphanage’s rooftop,” Orfyn says. “It’s not only about the shapes. Clouds reflect every color there is. When it’s storming, they’re on one side of the color wheel, violets and purples and blues. But at sunrise and sunset their colors are on the other side, reds and oranges and yellows. I don’t know anything else that changes like that.”

“A chameleon?”

He laughs. “You got me there.” His smile drops. “I think those kids are Candidates, but something went wrong.”

“I knew the procedure has risks, but there are so many of them.” I recall the numbered files Stryker found. “And there may have been even more who didn’t make it.” I rub my finger along the scar on my thumb, but cloud-watching feels more soothing.

“But what happened to Marty? If it was an accident, he’d be in the infirmary, not hidden away on a floor we can’t get to.”

“For some reason, they don’t want us to be aware of his condition,” I say.

Marty wasn’t rational in the library. Was he despondent enough to try to commit suicide? If I’d remembered to talk to Deborah, could I have prevented it? I watch the racing clouds, blinking back tears.

Orfyn starts moving closer, looking concerned.

I hold up my hand. “Can you stay there? Please.”

He, thankfully, does as I ask. I can’t handle what I saw in that room and Orfyn’s close proximity simultaneously. I spot a cloud in the shape of an angel. Unlike the others that are shifting in the winds, it holds firm. I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. I made a mistake, and now I need to move past it so I can focus on learning the truth.

“We need to determine if Marty’s condition is associated with his merging.” I say.

Orfyn nods. “How hard do you think it would be to break into Cecil’s office?”

 

 

“Cecil, I need you,” Orfyn says.

“Excuse me?”

I’m hiding around the corner and can hear Cecil’s words spewing like venom from his snake lips.

“There’s this guy—I think he’s a Darwinian, but I’ve never seen him before. He wants to destroy my painting.”

“And?”

“I need you to stop him.”

“Kevin, I’m extremely—”

“It’s Orfyn.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“I was trying to do something nice for you guys. You know, restore the old charm to this building. He called my painting dreck—I don’t even know what that means, but it doesn’t sound like a compliment.” Orfyn’s performance is Oscar-worthy. Hurt, a little pleading, and a touch of defiance.

“What do you expect me to do?” Cecil asks.

“Come and take a look. If you hate my painting, then I’ll cover it over. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I don’t want one guy’s bias to overrule everyone else’s appreciation for fine art.”

I cover my mouth so I don’t laugh out loud.

“It won’t take long,” Orfyn says. “Come on, help me out here. I don’t have a Guardian on my side.”

I forgot about that. Who’s been conducting his daily debriefs? I make a note in my journal to ask him later.

When Cecil says, “Where is it?” I want to shout in triumph.

As orchestrated, Orfyn follows Cecil so he can drop a tube of paint to prevent the door from fully closing. Orfyn talks non-stop, holding Cecil’s attention as they head down the hallway.

I’d labeled Orfyn as irresponsible, but he was willing to put his position at risk by coming with me into the restricted area. It feels as if he’s watching out for me. And now he’s doing this. Am I accurate or prejudiced about those who are dominant on the right hemisphere of their brain?

Orfyn pulled off his part. Now it’s my turn.

His paint tube stopped the door, but it got crushed in the process, oozing chromium oxide green onto the white tile floor. Will Cecil believe it fell out of Orfyn’s bag and just happened to land in the perfect spot to prop open his office door? I can’t risk it. I search Cecil’s office but can’t find a box of tissues. I end up losing precious time wiping up the oil paint with the bottom of my shirt, ruining it.

I sit in front of Cecil’s computer. On his desk is a photo of a little girl who resembles him. Cecil lives here full-time, so she’s growing up without a dad. Actually, not having him in her life may save her from years of psychotherapy.

I wasn’t sure if I could access our computer files, but I luck out. Cecil had been in the midst of making notes in Marty’s record. I start skimming the information and feel burning bile rising up my esophagus. I clasp my pen tighter and jot down key phrases from Cecil’s notes into my journal without allowing myself to process the horrifying implications.

 

Mental breakdown exacerbated by continued pressure to reach standards that may or may not be achievable.

Subject’s brain patterns indicate high dreamstate activity. Unknown at this time if subject is an active participant.

Mentor’s consciousness appears to have superseded the subject’s. Unknown at this time if situation is permanent.

Possible loss of subject’s self-awareness.

Currently unable to determine whose identity will be dominant should the subject regain consciousness.

If situation continues, recommend we

 

Whatever-His-Name-Is is trying to hijack Marty’s mind! But the even more frightening realization is: what can the Darwinians do to stop him? They can’t expel Marty’s Mentor, or sentence him to jail, or even hold an intervention. Contrary to everyone who is alive, there are no consequences for his actions—unless he ends up destroying his own consciousness by killing Marty.

My body starts to tremble, but I can’t let fury consume me. There’s something else I need to do.

We’d timed how long it takes to travel from Cecil’s office to Orfyn’s painting and back, which gave me seven minutes max. I have one minute left, thanks to the sacrificial paint tube. I click on my file and am barred by a black screen demanding a password. It’s useless to believe I can crack his password and have to give up on that part of my plan. I write down what I’d hoped to learn instead. Is Deborah telling me the truth about my memory? Then something occurs to me. Cecil isn’t my Guardian, but he is Stryker’s.

His file opens with a click, and I see Subject’s Name: Stryker Paix, alias. Why would he be using a false name? I jot down, Stryker. Alias? I read about how a previous incident has made Stryker question his judgment. What happened to him? He always appears confident. Is it all an act?

As much as I want to keep delving in Stryker’s file, I’m out of time. I click back to Marty’s file and make sure it’s as Cecil left it. I stare in frustration at his unfinished thought. What is Cecil’s recommendation?

Within seconds of ducking around the corner, I hear Orfyn. “I get that not everyone appreciates medieval-style demons, but I was trying to express an updated theme that depicts the challenges modern man faces.”

“I want it gone before tomorrow,” Cecil says.

 

 

When we reach my room, I gesture for Orfyn to come in and glance at the ceiling as a warning. I open my journal to the page where I’d copied Cecil’s notes, and hand it to Orfyn. Shock fills his face as he reads. When Orfyn looks back at me, his golden-green eyes are glistening.

Before I can stop him, he pulls me into his arms and holds me close. I know I shouldn’t let him, but it’s been a really disturbing day. I lean my head against his shoulder, breathe in his cinnamon-walnut oil scent, feel his warmth against my cheek, and hear his heartbeat pumping against mine. I finally pull away. “I need to sail … I mean, sort out my thoughts. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

Orfyn looks down at his paint-drip-covered shoes, then back up at me. “Are you sure?”

No, which is why I need him to leave. I have so many conflicting thoughts, it feels as if I’m at war with myself. Where’s the Nobel for Peace when I need him? I then realize that not once had I wished it were Stryker with me today. Despite everything I believe to be true about artists, I fear I’m falling for the wrong boy.

I nod, because I don’t trust that I won’t ask him to stay.

“What about the others? Should we tell them about,” he glances at the ceiling, “that surprise birthday party you’re planning for Anna?”

That’s what he came up with? Despite everything, I choke back a laugh. “Her birthday is coming up soon. We’d better hold a special meeting today.” I notice how long his eyelashes are. “I just need a little time to create a lion … I mean, a list of tasks. Then we’ll wake everybody up.”

He leans down, and his lips graze my cheek. A rush of heat flows through me. Once Orfyn leaves, I look down, fully expecting to see the floor scorched. I am in so much trouble.

I collapse onto my couch. Even though I’ve only been awake for five hours, my body feels as if I haven’t slept in a week, but I don’t dare dream. Enough traumatic things have happened today; I can’t handle topping it off by slaying another one of my octopus friends.

My hand touches the spot where Orfyn’s lips kissed me. I can’t keep pretending I don’t like him. But liking someone and doing something about it are two entirely different things.

I shake my head to dislodge my fixation on Orfyn and open my journal. I re-read my notes and write, Why does Jules have a key? I’m actually surprised no one is pounding on my door, demanding me to forfeit it. My mind grasps onto a hypothesis, but Sherlock Holmes warned that one shouldn’t theorize before reviewing all the evidence. I start a list of possible reasons.

 

(1) She found it and was planning to return it. Except her book now seems more like a hiding place than homework.

(2) Cecil asked Jules to fetch something from his living quarters and gave her the key. He would have made Jules return it. I can’t see him allowing her to frequent a restricted area, which triggers another thought. How does Jules have so much time to socialize?

(3) Jules stole it. She loves being the first in the know, but would she trespass in their offices to search for gossip? I can’t see it.

(4) What I first suspected, but didn’t want to believe.