Degrees of Wrong (3 page)

Not now, and not in a hundred lifetimes.

Still, I had to attempt to confront my emotions somehow in order to manage the difficult days ahead, and this was the first quiet I’d been granted since waking up. Giving in, I stared at the wall in wonderment, as if a movie were being projected onto it. And in a way, it was.

I relived the day over and over, recalling the initial awe as the gigantic copters cast large shadows across the island, preparing to discharge their cargo. I’d been on my way to the village to make some house calls, walking through the tall grass instead of the dirt path, swinging my medical kit to and fro like a carefree schoolgirl. I was certain, sitting in this desolate, empty room, that I would never feel that way again.

I shuddered as I saw the first monster plant his feet and start firing. There was a group of three children armed with net and jar in the field adjacent to me, apparently in search of tiny wildlife. I’d just waved to them minutes before. When the choppers gathered overhead, the children delayed the hunt to gape in fascination at the spectacle. It would be the last thing they would see. Their lifeless bodies fell to the ground before they could even scream. Before I could even scream.

Involuntarily, I’d dropped to my knees and vomited. Again and again, I’d emptied the contents of my stomach, my knees digging trenches in the dirt with the force of it. In retrospect, I knew the act had saved my life. When I was able to stand, I’d found the giants had passed me by altogether. I’d sprinted to the children, already knowing there was nothing I could do. Their deaths were instant, but that fact had not brought me relief then and did not console me now.

Not in a thousand lifetimes.

Hot, wet streams snaked down both sides of my face, and I shook my head to relieve it of the images in the field. I was back in the cold white room again. Propping elbows on knees, I buried my face in my hands. They were frigid and soothing to my hot cheeks.

Ralph opened the door then, startling me from my misery. I sat up. My emotions were still a long way from reconciled, but I would have to finish sorting them later, in private. Ralph’s smile faded to alarm when he saw the assault of tears on my face. Furious, he fired an accusative glare at his guard, who returned a slight shrug. Ralph turned back to me with what looked like satisfaction resulting from the inaudible conversation. Curious, I tried to imagine how it went:

What did you do to her?

Nothing.

Why is she crying?

I don’t know. She stared at the wall and spaced out. Then she started to cry.

Women. Let’s get a beer after this, okay?

Okay.

I was irritable, I admitted.

“How about something to eat?” Ralph asked. He either didn’t want to address my current state, or was trying to pull me out of it.

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

“It’s just standard rations, but they’re filling, if nothing else. I’ve also made arrangements for you to have a shower.”

I glanced down, inspecting my appearance for the first time today. I could feel the film of filth on my face except where my tear tracks streaked it. All four blood types splattered my clothing, and sand weighed down my shoes. And my hair—thankfully, I couldn’t see that at all. I grimaced, realizing Blue Eyes had asked me on a date in this condition.
What a good sport.

Waking up in a jostling, open-topped utility vehicle didn’t bother me. Sure, the wind whipped my hair into a mess that only shaving it would solve. And yes, my neck hurt from my head bobbing like a buoy in a hurricane. And of course I should have been grateful that they allowed me to sleep in, exhausted as I was.

But waking up in a jostling, open-topped utility vehicle wearing a black uniform and boots—instead of the mismatched pajamas I fell asleep in—irritated me almost beyond sense. Especially since the uniform fit perfectly. How much of the last twenty-four hours had been executed as planned? And which of these drones dressed me?

Sitting directly across from me, Geoffrey didn’t look away when I locked eyes with him. “You drugged me,” I informed him. “I knew the dehydrated peas tasted funny last night, but I just attributed it to the fact that they were dehydrated peas.”

“I wanted you to get some rest.”

“How thoughtful.” Before he could utter an insincere apology, I held up my hand, cutting him off. He took the gesture as I intended it: Don’t even.

To keep from attacking him, I shielded my eyes with my hand and took in our surroundings. This wasn’t my island, and the amount of time I’d spent unconscious made it impossible to calculate a probable radius of travel. Our camouflaged taxi sped us through an open grassy field somewhere in the United States or Italy or China—I couldn’t be sure which. On the horizon, man-made structures materialized, and beyond that, an expansive body of water. I knew it was the ocean—calling it by name was an entirely different matter.

In my stomach, the knot of the unknown awakened, uncoiling the fear I’d managed to restrain last night. But now the dehydrated peas were wearing off, leaving room for terror. I glanced at Ralph. His mouth was pressed into the straight line. It made me more nervous, if that were possible.

The vehicle began to slow, and then creep, the closer we got to shore. The structures in the distance turned into old wooden buildings, probably erected at the turn of the last century. All six of them lined the lone dirt street of what I couldn’t deign to call a town. Judging by their varying states of disrepair, they hadn’t been occupied for some time. The scarce population of this community seemed to be surging in the same direction—toward the docks. And they were all dressed like me.

Ralph motioned for our driver to park behind one of the buildings, just out of view of the passersby. “As soon as you board, ask for Dr. Folsom. The captain is expecting you. You shouldn’t have any problems.”

From a satchel beside him, he retrieved my father’s laptop and handed it to me. The antique laptop—and the mismatched pajamas—had been the only items the recovery team bothered to bring back. That Ralph didn’t expound on it confirmed my suspicions—my house, what was left of my life, was destroyed. When I told him what a lucky find the dust-encrusted laptop was—it held every shred of my research on the HTN4—I thought he might faint. But we couldn’t all afford the latest-and-greatest toys of technology, right? Besides, this thing still smelled like my father’s cologne. How could I replace it?

Even now, Ralph eyed it with disdain, which made me hug it tighter to my chest. He said, “It’s a training vessel, so you won’t be the only person who doesn’t know full protocol. You’re going in as a cadet, which is the lowest rank. There was nothing I could do about that.”

I was grateful he’d tried to champion for me in the matter at all.

“Ralph?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

He smiled, realizing I was nervous and didn’t know how to say it. “It’s called the
Bellator
. It means—”

“Warrior,” I finished for him. When he cocked his head at me, I shrugged. “I’m a doctor. Latin’s required.”

“Of course.”

I thought he might have more instructions for me, but after a few seconds he inclined his head toward the docks. “You should go now, Dr. Morgan. Follow the crowd and pick a line.”

Taking in a breath, I stood.

I turned to Ralph, unsure if this was the last time I’d see him—and unsure if it was appropriate to feel grateful or wrathful toward him at this point. He was, after all, my captor, not my savior. Deciding on gratitude, I extended my hand for a shake, otherwise unfamiliar with the rules of etiquette as they pertained to hostage situations.

He smiled and accepted it. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered. The confidence in his voice consoled me—a little.

He dropped my hand, and I willed myself to climb down. How long he stayed after that, I didn’t know. With tears brimming, I lumbered toward the street, joining the ranks of my fellow shipmates—if that’s what they were called—as we made our way to the docks.

No one questioned my presence or where I’d come from. No one asked why I only carried a laptop instead of the black duffel bags they had thrown over their shoulders. They only cared that—between the heaviness of my new boots and my flirting with the idea of running—I was slowing their progress. Some even made a point of bumping into me as they pushed past, impatient to board the warship.

Our collective parade eventually lined up on the four separate docks reaching like fingers into the ocean. Taking Ralph’s advice, I picked one, flitting to the end of it and squeezing in between a pale blonde woman and a redheaded man whose biceps were bigger than my head. The pale woman offered a friendly smile. I hoped the half smile I returned didn’t seem rude. I also hoped she wouldn’t try to talk to me since I was already in danger of vomiting, and opening my mouth would seal the deal.

A short, skinny man with dark hair stood opposite the line, studying his small hand-held device. He looked more serious than he should with such a small stature, and I wondered if he suffered from little-man syndrome.

“Attention!” he yelled, or at least that’s what I thought he said. The end sounded more like
hut
.

The word appeared to be a command of some sort because everyone in line stood erect, hands folded behind their backs. The three black-dotted docks in front of us had already come to order. I followed suit, pushing my laptop behind me as the knot in my stomach twisted.

“They’re all yours, Lieutenant,” Little-Man said.

Another voice said, “Welcome, land lubbers.” Only his tone didn’t sound welcoming at all but was rather a shout. Loud footsteps thundered down the wood planks, creaking the boards.

“I am Lieutenant Frank Horan. I am now your mother, your father and your priest. Do not even think about speaking. You were once the scum of the earth, and now you are the scum of the sea.” He enunciated every word, still shouting. I wasn’t sure if he did this for emphasis, or if he always talked in this ridiculous manner.

Snickers erupted at the opposite end of the line, and hurried footsteps descended on them.

“What’s your name, boy?” the lieutenant roared at the culprit.

“St-St-Stanley, sir!” the boy shouted back, his accent betraying Scottish descent.

“Is St-St-Stanley your first name or your last name, boy?” Lt. Horan yelled.

“Stanley is my last name. Sir!”

“So, Cadet Stanley, what in God’s name could you find so funny about the realization that you are lower and more vile than the bacteria that is flushed down the toilet somewhere in a Mexican prison on a smoldering day in July?” He continued to enunciate his insults, and I was sure that after speaking this way in such whole, descriptive sentences, he couldn’t help but adapt to this kind of dialogue on a normal basis.

“Nothing, sir!” By the shakiness of his reply, St-St-Stanley had bitten off more than he could chew.

“No?”

“No, sir!”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, son! It
is
funny. It’s just not funny to you. In fact, boy, nothing is funny to you unless I tell you it is. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. Now, for the rest of you oxygen vacuums. I am in charge of your valueless lives while you are on this vessel. You do not breathe, drink, eat or sleep without my permission. Until you obtain my permission, you will not blink. Until you obtain my permission, you will withhold bowel movements. Until you obtain my permission, you will not swallow the spit in your mouth…” He continued bellowing until he came to a close with his outrageous requirements.

A deep burning sensation began in my stomach, a foreign feeling I couldn’t identify, eclipsing the knot. As I struggled to name the fire in my gut, the lieutenant edged closer to my end of the line. I heard terrified cadets shouting their names, and the insults that followed. Each time, the pit of my stomach lurched in—what? Apprehension? No. Fear? No. I contemplated that for a moment.
No anxiety? No terror? Am I still alive, then?

“Ebony Grace, sir!” the pale woman next to me shouted. I started, surprised he was so close. I peeked around her at him.

“Is that a joke?” he yelled in her face. “You are the pastiest individual I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on. If your name is Ebony, then my name is Pretty Princess!”

As you wish, Pretty Princess
, I thought. And then I giggled. Out loud.

He parked in front of me in an instant. With wide eyes, I took in his appearance. He was every bit the stereotypical drill sergeant. Probably in his mid-forties, he had spiked blond hair that resembled blades atop his enormous head, and huge, brown, wrathful eyes. Too bad he was my height, giving him the ability to stare me down over the bridge of his stubby nose. Well-muscled, his stocky build gave him the appearance of a bulldog—an effect accentuated by the frown lines that had set in over many years of repetition. The absurd cleft in his chin reminded me of a comic book hero, but his snarl resembled a villain’s.

He regarded me now in—disgust, I would say. All the while my stomach churned with…?

“Did I say something funny?” he screamed, the warmth of his stale breath pushing against my face.