Unforgotten (19 page)

“What if I don’t want to?” I hear amusement in his voice.

“Then I will make you.”

I don’t want to have to reveal my true abilities in front of all these people. I don’t want to cause that kind of scene. But I realize now that I may not have a choice.

He laughs quietly in my face. “I doubt that.”

With a firm jerk, I yank my wrist free. The man is suddenly in the air, soaring across the station and crashing into the tiled wall behind me. I glance curiously at my hand.

Did I just do that?

The answer comes a moment later when I look over to see Kaelen grabbing the man by the shirt and wrenching him up to his feet. He slams him hard against the wall again.

“What’s your problem, man?” the stranger roars, squirming to get free of Kaelen’s grasp. He attempts to take a swing at Kaelen’s face but isn’t fast enough. Kaelen ducks effortlessly and then presses his forearm against the man’s throat.

“Don’t touch her,” Kaelen growls.

If I thought we were drawing attention to ourselves before, it’s nothing like the audience Kaelen has attracted now. The entire platform has turned to watch the spectacle, as well as the people standing across the train tracks, who are craning to see what the commotion is.

I hurry over to Kaelen, careful not to touch him. “Kaelen, let him go.”

The man smirks. “Yeah, do what your girlfriend says,
Kaelen
. What kind of name is that?”

Kaelen’s forearm presses deeper into the man’s throat, causing him to gasp.

I hear a low rumble on the tracks behind us. “Kaelen,” I try again, “the train is coming. We have to make that train, remember?”

I watch comprehension register on his face and in an instant the man is slumped on the floor again, gasping for air and clutching his neck, which is already starting to show the bruises from Kaelen’s grip.

Without even a second thought, Kaelen turns and stalks callously through the swarm that has formed around us, people parting to make room for him.

There’s another loud
screech
as the train approaches the station, and the crowd dissipates.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I chide him in a huffed whisper. “I could have handled it myself.”

He watches the bright headlights of the train grow nearer. “It didn’t look that way.”

“Your reaction was inappropriate,” I go on, frustrated.

“That’s how I was designed to react.”

Evidently
he
didn’t get the flight-over-fight instinct that I was given.

“I’m like you … Only better.”

“Well,” I hiss, “that’s exactly the kind of attention-drawing behavior I warned you about.”

But he doesn’t seem to be listening anymore. His eyeballs are darting rapidly back and forth as the train barrels through the station and he carefully scans each passing car.

By the time it pulls to a stop, he seems to have found what he’s looking for and starts walking briskly toward the front of the train. As we approach the door three compartments down, I finally see what he was looking for.

A man stands in the center of the car. His skin is covered in wrinkles and caked with dirt. His aging body is rickety, hunched over. One of his hands grips the steel pole for balance while the other holds a tattered cardboard sign.

On it one word is sketched in shaky black letters:

HUNGRY.

And I immediately know that this is the right train.

A friendly male voice echoes from somewhere above our heads. “This is a Bronx-bound 6 train. The next stop is Spring Street. Please stand clear of the closing doors.”

Kaelen and I share a quick glance before simultaneously hopping off the platform, into the train, just as the heavy slabs of steel slide shut.

29

MASKED

The train is even more suffocating than the station. I fight to keep my composure. But it certainly doesn’t help that the scene on the platform is playing over and over in my mind.

Kaelen could have killed that man.

He said he was
designed
to react that way.

Well, of course he was. He was sent here for me. He said so himself. He was sent to follow the map in my head and then, without a doubt, to bring me back. So obviously he would do whatever it took to protect me. To safeguard Diotech’s investment.

Kaelen is facing away from me, watching out the dirty, smudged window. We haven’t spoken since we boarded the train. We ride in silence, both listening carefully to the announcement of each stop. Waiting for the one from my memory. Fifty-Ninth Street.

And then what?

What will I see?

What will happen to me?

Will that same excruciating pain erupt in my head again? Is that what happens every time a memory is triggered? Given my experience of agonizing torture in my prison cell and in the Chinese man’s shop, it would certainly seem that pain is the protocol.

I cringe at the idea of having to go through it again.

Of possibly passing out here, surrounded by all these people.

The train pulls to a stop at the Fifty-First Street station—one stop away from our destination—and I feel a quick jab on my arm. The small zap of electricity that accompanies it jolts me into alertness. Kaelen is pointing alarmingly toward the doors. I peer over to see what the problem is.

The man, the one with the cardboard sign, who has been shuffling back and forth through this car, stretching his hand out to every passenger for the past nine stops, is preparing to get off.

“What do we do?” I whisper.

“He’s definitely in the memory at Fifty-Ninth Street, right?” I’m grateful to hear that this time he’s wise enough to speak in a hushed tone instead of announcing it for everyone on board to hear.

I nod.

“Then we follow him,” Kaelen resolves.

“Okay.”

The train comes to a full stop and the doors open. Kaelen and I stay a diligent five paces behind the man as he hobbles across the platform. He stops between cars and, apparently in no hurry to go anywhere else, leans casually against one of the many thick metal beams that populate the station.

I look urgently to Kaelen, who just shrugs in return.

“This is a Bronx-bound 6 train. The next stop is Fifty-Ninth Street,” the voice announces. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

This seems to capture the old man’s attention and he quickly shuffles away from his beam and boards the nearest car. Kaelen and I leap in after him, barely managing to avoid being crushed by the closing doors.

The train rumbles off again and I immediately notice the screen on the wall, to my left.

The familiar beautiful woman is peering back at me. Her skin painted a shade of creamy smooth ivory. Her lips glinting pink. She smiles seductively.

I catch Kaelen’s eye and jut my chin in her direction. He nods, understanding.

It’s almost time.

I didn’t notice it when the memory was invading my mind but I now see that the woman is part of an advertisement for a brand of makeup. I watch her softly caress her own face, before the image shifts and a logo appears.

After that, everything happens exactly as I remember it.

The now-familiar voice repeats the announcement: “This is a Bronx-bound 6 train. The next stop is Fifty-Ninth Street.”

Then I feel a tap on my back. Unlike in the memory, I don’t jump. I anticipate it. I turn around to see the man we followed holding up his cardboard sign:

HUNGRY.

His dirty fingers unfurl in front of me. I offer him a quick, kind smile and shake my head. I want to help—I want to give him food—but like in the memory, I don’t have any to give.

I turn back to the screen and see the image shift to the newscast. Just as I remembered it, the reporter is standing in front of a building. This time, however, I take a moment to read some of the transcript of his speech below.

“The CDC has issued an official statement this morning reporting that they are sadly no closer to creating a successful vaccine for the white fever, which has already claimed nearly one thousand lives nationwide and confined five thousand more to hospital quarantines. They have assured us that they are working hard to perfect a vaccine but have asked us to remind everyone to seek medical help immediately if you are showing any of the symptoms listed on your screen.”

My eyes narrow as I watch the list appear alongside the reporter’s face.

Fever. Chills. Weakness and fatigue. Muscle soreness.

A tremor shudders through me.

Those are Zen’s symptoms.

But that’s impossible. He can’t have whatever it is they’re talking about. He got sick before we even came here. How could he have contracted a twenty-first-century disease while living in 1609?

My thoughts are distracted by the
screech
of the brakes as the train lurches to a stop and the doors open, letting more people off and on.

Kaelen shoots me a stern look, reminding me to pay attention. This is the stop from my memory. This is where the memory ended. Which means any minute now I’m going to see something that—

My gaze lands on a small child in a heavy coat, hat, and gloves entering the train. One of his hands is firmly clasped inside his mother’s. And the other is holding a tiny toy sailboat.

The throbbing begins, alerting me to the incoming memory.

I struggle to keep my eyes open. I look at Kaelen. He’s distracted, peering curiously around the train. He’s searching for a possible trigger. He doesn’t know that I’ve already found it.

And suddenly I realize that this is it.

My only chance to move one step ahead.

If I can somehow manage to stay conscious, to keep the pain from registering on my face, then I can hide the memory from him. I can stop Diotech from getting what they want.

The throbbing continues, growing more intense by the second. The creature inside is threatening to rip my skull open. I grip the pole tightly, attempting to channel all the pain into my hands, into this piece of metal.

You can do this,
I tell myself.

Control it.

Contain it.

Conceal it.

I close my eyes, taking deep breaths, fighting back a scream of agony that’s brimming in my throat, pushing against my lips, begging to be released.

When I force my eyes open, I notice that Kaelen is watching me. Studying me. He tilts his head. “Are you okay? Did you see something?”

I force a tight smile and shake my head, keeping my lips firmly pressed together in fear that if I try to speak, the scream will escape.

“Are you sure?” he presses, taking a step toward me, his hand reaching out to my forehead.

The train jerks into motion, sending Kaelen staggering back.

I swallow hard as the memory tears at my brain with sharp claws. Slicing into the backs of my eyeballs.

I open my mouth slowly, finally managing to croak out, “I’m sure.”

“Well, the trigger has to be here somewhere.” Kaelen continues to peer eagerly around the train.

Meanwhile, the memory has broken free, raided my mind. Preparing to show itself. I’m feeling woozy, the floor is vibrating much more than it should. The darkened walls of the subway tunnels are passing by the windows much faster than they are supposed to.

Don’t pass out,
I command myself.

Don’t pass out!

My knees are wobbling. I press into the metal pole with my entire body, keeping myself upright. I bite the inside of my cheek, drawing blood. The pain behind my temples has reached an epic climax.

“Find me,”
comes the delicate, misty voice.

And then suddenly I’m …

Standing in the middle of a long, empty hallway lined with doors.

Everything is clean, sparkling with artificial light cast from above.

I take a step, falling into a quiet shadow between the overhead lamps. I note the numbers on the doors.

408

409

410

I know that I’m being led somewhere. That one of these doors will call to me. Reach out and wrap a long, bony finger around my spine, sending shivers everywhere.

It’s just a matter of which one.

411

412

413

The hallway is deserted. Devoid of life. Every door closed.

I pass by a window. It’s dark outside. The sidewalk below is mostly empty, indicating it must be late at night. Or very early in the morning.

414

415

416

I feel my blood start to warm. I’m getting closer. I know it.

But closer to what?

Part of me is scared to find out. No …
all
of me.

A large flat screen is embedded in the wall on my right but no image is displayed. Just a blank canvas of bright blue. A flashing message says
No Signal.
And a date. In the bottom right-hand corner.

February 12, 2:13 a.m.

417

418

419

I freeze. This is it. This is the door. I can feel it. Every cell in my body is alerting me to it.

My hand reaches out, trembling. I can barely grasp the handle. I turn it and push.

Inside there is a long, sleek, metal countertop with various computers and scientific instruments sprawled across it.

I look up from the countertop and see a man. Alone. Hunched over a computer. His wavy blond hair sprouts in all different directions. His face is tired, covered in stubble. He is tall. Lanky. Wearing a long, crumpled white coat.

I study him for a moment, my gaze unmistakably drawn to his fingers tapping a series of numbers that I can’t see into a keyboard.

For some reason, I am aware that these numbers are important, but I don’t know why.

I take a step toward him to get a better look, and he startles, sensing me for the first time. His weary blue eyes dart toward the door.