Duality (The Hitchhiker Strain) (10 page)

“
That’ll do.” A grimace forms on my face when he hands me the blade. I’m going to have to fight this battle on two different fronts—convincing everyone to listen to me while also trying to stop them from getting themselves killed.

Another scream vibrates through
the air.

Chapter 15 - Chelsea

Zack stops in his tracks at the sound of my voice. Neither of us moves or says a word. I have to force myself to even breathe.

I spoke. Out loud. It's impossible, and yet I’m sure I heard it. When Zack finally turns around to look at me, the expression on his face says he did too.

For so long I thought the part of me
that was still Chelsea was a figment of my own imagination, but I’m still in here. I’m still here!

Zack
has time to take two steps toward me before a dozen scientists rush into the room from the adjoining hallway. They must have been watching through the security camera. All at once they're coming toward me, both studious and exuberant. At first I stand my ground, watching each of them with a steady gaze and unwavering defiance. Then the dam breaks and their enthusiasm hits me like a tsunami.

"What's your name?" a woman in ridiculous pink scrubs asks in a high-pitched voice.

"Hello, hello," the man says slowly, giving me the impression that I'm supposed to parrot the phrase back to him.

"Can you understand us?"

"How do you feel?"

"Hello. Hello. Heellloooo?"

I should have kept my damn mouth shut. I can't even see Zack anymore—he's probably abandoned me to be verbally poked and prodded until everyone in the room is suitably convinced that the sounds I managed to make were more than a fluke.

"Do you know who you are? Where you are?"

"Touch your hand to your head if you can understand me."

The questions never end. My throat squeezes closed, and I have to forcibly stop my
eyes from doing the same. I take a step backward, trying to get away from the chaos. My attempts to speak again all get lodged in my throat, and it's all I can do to keep from lashing out at these people, clawing at them until they leave me alone. My vision starts to tunnel until I feel like I’m drowning in their frantic chatter.

Despite the security of my cage, I
’m cornered. I try and call the beast forward. After everything I've done for the monster who lives inside of me, now it's her turn to protect us. She barely stirs at all. We feel the pressure of the clucking swarm in front of us bearing down and threatening to rip us apart and still she doesn't rise to the challenge. She doesn't have the strength.

Bile rises in my throat to join the panic. I
’ve been trying to deny it, but I know what this means. The beast is fading away—has been since we got here. Ever since I first woke up and felt her taking a cat nap, curled up in a corner of my mind, the truth has been there. The beast is dying. And the strangest part is that I’m not sure how I feel about it. It’s both a fairytale and a nightmare at once.

Is it even possible?

There's no time to think about it. My thoughts come to a halt as a key turns in the lock of my cage, sending me stumbling backward, away from the threat. The cold, solid wall greets me from behind. Nowhere to go. Each breath comes hard, forcing its way up my throat.

I want to cry out, to tell them to stop and get away from me, but no words come to my rescue.

"You're okay," a voice coos, rising above the collective murmur. A white-haired man is standing three feet from me now and inching closer. My back presses harder into the concrete behind me. Trapped. "We're not going to hurt you."

"Ple... Uh... Puh," I stu
tter, trying to form words to tell this man to get away from me. I don't know what I'm more worried about—him hurting me or the other way around. If he doesn't stop moving soon, everything within me is going to implode.

It's too much. Too human.

"James," another voice snaps from within the crowd. "Leave her be. We've gone about this all wrong." The words barely register in my mind before the man stops moving. I can't take my eyes off of him, can't even blink.

The voice in my mind sounds like a shrieking chi
ld. Get away. Get away. Get away!

My fingers flex at my side, my body still ready to go on the attack even if I'm not sure I have the fortitude to see it through. Not anymore.

What's happening to me?

"James!"

Finally, the man steps back. Once, slowly, and then again. He doesn't turn his back to me as he retraces his steps until he's standing on the other side of the iron bars. Only once the door is shut again and I hear the resounding noise of the lock clicking into place do I let myself look away. Two paces and I'm standing in the farthest corner of my cell. With one pivot, I turn my back to my assailants. And in one crouch, I've made myself small but not hidden. Too many eyes—I can't hide from them here.

I stay small and quiet, bringing my hands up to cove
r my face.

I listen, but no one opens my door again. No one approaches or tries to coax me into speech.

By the time I turn around and let myself sit on the floor, my back to the wall once more, they've all gone. I am alone. It's not true solitude because a sliver of the beast still sleeps inside of me, but now I know the time will come when she will leave me, too. And then what will I be?

My eyelids flutter open slowly as I gradually wake. Every muscle in my body is groaning at me, angry and sore. I need
to stop falling asleep whenever and wherever. It’s weak and pathetic, and I know better. If I were to be attacked now, there would be no guarantee my body would listen to what I’d need it to do to stay alive.

There's no food waiting for me when I finally g
et up from my spot on the cold floor. No water either. Apparently, no one has been here since they gave up and left me alone. I feel like I’ve been asleep for hours. The unaltered cell mocks me with its indifference. Maybe they’ve finally given up on me completely. I shouldn't have panicked. Those people were trying to help me, and now I’ve lost my chance.

I shake my head, trying to clear out the tangle of thoughts. There are still too many questions. I
’d give anything for someone to sit down and explain what’s happening to me. It’s been so long since the beast took over my body, and there’s obviously so much I don’t know about the world outside. Is it possible they’ve developed a cure? Would it even matter? If somehow these people managed to destroy the beast within me, it wouldn’t mean I’d be Chelsea again. Chelsea Zimmerman was an athlete and an artist. She wasn’t a killer. Her fingers and teeth could never have done the things I did. She wouldn’t have been able to live with doing the things I’ve done or hurting the people I hurt.

Beast or no beast, I
’m still a monster. Nothing can change that.

And still…
I can’t help hoping that maybe they’ll be willing to try.

The minutes tick by in silence. Several times, I look right at the camera and try to ask for hel
p or food. My tongue rubs uselessly along the top of my mouth, unable to form even the smallest syllable. All I get for the effort is a headache searing behind my eyes until I give up.

So I sit and I wait. I listen to my stomach grumble and wonder what it
is I’m craving. If my mind is changing, is my body changing back too? I try to remember the taste of things like cake or fruit, but nothing comes. My body only remembers meat. Blood.

I distract myself with plans and theories, going back and forth between
being determined not to fail and convinced I don’t deserve success.

From the other end of the hall, a door opens. My reprieve has ended. Any second now the swarm will descend on me all over again, ready to dissect my every movement.

One set of boots echoes through the hall. Food? My body moves into a crouched attack stance out of habit.

Please let it be Zack. Let it be someone who sees me as more than a guinea pig.

I'm not disappointed. Zack turns the corner, holding a tray with my breakfast. He's moving slower than usual. Each step is deliberate. My best guess is that he's trying not to startle me. It's hard not to see the cautious movements as prey behavior. He's acting like a scared rabbit, prepared to hop away at the very first sign of danger. I’m still behind bars—I’m no threat to him. There’s no reason for him to act like this. And he seemed comfortable around me before. What’s changed?

"Hungry?" he asks once he
reaches me, setting the tray on the floor. He's not making eye contact, deliberately looking at the floor.

What are they playing at here? I want to nod my answer, but it
’s pointless if he won’t look up. I don't think he's trying to trick me into speaking. Everything about his posture is textbook submissive.

He's doing it on purpose.

By the time he finally looks up at me, all of my effort is going toward an expression that clearly says I'm unimpressed by their attempts to placate me. I'd even go so far as to say that my slow ‘please feed me now’ nod is a little sarcastic, teasing.

I'm being unreasonable and I can
’t seem to stop. Last night, when they tried to treat me like a human being, I freaked. But I don't want to be treated like an animal either.

Zack u
ses his foot to slide the tray under the gap at the bottom of the bars. Doing my best to look unconcerned, I grab it from the floor and bring it back to my bed. I still haven't been able to make myself sleep on the bulky piece of furniture, but it's as good a place as any for breakfast. Animals eat on the floor.

I set the tray on my lap and make an elaborate show of eating what they've brought me. Even though my fingers tremble with the effort of dexterity, everything from unscrewing the top of my water bot
tle to breaking my roll in two is overdone, like a model on a game show showing off the latest, greatest prizes. I’m trying to be funny, but I can feel the awkwardness to my movements. I’m still only playing at human, putting on a show.

Zack watches me car
efully, amused, but we both know what he and the people he works for want from me. Speech. That's probably the sole reason Zack's been let back in the room by himself—they’re trying to duplicate the scenario that got me to speak last time. How very scientific of them.

Or maybe they think I can't do it a
gain and the first time was a lucky accident. Maybe Zack's back here because he's the one who is usually responsible for bringing me my meals and this is business as usual.

It doesn't matter either way. Spee
ch still seems as foreign to me as eating with utensils or turning my back on an active threat. Even when I try to force the issue, hoping to direct a thank-you for the meal at the camera overseeing me, nothing comes. My throat catches and I choke.

They ma
y think it was a fluke, but I know they’re wrong. I know what I can do. And I'll do it when I'm damn well ready…and able.

"All done?" Zack asks. I force a smile and nod. I wish he
’d say more than a few words at a time. I want answers! We’re both waiting on the other to speak and getting nowhere.

What these people did to me, it obviously led to...whatever it is that's happening to me. They probably know more than I do about how what
’s happening to me. Maybe I am as recovered as I'll ever be. They were so excited that I’d managed to speak, so obviously that doesn’t happen often. All of the possibilities I was imagining for myself start to melt away. I’ll never be more than a monster. No, I’m not even that anymore. Now I’m the shell of a monster.

Stop. I
’ve come this far. I know it's possible I’m wasting my time and energy, but I'm not willing to accept defeat yet. Just yesterday I managed to speak a word out loud—yes, I was desperate and scared, but it had only been a few days ago that I’d resigned myself to never hearing my own voice again. I can do this. I have to do this.

My face scrunches down into a frown. “
Herr. Annee… Frauze.” The noises coming from mouth don’t sound anything like words. I probably sound deranged.

Zack smiles kindly. “
Keep working at it.” He leans in closer to the bars. “I know it’s hard, and I wish I could help you. We all do. You’ve got to keep trying.”

I step down from the bed, taking my tray with me and placing it on the floor. I should kick it back to him, but I
’m not ready for Zack to go yet. I want information. I want him to tell me exactly what I need to do to make the words come. Or is this supposed to be some kind of sick test where it doesn’t count unless I figure it out for myself?

“
I know what it feels like,” he says quietly. And for a brief moment, I think maybe he does. Maybe he was like me before. Infected. A monster. Maybe he managed to come back from it. I tilt my head slightly and study everything about his face—his strong jaw, fair skin, flushed cheeks, sad eyes.

No. The
re’s no way he’s lived through the things I have. There’s a hollowness where my soul used to be, but his is still there, behind his eyes, shining back at me.

“
I know it seems easier to give up. Don’t call it quits yet, okay? I’m counting on you.”

I asked
the universe for answers, and this is what I get? That’s crap. Bored of non-answers, I kick the tray over to him, hoping he’ll leave. He stares back at me, confused, but I stick my chin out defiantly and turn away.