Unremembered (16 page)

‘I’ll go with you,’ I tell Zen. ‘But only if you don’t hurt him.’

Zen’s temper flares again. ‘Sera, you don’t understand. This won’t stop. They’ll keep looking for you. This may be the only chance to—’

I raise my hand in protest again and Zen stops talking. Then I reach towards him and turn my palm up. With a sigh, he relinquishes the gun to me. It’s heavier than I thought it would
be.

‘OK, let’s go,’ I say. Gripping the weapon carefully in my hand, I start walking towards the crumbling doorway. I don’t look back at the redheaded man, who stands alone
in the middle of the empty barn. I don’t know if I have the strength to.

The dry, faded leaves crunch beneath my feet as they pound
the dirt floor of the forest. I don’t know where we’re going but I’ve deduced that
Zen does not own a car. Which must be why we’re on foot. His pace is significantly slower than what I now know I’m capable of, but his hard, laboured breaths tell me that this is his
top speed. They also tell me that I shouldn’t try to speak to him because most likely he will not be able to respond until we’ve slowed down.

The gun is still heavy and awkward in my hand. I try to slide it into one of the many pockets of my pants, but it’s too big.

Finally, after we’ve been running for fifteen minutes, Zen slows to a stop.

He leans forward and puts his hands on his knees, panting heavily. ‘That should do it,’ he says between wheezes.

‘That should do what?’ I ask, my own breath perfectly even.

He takes a moment and a few more strained gasps of air before he answers, rubbing at his damp forehead. I like the way the moisture makes his hair curl. And the way his eyes reflect the
moonlight.

‘I had to get you far enough away so they wouldn’t be able to scan you,’ he explains.

I look down at the thin black line on my wrist. I remember seeing the scar-faced man on the sidewalk and feeling my tattoo sizzle. Is that what was happening? Was he
scanning
me? Like a
package of food at the supermarket?

‘How does it work?’ I ask.

‘Similar to a bar code. The line looks solid but up close it’s actually a unique design that their scanners can recognize and track.’

‘And it’s tattooed into my skin?’

Zen shakes his head. ‘Actually, no. We learned that one the hard way. We tried to remove it once but it simply grew back. Exactly the same. Apparently that design is programmed into your
DNA. Like the shape of your nose or the colour of your eyes. So even if someone tries to cut it out, when the skin heals, the same mark will always appear.’

I touch the blackened skin, sweeping my fingertip back and forth. I want to ask more but I’m not sure I can handle the answers right now. So I decide to stick to something simple. Easy.
‘Where are we going?’

Zen straightens up and looks at me. The endearing crooked smile I remember from the supermarket and the dressing room is nowhere to be found. Now all I see is a grim expression and hollow eyes.
‘We’re going somewhere safe. At least for now. Until I can figure everything out.’

I watch his eyes move down my face towards my neckline, and he smiles for the first time. It’s a weary smile. ‘You’re wearing it again.’

I feel for the locket. I had tucked it under my shirt earlier but it must have bounced out while I was running. I bite my lip, unsure what to say. Unsure even what to feel.

‘I like seeing it on you.’ He steps towards me, extending his hand. ‘May I?’

I don’t know what he’s asking permission for but it doesn’t really matter. I find myself nodding to his request, whatever it is.

As he reaches for the locket, his fingertips lightly graze my collarbone, sending tiny prickles over my skin. Having him this close to me is doing peculiar things to my lungs. Only a moment ago
it was Zen who was having trouble breathing. Now it seems I’m the one who is out of air.

He carefully unlatches the clasp, and the small heart swings open. Unexpectedly his brow creases and his smile sags into a frown.

I peer down. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s empty.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘It was empty when they found me.’

I watch Zen’s mouth contort in disappointment. ‘Then it must have fallen out at some point.’

I pull on the chain, drawing the locket out of his hands and into mine. ‘What fell out?’ I ask desperately.

With a wistful sigh he turns and starts walking. ‘A pebble.’

Perplexed, I look after him and then hurry to catch up. ‘A pebble? Why a pebble?’

‘It was to remind you of what’s real.’

‘Why would I need to be reminded of what’s real?’

He slows slightly and looks to the ground. ‘Because not everything in your life was.’

I see a clearing up ahead. We’ve almost arrived back at the highway. Every few seconds another set of car headlights passes by, illuminating the road for a moment before it returns to
darkness.

But I can still see everything flawlessly.

Which is unfortunate because I notice smoke rising above the trees a few miles to our left and I know immediately that it’s the site of the accident. The one I caused. The guilt wrenches
through me again and I have to swallow another rise of acid in my throat.

‘Why are they looking for me?’ I ask, thinking back to the man with the scar who chased me all the way out here.

Zen starts walking towards the road and beckons for me to follow. ‘Because you escaped. Well . . .
we
did. Together.’

‘Because we’re soulmates?’ I ask, the unfamiliar term feeling awkward on my lips.

As much as I once wanted to believe that everything he told me was a lie, after all that’s happened in the past hour it’s decidedly more difficult to do so.

Zen laughs. It echoes beautifully in my ears. ‘Well, yes. There was
that
reason. But mostly it was because we figured out what they were doing to you.’

‘What exactly
were
they doing to me? I still don’t completely understand.’

Zen’s smile fades almost instantly. ‘Neither do I.’

‘But you just said—’

His arm juts out in front of me, bringing me to a halt. We’ve stopped in front of the highway. There’s a lull in the traffic and Zen reaches for my hand. We sprint across together.
The touch of his skin against mine makes my entire body hum. I don’t want him to let go but he does as soon as we reach the other side.

He doesn’t seem to notice my disappointment when his fingers slip from mine. He just keeps walking.

‘I know you have a lot of questions,’ he begins, as he heads towards the far north side of town. ‘But I think it’s better if I don’t answer them.’

My feet slow to a stop and I scowl in his direction. ‘What? Why not?’

He stops too and glances back at me. ‘Because knowing you, I honestly don’t think you’d believe me.’

His response makes my head spin. How am I supposed to remember anything if he won’t even tell me what happened?

‘You’ve always had a tendency to trust only what you can see and touch and define,’ he goes on. ‘Facts and numbers. They’re what you rely on.’

I’m somewhat staggered by how accurate his description is.

‘Which is why,’ he continues, ‘I think it’s better if I show you.’

Show me?

He starts walking again and I follow closely behind as he leads me back into the small, sleepy town of Wells Creek. We cross the deserted main street and continue up a hill. I note the street
sign as we turn on to a narrow road:
BRADBURY DRIVE
. And the building we eventually stop in front of is marked by the number
1952.

1952 Bradbury Drive, room 302.

Where Zen told me he was staying. Where he asked me to meet him when he cornered me in the dressing room.

But the part that confuses me is the sign out front that reads
MARK TWAIN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL
.

Why would Zen be staying at a school?

He taps on a small numeric keypad on the front door and then yanks it open. He beckons for me to enter but I hesitate.

‘Sera,’ he urges gently, ‘I would never lead you into danger. I’m doing my best to keep you
away
from it.’ He smiles ever so slightly. ‘I
promise.’

I walk past him into the building and Zen lets the door swing shut behind us. He guides me up two flights of stairs and down a hallway to room 302.

The lock has been broken. Busted open. He holds the door for me, flips on the light switch, and we step inside. The room is hot and a bit stuffy but I hardly notice. I’m far too distracted
by the walls. They’re utterly fascinating. Bright and colourful and decorated with hundreds of pictures and drawings and maps of the world.

There are shelves stuffed with books and a handful of small round tables with blue plastic chairs tucked in around them. Every letter of the alphabet is displayed in various colours near the
ceiling.

‘What is this place?’ I ask, spinning in a slow circle, trying to absorb everything.

‘It’s a kindergarten classroom.’

‘What’s kindergarten?’

He chuckles. ‘It’s the first year of school. When children start their education. Typically around age five.’

I smile, immediately feeling a peculiar kinship with the room. After all, I seem to be starting from the beginning as well.

‘Sorry it’s so warm in here,’ Zen says, walking to a table in the centre of the room. ‘They don’t turn on the air-conditioning in the summer when school is
out.’

On the floor near his feet I notice a thin foam pad with a pillow and a crumpled blanket on it. ‘Are you . . .
living
here?’ I ask.

‘Temporarily.’

‘Why?’

‘I had to find a location that was deserted. So I could stay under the radar. And a kindergarten classroom seemed like the perfect place. There’s no one here during the summer and
they have blankets and pillows for nap time.’

I stifle a laugh at the thought of Zen sleeping on a pillow belonging to a five-year-old. ‘I mean, why aren’t you living at home?’

I watch him remove a tiny silver cube from his pants pocket and place it gingerly down on the table in front of him. He’s so noticeably delicate with it you would think it was made out of
fragile glass.

I move towards him, keeping my eyes on the curious steel object. For some reason, it seems to be calling me. Like the gravitational pull of a large planet. Even though it’s barely bigger
than my fingernail.

‘I can’t go home,’ he says simply as he presses his thumb against one side of the device. It glows green in response.

I completely forget about our conversation as I’m drawn further and further into the magnetism of the mysterious object, marvelling at how my hands tremble the closer I get. ‘What is
that?’ I ask, refusing to take my eyes off it for even a second.

Zen follows my gaze until we’re both staring at the tiny radiant cube.

‘This,’ he says, picking it up and holding it protectively in his hand, ‘is where I’ve stored your memories.’

The gun slips from my hand and lands on the floor with a
loud
thud
. Zen gasps and lunges forward. ‘You have to be careful with that!’ he
warns, scooping it up and placing it on the table next to the glowing cube.

‘My memories?’ My voice quivers.

‘Well,’ he amends, ‘not
all
your memories. Unfortunately I couldn’t get all of them. But these are enough to give you the general idea of what
happened.’

He points to the device. ‘I stored them on this hard drive until I could convince you to come here.’

His explanation only confuses me more. ‘But how did you get them?’

He shrugs. ‘I stole them.’

‘From who?’

‘From the people who took them from
you
.’ He studies the bewildered look on my face and then quickly adds, ‘To be fair, they stole them first. I was just . . . you
know, stealing them back for you.’

My legs feel wobbly and I collapse into the nearest chair – one of the small blue plastic ones clearly designed for a young child. It’s a long way down and I nearly lose my
balance.

I hold my head in my hands. ‘What is going on?’ The words barely make it out alive. My throat does its best to suffocate them.

Zen hurries over to me and kneels at my feet. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being insensitive. I know this is scary and overwhelming for you. But I promise everything will be explained in a
minute.’

He stands up and draws a small wooden box out of his other pocket, flipping open the lid. I crane my neck to peek inside and see that the box contains three very odd-looking discs. Each one is
about two inches in diameter and made of some kind of transparent rubber.

He removes the first and leans over me, placing the disc just behind my left ear. It sticks on its own, practically fusing to my flesh.

‘These are cognitive receptors,’ he explains, removing the second rubber disc from the box. He places this one behind my right ear. ‘They will link your brain to this hard
drive, allowing you to access anything that’s on it.’ He taps the miniature steel box gingerly with his fingertip. ‘It’s a technology that was developed on the Diotech
compound. I think they call it re-cognization.’

‘And how do you know all of this?’

He shrugs and gives me a sheepish smile. ‘The truth is, I don’t really. I mean, I don’t know the science behind it. I knew the technology existed because my mom was on the team
that developed it. And after I went back and stole the memory files from the Diotech compound and erased any backups on their server, I did a little test run on myself, to make sure it
worked.’

‘Does it hurt?’ I ask fearfully.

‘No. It’s just a little . . .’ He pauses, screwing his lips in concentration. ‘Weird.’

‘Weird,’ I repeat, my stomach rumbling with nerves.

He picks up the third receptor and closes the lid of the now empty box. Then he steps behind me. I crane my neck, trying to see him, waiting for what he’ll do next. But he just stands
there, awkwardly fidgeting with the disc. ‘Sorry,’ he says, extending his hand tentatively towards my head and then quickly withdrawing it. ‘I need to, um, move your
hair.’