Dissension Read online

  Without another word, they sprinted back to the room. As they opened the door, the noise from the other detainees abruptly stopped and everything went eerily quiet.

  "It worked," Heizwick mumbled. "We have succeeded beyond our wildest dreams."

  Hanson burst through the door behind them and headed for the table, but the girl was no longer there. She’d broken free from all of the straps and was now hovering three feet in the air. She didn’t resemble the young girl Hanson had dragged into the room less than an hour ago. She looked like something that may have come from a distant rain forest.

  Her skin was more like dragon scales than flesh, her hands more like claws. Bits of light still flickered from her eyes, but it was now sporadic like someone flipping a light switch on and off.

  Dr. Vorcick stared in awe. Of all the patients none had ever made it this far into the process. Hanson on the other hand, wasn’t impressed with the reaction. Instead, he was more concerned with the security risk she posed.

  "Get back," Hanson snapped as he fumbled with his belt, trying to un-holster his revolver.

  “This one may survive into maturity!” Dr. Vorcick gleamed.

  “This…this is too risky. We have to shut it down. Vorcick this is too much!” Heizwick yelled back.

  Suddenly, the light in the girl’s eyes died and an awful sound erupted from her mouth. Hanson quickly covered his ears and dove for the door. He skidded into the hallway as Heizwick followed behind him. Dr. Vorcick was still marveling at his subject, staring up at her in a daze.

  “Vorcick get out of there!” Heizwick screamed, but Vorcick didn’t budge.

  Hanson quickly scrambled to his feet and kicked the door closed. The sound of her screams vanished behind the heavy iron slab.

  “What do you think you’re doing? We’ve got to get him out,” Heizwick said as he jumped in Hanson’s face.

  Hanson shoved him aside and took out his gun. He sneered at him, daring him to move.

  “It’s too late for that now.”

  Several other men, all the size of Hanson ran down the hallway and stopped outside of the door. They stared to Hanson, awaiting his orders.

  “Start protocol. Lock everything down,” Hanson demanded.

  The guards nodded then darted off in different directions. Hanson turned back to the door and pressed his ear against it. He listened momentarily then gripped the handle with his massive hands as Heizwick watched with a fearful eye.

  “I think it’s over,” Hanson said and slowly cracked the door open.

  Reluctantly, he stuck his head inside and looked around. Everything was a mess, but it was completely still. He stepped into the room with his gun drawn, Heizwick shuffled his feet behind him.

  “Vorcick!” Dr. Heizwick gasped as he sprinted off and knelt next to the body.

  Dr. Vorcick was lying face down on the floor with thick, red blood pouring from his ears. Heizwick grabbed his wrist and checked for a pulse. There was nothing, Vorcick’s skin had already begun to cool.

  Plastic cords and paneling hung from the ceiling. Sparks shot off from the electrical wiring like firecrackers. The operating table had been cracked in half and dense smoke billowed from a fried monitor.

  Hanson cautiously approached the table. The girl was wedged in between it. Her eyes were no longer glowing, but were cold and black. Her arms lay limp, twisted and bent wildly.

  Hanson kicked her hand with his shoe. She didn’t move. There was a sound at the door and he spun around with his gun ready.

  A tall man with glasses and a balding head entered the room. He stood at the door for a moment, surveying the destruction. He glanced down at the body of Dr. Vorcick and then to Dr. Heizwick and shook his head.

  Hanson quickly lowered his gun and stood at attention. It was obvious the man garnered some type of respect.

  With a stern face, he looked to Hanson and spoke. “We’re exterminating all of the current detainees. We’ll need an entirely new set of subjects. Get back out on the road.”

  II

  THESE DREAMS

  His chest burned like lava coals and he could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage. He was certain he could only keep this pace up for minutes, but that was half an hour ago. Now he could feel himself getting stronger with every step.

  The starless night hid his pursuers, but he knew they were back there. He could smell them. He could hear their deep, rattled breathing as they tried to keep up. If he could only reach the tree line he’d be safe, but the rugged terrain had already claimed one life and he wasn’t convinced that it wouldn’t claim his as well.

  His veins throbbed as blood rushed through them, fueling his muscles like a fighter jet. He moved like a gazelle, leaping over rocks, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. He looked back just as a gnarled hand emerged from the blackness behind him. It brushed against his shirt as he dove into the trees and closed his eyes.

  Suddenly he was standing alone on a barren wasteland. The scorched ground smoldered as clouds of ash drifted into the sky. Cities that were once thriving and vibrant now lay ruined, only shadows of their former selves.

  He’d tried his best to stop them, but in the end he wasn’t strong enough. Now everything he loved was gone. His mother was claimed in the fires, his father went shortly after her. The brother he never knew he had; a casualty of a war he couldn’t understand.

  His eyes welled with tears. He longed for a time when things were simpler, when things made sense. The emptiness he felt was suffocating. It choked him, stealing the very breath from his lungs.

  He relaxed and stared out on the charred landscape. It looked to him like hell, if he’d ever been. But he was sure hell had a nicer view.

  There was a sobering reality he felt standing amidst the ruins of his home. He was alone, something he’d always known, but now it was undeniable. His friends who had stood by him loyally, following him to the end were long gone. They were dead like everything he came in contact with.

  A scream echoed in the distance. A woman’s voice clung to the wind, yelling for help. He turned and ran towards the sound. It was a faint whisper that barely brushed his ears.

  The scream echoed again, just as a hand broke through the rubble ahead. He ran faster, screaming back to the faceless voice.

  “I’m coming, just hold on.”

  She screamed louder. Her voice bounced around in his head like a basketball in an empty gym. It wasn’t words, but the sound of someone in pain. He could feel it; he could sense the agony in every breath.

  Lightning ripped through the sky, illuminating the mountains ahead. The earth began to shake and thunder rumbled the air. It was starting again. He knew he didn’t have much time.

  He ran even faster now, but no matter how fast he moved he was no closer to her. Suddenly, another hand broke through the ground, then another and another after that.

  “Help me! Help us!” they screamed.

  His feet pounded the crumbling earth as he sped toward the outstretched hands. With every step he took, another one pierced the jagged rocks until he lost count. A wave of cries flooded the air.

  “Help us! Please help us! Somebody help us!” the voices pleaded and then there was silence.

  Anthony slowly opened his eyes and peered around the room. He squinted, willing himself to focus as the blue and red ceiling fan stirred dust and bits of loose paper about. His alarm clock buzzed loudly in his ear.

  "Creepy," he grumbled and rubbed his face.

  Anthony welcomed the new day, a relief from the ghastly visions that had haunted his sleep. They’d become more than dreams to him, almost like memories that he’d forgotten. He knew he’d been there before. He could smell the burning earth; he could taste the despair that lingered in the wind. The pain of losing everything felt way too real to just be a dream.

  He sighed and reluctantly sat up. The nightmare that always began with him being chased by shadowy figures, had replayed itself more frequently the last few nights. As terrifying as it was, h
e still wasn’t quite ready to relinquish the comfort of his bed. He let out a long yawn and stretched his hands to the sky. The last day of freedom, he thought.

  The sun had barely peeked its head out, sprinkling drops of light as the calming rush of the waves collided violently with the rocks below. It was just another day in North Shore for Anthony Dimair, the eclectic fourteen year old. He was set to embark on his first day of high school in less than twenty-four hours.

  A bronze skinned adolescent with wiry hair and an athletic build that betrayed his true clumsy nature. He looked to have a maturity beyond his years, but it was just a facade to hide his childish nature. A lifetime of hanging with older kids gave him a cynical outlook that he twisted with a perverse sense of humor.

  Anthony’s room was littered with soccer posters and gear that hadn’t been washed in months. Video games and old socks covered most of his bed. His laptop was still streaming Netflix videos and an empty bag of Doritos had been stuffed inside of a tennis shoe.

  Two French doors led out to a balcony, which was now off limits to Anthony. No one aside from him and his parents knew the exact reason why, but it was suspected that it had something to do with water balloons and a makeshift catapult.

  As Anthony lay on his bed in a semi-conscious state, something smacked into the window and he jumped up. Another thud crashed into the door and he dove off of the bed and onto the ground. Army crawling across the floor, he moved towards the balcony.

  "Mikey, you idiot!" he grumbled.

  Jumping to his feet, he yanked the door open. The rush of the sea drenched wind smacked him in the face and he collapsed to the deck gripping his forehead. A searing pain ripped through him and he let out a stifled growl. His agony was met by an all too familiar laugh.

  Stumbling to his feet, he eyed his best friend, Mikey. He was giggling below, holding a few jagged sea shells. Steve, one of his other friends was beside him, trying to hide the smirk on his face.

  “Dude, didn’t expect you to open the door,” Mikey said with a laugh.

  Anthony glared at him and rubbed his forehead. "You make it hard to not kill you Mikey, real hard."

  "Yeah, yeah, just hurry up and get down here."

  "What's the rush? I'm not interested in stalking any of your neighbors and my mom's sick of you stealing all the juice boxes."

  "I took two, get over it. Dude just get out here."

  "Fine. Stop throwing rocks at my window idiot."

  Fuming, Anthony headed back inside and closed the door. He threw on a pair of tattered shorts and some sneakers. Then stormed out of the room with a t-shirt half on his head.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he tripped on the last one and fell head over heels. He slid across the cold, tile floor and came to a stop at his mother’s feet.

  “How many times have I told you about running on the stairs?” Anthony’s mother peered down on him, shaking her head.

  Mrs. Dimair was a gentle yet complicated lady who Mikey often referred to as a Rubik’s cube wrapped in a cardigan. She moved to California by way of Virginia when her husband took a job as sales manager with Brothers and Brew. Now she spent her days juggling the duties of team mom, booster mom, PTA mom and any other volunteer organization she could find.

  “I wasn’t running, I just fell,” Anthony cowered, rubbing his head and pulling the t-shirt from over his eyes.

  His mother looked at him momentarily, her hazel eyes now the color of crimson. She had an uncanny ability to break Anthony down with a simple gaze. He quickly looked away and with a “humph,” his mother turned and headed into the kitchen.

  Anthony jumped up and made his escape for the door. The mat slid from under his feet and he nearly tripped again before stumbling outside.

  “Breakfast,” his mom yelled after him.

  “I’m not hungry, going out with Mikey and Steve,” Anthony yelled back. He could hear her faint retort, but it was cut short as he slammed the front door.

  Mikey and Steve stood on the sidewalk in front of the house. Mikey was a gangly fifteen year old standing almost a foot taller than anyone else in their class. His knotted blonde hair and often sun burnt shoulders were proof of his heavy involvement in California’s favorite sport. He knew Anthony since the first grade and had already mapped out their college plans as party animals.

  Steve on the other hand, was the polar opposite of Mikey. He was a short, pudgy, freckled face teen who oddly enough was voted coolest kid in the school three years in a row. His sweaty, unkempt black hair seemed to grow in direct violation of all things natural. But somehow he managed to be extraordinarily popular with the ladies.

  “So what’s so important you nearly broke my window and gave me a concussion?” Anthony asked as he stepped off of the porch.

  “Two things," Mikey replied with a sinister grin. "Number one, I saw your woman and her friends headed down to the beach in her new car. And two, Mrs. Clark finally killed her husband."

  III

  HOUSE OF SECRETS

  Anthony eyed Mikey for a minute then shook his head. "Which beach did she head to?"

  "Rocks, but did you hear me? Mrs. Clark killed her freaking husband."

  "Yeah I heard you and you sound stupid. Seriously Mikey, you wake me up for this? I’m going back to sleep,” Anthony said dismissively then started to head back inside.

  “No really!” Steve shouted as he grabbed his shoulder. “I was there. I saw it...I saw it. The ambulance was pulling up on our way over.”

  Anthony knew Mikey was keen on making everything sound overly important, but Steve rarely went along with any of Mikey’s ill-conceived ideas. If Steve said it happened then it happened.

  “Fine,” Anthony replied. “Let’s go.”

  “We gotta get Mit first,” Mikey smiled and jumped on his bike, which looked freakishly small when he rode it.

  Sighing, Anthony grabbed his long board. He pushed off into the street and followed after Mikey and Steve. They rode around the corner and stopped outside of a white, colonial house with maroon brick pavers.

  "Mit get your ass out here," Mikey yelled.

  "His mom's home dude," Steve warned him. "Watch your language."

  "Who cares, she deaf."

  Mit stumbled out of the house, stuffing a blueberry muffin into his mouth. He pulled a rusty mountain bike from around the side of the porch and climbed on top of it.

  "One of us really needs to get a car," he grumbled.

  Mit was a fiery Irish kid, who was just about normal in every way. But his IQ, which he would never mention, just about doubled everyone around him. He was the shortest out of the group, but was normally the first to dive head on into a fight.

  The path to Mrs. Clark’s house was ridden flat throughout the summer. The dilapidated house next door had been turned into a makeshift nightclub by the neighborhood kids. There were always parties going on and liquor bottles scattered across the lawn.

  That was how all the rumors started in the first place. A few drunk kids peeping through window and the legend of the "Crazy Clarks," was born. Over the years it'd just gotten worse and now it seemed to have reached it's peak.

  Mikey cut through the grass in front of the vacant house and jumped off of his bike. He ran over to a tattered wooden fence that separated Mrs. Clark’s yard from the house that everyone called "the hub."

  “See look,” Mikey said with an excited grin on his face.

  Anthony walked up to the fence and peered through the cracks. Sure enough there it was, an ambulance sitting right in Mrs. Clarks driveway. Two paramedics strode out of the front door rolling a gurney with a sheet over it, presumably covering Mr. Clark’s body. Hobbling behind them, a distraught Mrs. Clark sobbed, wiping her face with a checkered handkerchief.

  Her hooked nose jutted outward like a crooked finger. Her shiny, gray hair glared under the morning sun. The pair of silver cat-eye glasses she wore made her appear more menacing than a little old lady could ever hope to be.

  She was a fragil
e lady, roughly seventy years old; although the boys were certain she was approaching two hundred. Her little, frail legs were barely able to carry her to the ambulance. She stopped at the back and one of the paramedics helped her into the cabin.

  As Mrs. Clark stepped onto the platform, she slowly turned her head and looked towards the fence. Her greying eyes met Anthony’s and he dove to the ground, praying she didn’t see him.

  “She winked, she winked at me,” he puffed.

  “I told you...I told you that crazy lady had it in her,” Mikey said with conviction.

  Before Anthony could reply, the ambulance cranked up and backed out of the driveway. They didn’t bother to turn the sirens on, which to Anthony was a morbid indication of what Mikey and Steve already suspected.

  As the ambulance silently rolled down the road, Anthony slowly got to his feet. He watched the truck vanish around the corner as the last of the morning fog dissipated. With a skeptical look, he turned to Steve.

  “So what did you actually see?” he demanded.

  “I saw stuff and I don’t like your attitude,” Steve snapped back.

  “Seriously man, what was it?”

  Steve rolled his eyes. “Well, I got up this morning and started my normal scan of Becky Geller’s room,” Steve paused, smiling as his mind drifted to Becky who he'd been actually stalking for the better part of a month.

  “Snap out of it Romeo!” Mikey said and clapped his hands.

  "We're gonna date. I just know we are...we have all the same interests and her mom volunteers with my mom. It's destiny."

  "Look, I don't doubt your skills with the ladies Steve, but Becky is out of everyone's league. Just tell me what happened," Anthony replied.

  “Yeah, well I looked over to crazy Clark’s house, ‘cause you know I said she was gonna kill him. I just knew, only a matter of time.”

  Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out a Twinkie. He shoved it in his mouth and continued talking, sending crumbs into the air like little rockets.