The Awakening, page 18
part #1 of Eve Series
“I’d like to discuss your tutoring services.”
“I had a feeling. This is about the girl, right? The most recent attack victim?”
Furst finally glanced back at Eve, his forehead wrinkled, his glasses
hovering at the tip of his nose.
“Pardon?”
“You know, one student is hard enough. I’m missing classes almost every
day. People are talking about me, just like I thought they would,” she rambled.
“I’m sorry, but whatever you’re offering—free grad school, a pony, I don’t
care—I can’t tutor another chimera. It would solidify my fate. Everyone would
know who I am.”
Furst rested his pen and cocked his head, his gaze emotionless, almost
bored. “Are you finished?”
“You don’t even care, do you?”
“Whether or not I care is beside the point, Miss Kingston. You have clearly misconstrued the matter for which you are here.”
Eve stopped short, confused. “Wait—you don’t want me to tutor the girl?”
“No, Miss Kingston. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me.”
“Oh.” Eve looked down at the ground and took in a deep breath. She
assumed she would feel relief, but instead she felt puzzled, nonplussed, and even a bit angry.
“Why not?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Why am I tutoring Jason and not her? Does she have her own tutor?”
“No, Miss Kingston. She will not be tutored by you or anyone else.”
“But why?”
“That is classified information—”
“So was the fact that I’m a chimera, and yet you found a way to put your strong
sense of morality to the side on that one,” Eve scoffed.
Furst glowered. “Jason Valentine is the son of a senator— ”
“So I’ve heard.”
Furst lifted his chin as if to deflect against Eve’s cutting scorn. “Our most
recent chimera is of a more… pedestrian livelihood.”
“Pedestrian?” Eve sneered. “Of all the adjectives you could’ve chosen, you
used pedestrian?”
“Well, what would you have preferred, Miss Kingston?”
“Well, I guess you could’ve taken the bold route and just come out with the
truth—that she’s unimportant. That her parents are mechanics or school
teachers or whatever else—not senators.”
Furst leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Have you finished
judging me?”
“Hardly.”
“As much as I’d love to see the world through rose-colored glasses like you
—”
“Me? See the world through rose-colored glasses? Has hell frozen over?”
“You ‘root for the underdog,’ as the saying goes,” Furst cut in, his words stern.
“It’s an honorable trait, but, alas, it is unrealistic. My job requires me to
be pragmatic, not idealistic.”
Eve bit her bottom lip. “I guess calling it pragmatism makes it sound a lot less despicable.”
“It’s easy for you to label me as the villain, Miss Kingston,” Furst coolly added, riffling through the documents on his desk once again. “After all, I did
invade your privacy, as you so effectively indicated during our first meeting,
and now there’s this disagreement. But, as we speak, one hundred new
patrolmen are stationing themselves across Billington at my request. We have refined our security and accelerated our defense efforts. And on top of that, I
have made special arrangements for a new addition to our surgical team at the
medical ward. You’ve heard of Dr. Dzarnoski, yes? He’s the country’s leading
expert in humanovus medicine. He’s here to treat our victims, and he’s here because I asked him to be here. Now, Miss Kingston, do I still sound like a villain to you?”
Eve scowled. “Just tell me why I’m here.”
“I’d like a full report on Jason Valentine.”
“A report? What do you mean?”
“How is he doing? How is he coming along?”
“He wants to leave,” she snapped. “He doesn’t understand why he’s still
cooped up in the isolation wing when his chest is fully healed.”
“Ah… so this is the source of your hostility. And I assume you want some type of explanation for that?”
“I don’t, but he does.”
Furst removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead, strained by her
badgering. “The young man suffered serious injuries. You cannot possibly
understand the severity of what his body endured. He may feel fine—”
“With all due respect, weren’t you the one who told me that a week was, and
I quote, ‘more than enough time for a chimera to regain his strength’?”
Furst bowed his head and mustered a half-smile. “I had forgotten how sharp
you are—too smart for your own good, if I do say so myself.”
“So, what’s the real explanation?”
“Miss Kingston, the world, for the most part, is familiar with the many
qualities of chimeras: the gift, the muscle memory, the remarkable immune
system. They’ve heard it in the news, read it in books, and so on and so forth.
But few have actually seen these traits put to the test in a public setting.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“People are already aware that a chimera can heal at a much more
accelerated rate than the average human being, but they do not get to see this healing process in action. Jason suffered trauma that no ordinary human could
live through. People find it unsettling enough just knowing that he could
survive that horror; can you imagine the fear, the hysteria that would ensue if people knew that he not only survived, but fully healed in only a week? It would create an uproar.”
For once, Eve was at a loss for words. She sat in silence, her eyes like daggers.
Finally, she spoke.
“How… pragmatic. ”
“I know you think it’s unfair, and to some degree it is, but it is for the greater good. Besides, Mr. Valentine is spending much of his days learning from you,
and that is quite a privilege.” Furst’s words, though kinder than usual, were dripping with artificiality. “Now, on that note, tell me how the young man is progressing.”
Eve breathed in deeply and cradled her head in her hand. “He’s…” She
hesitated for a moment, her mind wandering to their sessions together—to his
breakthrough earlier in the day, the tingling of her spine as she was lifted from her seat, and the warm, triumphant smile on his face.
“He’s struggling.”
Furst frowned. “Is that so?”
“Just needs more help with the basics, I guess.”
“Well, I appreciate your honesty. I suppose we’re going to have to address this
issue pretty vigorously. You’re meeting with him five days a week,
correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, we’re just going to have to increase it to six. Better yet, we’ll make it daily. You understand, yes?”
“Yeah,” Eve stuttered. “I mean, if I have to.”
Furst offered a condescending smile, pleased with Eve’s sudden agreeability.
“Splendid.” He returned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. “I think we’re done here, then. You’re free to leave.”
Eve refused to move from her chair. She stared back at Furst, her eyes
scathing, and waited patiently for him to feel her presence.
Furst looked up from his work and removed his glasses yet again. “Did you
hear me, Miss Kingston?”
“I heard you.”
“I suppose you want something from me.”
“Just a simple explanation.”
“Well, please make haste with your question. My time is limited.”
“Who has everything?” she asked, her tone strict and unwavering.
“Pardon?”
“And what is everything? And who’s Fairon?”
“I don’t believe I follow.”
“Last week, you were in the medical ward with that patrolman,” Eve
explained, though she knew without a doubt that Furst recalled the interaction.
“I want to know what you were talking about.”
“Yes, I imagine you do. But that doesn’t mean I’m obligated to tell you.”
“It’s the Interlopers, isn’t it? You were talking about the Interlopers.”
Furst pursed his lips with aggravation. “Miss Kingston, if you’re concerned
for your safety, I can assure you, there’s nothing to fear.”
“Look, it can’t be that secretive if you and Colonel Scarface were talking about it out in the open like that. And if I have nothing to fear, you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“Miss Kingston—”
“I have a right to know,” Eve boldly interrupted. “This affects me, too. It already affected Jason, that girl today, and God knows how many others. We deserve to know what we’re up against. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
Furst remained unresponsive except for his eyes—they glared back at Eve, morphing into tiny slits that spoke volumes more than any words he could
possibly utter. It was that penetrating stare which confirmed her greatest fear:
that everything was far from okay, that Billington was most certainly in a state
of turmoil. And with that realization, Furst finally broke his silence.
“My receptionist will see you out.”
***
BANG BANG BANG.
Eve stared at the front door in silence. She could see the wood grain rattling
with each loud, heavy thump. Someone was waiting on the other side; they
were impatient, pounding at the door incessantly, as if their persistence would
somehow bend her will, but it would do no such thing. She was accustomed to
situations such as this, and she was not answering the door.
BANG BANG BANG.
She glanced around the entryway—her aunt was nowhere to be found, as was
typical, though even when she was there she wasn’t really, at least not to Eve.
She turned back to the door—it looked alive, like a horrible monster, and in that moment, she could look at nothing else.
She flinched; a loud chorus of ringing joined the endless pounding, the two
sounds transforming into a frightful symphony. It was too much—Eve sprang
to life and hurried to the corner of the room, where she curled up into a small,
tight ball, covering her ears and trembling in place as she kept her eyes firmly
focused on the living, breathing, monstrous door.
Glass shattered, spilling across the living room and dangling from the
window in sharp, jagged pieces, and Eve screamed. A small, silver object was
flung into the room; she hadn’t any time to discern what it was because shortly after it rolled across the carpet, a steady stream of smoke oozed from it, filling the room with an infinite mass of grey. Eve coughed on the smoke, her lungs
raw in her chest, and soon her eyes stung so badly that tears gushed down her
face. There was no other option, no escape, and so, against her better
judgment, she ran for the door. It was what they wanted, after all—she knew this, even at such a young age, for she had experienced enough torment to know how it would end. In a fit of wild hysteria, she swung open the front door, took in one long, painful breath, and waited.
A hot, soggy mess splattered across her face, sticking to her cheek before it
slid down her neck and dropped to the front step. She wiped her hand across her face—blood. A pile of, well, something was sitting at her feet—it was pink, slimy and stank of rancid flesh. Rotten meat—the entrails of an animal. Eve
gagged, nearly choking on her own vomit, and dared to look out at her aunt’s
front yard.
There were people lined up across the lawn, though their faces were just a blur,
as all she could see was a blanket of putrid guts. The people laughed menacingly, shouting “chime” over and over again as they flung the entrails at her, pelting her across her face, splashing her with blood and muck until it dripped down her nose and eyelashes. The stench was unbearable, but even
worse was the wet slapping of the guts against her body. She screamed, the sound of her agony meshing with the despicable laughter until it faded into silence—until her vision changed from endless red to a quaking darkness.
Eve lurched up in her bed. It was a nightmare, and she flattened her hand against her chest as she felt her heartbeat slowly regain its normal rhythm. She
checked her clock; it was three thirty-five in the morning, and she stared down
at the light of the moon that trickled underneath her curtains, faintly setting her dorm room aglow. Madison was snoring like a fat man, tossing and turning
beneath her heap of pink silk sheets, and for a brief moment Eve envied her.
There was no way Eve could go back to sleep, for each time she closed her
eyes she saw nothing but red rain pouring down on her, a red that morphed into a pulsing, streaming black. It was decided, then—she tied her hair into a ponytail and slipped out of the room, desperate for a taste of the night and a hint of peace.
The elevator ride down to the Rutherford lobby felt longer than usual, and Eve
nervously tapped her foot until she finally reached the ground floor. The
lobby was warm and inviting, mostly because it was empty, and she basked in
the solitude, comforted by the sound of nothing but her boots hitting the tile floor.
She sighed; a long stroll, she thought, was all she needed to clear her mind.
She would find a spot, an isolated corner of the campus, stare up at the sky, and
think about whatever the hell she chose to think about—certainly not her
nightmares or the god-awful Interlopers, as they had already taken up enough
space in her mind. She had to shake the anxiety, to rid herself of her demons.
The gleam of the moon and the cool night air would be the perfect cure for her
worry, and with a sense of hope, Eve barged through the front doors of
Rutherford Hall.
Eve froze in her tracks. A rush of icy numbness shot up from her fingers and
through her entire body, paralyzing her heart and lungs within her chest. She wanted to close her eyes, but they remained open, staring in disbelief at the
grotesque display before her.
A large, metal construct in the shape of an “X” was propped in front of
Rutherford Hall like some obscure statue, and a shadowy figure hung from it
—a body, limp and broken. Dead. His arms and legs were pinned to the
structure by large, needle-like rods, soaking his limbs in deep red blood that saturated his tattered suit. But his face was the most terrifying part of all: long, silver needles pierced through his eyes, securing his head to a metal sheet behind him. Streams of blood had dried on his cheeks like gruesome tears, his
jaw hanging open as if his screams could still be heard.
Eve knew this face—she didn’t need to see the dead boy’s eyes to know that
this was Marshall Woodgate, son of the current President of the United States.
As her paralysis slowly subsided, Eve’s eyes made their way to the
bloodbath at her feet. Huge streaks of ruby red were spread over the courtyard
grounds, wildly smeared across the concrete beneath the X. Suddenly, she
realized that the savage display was much more than just a horrifying mess—it
was a message. Large letters painted in fresh, young blood detailed a hateful threat that could not be ignored:
STAND DOWN, OR MORE HUMANS WILL DIE.
CHAPTER 6: NIGHTMARES
“We will not stand down. This country does not fold under the threats of terrorists, nor will it accede to the demands of the Interlopers.”
The Vice President and his podium were projected into the middle of the rec
room, the hologram so clear and vivid that Eve could’ve sworn it was real. She
and the Vice President were the only two figures there—the room had cleared out long ago, as this press conference was a rerun from days prior—but Eve
couldn’t seem to move from the spot where she stood. She watched the speech
on repeat, playing it over and over again on every news station she could find,
until she had memorized each word and hand gesture. It was almost a form of
self-torture.
If she were honest with herself, she’d admit that there wasn’t much need to
watch the news anyway: the word of Marshall’s death had spread like wildfire,
and no one knew more of the gruesome details than she did. Still, even a week
after she’d discovered his body, she could think of nothing but the bloody message and the needles protruding from his eyes.
The Vice President disappeared from the room, and a somber anchorwoman
took his place. She cleared her throat before she spoke.
“The autopsy has confirmed that Marshall Woodgate was human, which
would make this the first documented murder of a human being by an Interloper.
Police have released a statement confirming that Marshall’s death did not involve any type of dissection, and that it appears the Interlopers’ only intent was to send a message to the American people. While their agenda is still centered on the chimera population, it is clear that the Interlopers are now willing to execute humans in order to meet their goals.”
“I had a feeling. This is about the girl, right? The most recent attack victim?”
Furst finally glanced back at Eve, his forehead wrinkled, his glasses
hovering at the tip of his nose.
“Pardon?”
“You know, one student is hard enough. I’m missing classes almost every
day. People are talking about me, just like I thought they would,” she rambled.
“I’m sorry, but whatever you’re offering—free grad school, a pony, I don’t
care—I can’t tutor another chimera. It would solidify my fate. Everyone would
know who I am.”
Furst rested his pen and cocked his head, his gaze emotionless, almost
bored. “Are you finished?”
“You don’t even care, do you?”
“Whether or not I care is beside the point, Miss Kingston. You have clearly misconstrued the matter for which you are here.”
Eve stopped short, confused. “Wait—you don’t want me to tutor the girl?”
“No, Miss Kingston. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me.”
“Oh.” Eve looked down at the ground and took in a deep breath. She
assumed she would feel relief, but instead she felt puzzled, nonplussed, and even a bit angry.
“Why not?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Why am I tutoring Jason and not her? Does she have her own tutor?”
“No, Miss Kingston. She will not be tutored by you or anyone else.”
“But why?”
“That is classified information—”
“So was the fact that I’m a chimera, and yet you found a way to put your strong
sense of morality to the side on that one,” Eve scoffed.
Furst glowered. “Jason Valentine is the son of a senator— ”
“So I’ve heard.”
Furst lifted his chin as if to deflect against Eve’s cutting scorn. “Our most
recent chimera is of a more… pedestrian livelihood.”
“Pedestrian?” Eve sneered. “Of all the adjectives you could’ve chosen, you
used pedestrian?”
“Well, what would you have preferred, Miss Kingston?”
“Well, I guess you could’ve taken the bold route and just come out with the
truth—that she’s unimportant. That her parents are mechanics or school
teachers or whatever else—not senators.”
Furst leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Have you finished
judging me?”
“Hardly.”
“As much as I’d love to see the world through rose-colored glasses like you
—”
“Me? See the world through rose-colored glasses? Has hell frozen over?”
“You ‘root for the underdog,’ as the saying goes,” Furst cut in, his words stern.
“It’s an honorable trait, but, alas, it is unrealistic. My job requires me to
be pragmatic, not idealistic.”
Eve bit her bottom lip. “I guess calling it pragmatism makes it sound a lot less despicable.”
“It’s easy for you to label me as the villain, Miss Kingston,” Furst coolly added, riffling through the documents on his desk once again. “After all, I did
invade your privacy, as you so effectively indicated during our first meeting,
and now there’s this disagreement. But, as we speak, one hundred new
patrolmen are stationing themselves across Billington at my request. We have refined our security and accelerated our defense efforts. And on top of that, I
have made special arrangements for a new addition to our surgical team at the
medical ward. You’ve heard of Dr. Dzarnoski, yes? He’s the country’s leading
expert in humanovus medicine. He’s here to treat our victims, and he’s here because I asked him to be here. Now, Miss Kingston, do I still sound like a villain to you?”
Eve scowled. “Just tell me why I’m here.”
“I’d like a full report on Jason Valentine.”
“A report? What do you mean?”
“How is he doing? How is he coming along?”
“He wants to leave,” she snapped. “He doesn’t understand why he’s still
cooped up in the isolation wing when his chest is fully healed.”
“Ah… so this is the source of your hostility. And I assume you want some type of explanation for that?”
“I don’t, but he does.”
Furst removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead, strained by her
badgering. “The young man suffered serious injuries. You cannot possibly
understand the severity of what his body endured. He may feel fine—”
“With all due respect, weren’t you the one who told me that a week was, and
I quote, ‘more than enough time for a chimera to regain his strength’?”
Furst bowed his head and mustered a half-smile. “I had forgotten how sharp
you are—too smart for your own good, if I do say so myself.”
“So, what’s the real explanation?”
“Miss Kingston, the world, for the most part, is familiar with the many
qualities of chimeras: the gift, the muscle memory, the remarkable immune
system. They’ve heard it in the news, read it in books, and so on and so forth.
But few have actually seen these traits put to the test in a public setting.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“People are already aware that a chimera can heal at a much more
accelerated rate than the average human being, but they do not get to see this healing process in action. Jason suffered trauma that no ordinary human could
live through. People find it unsettling enough just knowing that he could
survive that horror; can you imagine the fear, the hysteria that would ensue if people knew that he not only survived, but fully healed in only a week? It would create an uproar.”
For once, Eve was at a loss for words. She sat in silence, her eyes like daggers.
Finally, she spoke.
“How… pragmatic. ”
“I know you think it’s unfair, and to some degree it is, but it is for the greater good. Besides, Mr. Valentine is spending much of his days learning from you,
and that is quite a privilege.” Furst’s words, though kinder than usual, were dripping with artificiality. “Now, on that note, tell me how the young man is progressing.”
Eve breathed in deeply and cradled her head in her hand. “He’s…” She
hesitated for a moment, her mind wandering to their sessions together—to his
breakthrough earlier in the day, the tingling of her spine as she was lifted from her seat, and the warm, triumphant smile on his face.
“He’s struggling.”
Furst frowned. “Is that so?”
“Just needs more help with the basics, I guess.”
“Well, I appreciate your honesty. I suppose we’re going to have to address this
issue pretty vigorously. You’re meeting with him five days a week,
correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, we’re just going to have to increase it to six. Better yet, we’ll make it daily. You understand, yes?”
“Yeah,” Eve stuttered. “I mean, if I have to.”
Furst offered a condescending smile, pleased with Eve’s sudden agreeability.
“Splendid.” He returned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. “I think we’re done here, then. You’re free to leave.”
Eve refused to move from her chair. She stared back at Furst, her eyes
scathing, and waited patiently for him to feel her presence.
Furst looked up from his work and removed his glasses yet again. “Did you
hear me, Miss Kingston?”
“I heard you.”
“I suppose you want something from me.”
“Just a simple explanation.”
“Well, please make haste with your question. My time is limited.”
“Who has everything?” she asked, her tone strict and unwavering.
“Pardon?”
“And what is everything? And who’s Fairon?”
“I don’t believe I follow.”
“Last week, you were in the medical ward with that patrolman,” Eve
explained, though she knew without a doubt that Furst recalled the interaction.
“I want to know what you were talking about.”
“Yes, I imagine you do. But that doesn’t mean I’m obligated to tell you.”
“It’s the Interlopers, isn’t it? You were talking about the Interlopers.”
Furst pursed his lips with aggravation. “Miss Kingston, if you’re concerned
for your safety, I can assure you, there’s nothing to fear.”
“Look, it can’t be that secretive if you and Colonel Scarface were talking about it out in the open like that. And if I have nothing to fear, you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“Miss Kingston—”
“I have a right to know,” Eve boldly interrupted. “This affects me, too. It already affected Jason, that girl today, and God knows how many others. We deserve to know what we’re up against. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
Furst remained unresponsive except for his eyes—they glared back at Eve, morphing into tiny slits that spoke volumes more than any words he could
possibly utter. It was that penetrating stare which confirmed her greatest fear:
that everything was far from okay, that Billington was most certainly in a state
of turmoil. And with that realization, Furst finally broke his silence.
“My receptionist will see you out.”
***
BANG BANG BANG.
Eve stared at the front door in silence. She could see the wood grain rattling
with each loud, heavy thump. Someone was waiting on the other side; they
were impatient, pounding at the door incessantly, as if their persistence would
somehow bend her will, but it would do no such thing. She was accustomed to
situations such as this, and she was not answering the door.
BANG BANG BANG.
She glanced around the entryway—her aunt was nowhere to be found, as was
typical, though even when she was there she wasn’t really, at least not to Eve.
She turned back to the door—it looked alive, like a horrible monster, and in that moment, she could look at nothing else.
She flinched; a loud chorus of ringing joined the endless pounding, the two
sounds transforming into a frightful symphony. It was too much—Eve sprang
to life and hurried to the corner of the room, where she curled up into a small,
tight ball, covering her ears and trembling in place as she kept her eyes firmly
focused on the living, breathing, monstrous door.
Glass shattered, spilling across the living room and dangling from the
window in sharp, jagged pieces, and Eve screamed. A small, silver object was
flung into the room; she hadn’t any time to discern what it was because shortly after it rolled across the carpet, a steady stream of smoke oozed from it, filling the room with an infinite mass of grey. Eve coughed on the smoke, her lungs
raw in her chest, and soon her eyes stung so badly that tears gushed down her
face. There was no other option, no escape, and so, against her better
judgment, she ran for the door. It was what they wanted, after all—she knew this, even at such a young age, for she had experienced enough torment to know how it would end. In a fit of wild hysteria, she swung open the front door, took in one long, painful breath, and waited.
A hot, soggy mess splattered across her face, sticking to her cheek before it
slid down her neck and dropped to the front step. She wiped her hand across her face—blood. A pile of, well, something was sitting at her feet—it was pink, slimy and stank of rancid flesh. Rotten meat—the entrails of an animal. Eve
gagged, nearly choking on her own vomit, and dared to look out at her aunt’s
front yard.
There were people lined up across the lawn, though their faces were just a blur,
as all she could see was a blanket of putrid guts. The people laughed menacingly, shouting “chime” over and over again as they flung the entrails at her, pelting her across her face, splashing her with blood and muck until it dripped down her nose and eyelashes. The stench was unbearable, but even
worse was the wet slapping of the guts against her body. She screamed, the sound of her agony meshing with the despicable laughter until it faded into silence—until her vision changed from endless red to a quaking darkness.
Eve lurched up in her bed. It was a nightmare, and she flattened her hand against her chest as she felt her heartbeat slowly regain its normal rhythm. She
checked her clock; it was three thirty-five in the morning, and she stared down
at the light of the moon that trickled underneath her curtains, faintly setting her dorm room aglow. Madison was snoring like a fat man, tossing and turning
beneath her heap of pink silk sheets, and for a brief moment Eve envied her.
There was no way Eve could go back to sleep, for each time she closed her
eyes she saw nothing but red rain pouring down on her, a red that morphed into a pulsing, streaming black. It was decided, then—she tied her hair into a ponytail and slipped out of the room, desperate for a taste of the night and a hint of peace.
The elevator ride down to the Rutherford lobby felt longer than usual, and Eve
nervously tapped her foot until she finally reached the ground floor. The
lobby was warm and inviting, mostly because it was empty, and she basked in
the solitude, comforted by the sound of nothing but her boots hitting the tile floor.
She sighed; a long stroll, she thought, was all she needed to clear her mind.
She would find a spot, an isolated corner of the campus, stare up at the sky, and
think about whatever the hell she chose to think about—certainly not her
nightmares or the god-awful Interlopers, as they had already taken up enough
space in her mind. She had to shake the anxiety, to rid herself of her demons.
The gleam of the moon and the cool night air would be the perfect cure for her
worry, and with a sense of hope, Eve barged through the front doors of
Rutherford Hall.
Eve froze in her tracks. A rush of icy numbness shot up from her fingers and
through her entire body, paralyzing her heart and lungs within her chest. She wanted to close her eyes, but they remained open, staring in disbelief at the
grotesque display before her.
A large, metal construct in the shape of an “X” was propped in front of
Rutherford Hall like some obscure statue, and a shadowy figure hung from it
—a body, limp and broken. Dead. His arms and legs were pinned to the
structure by large, needle-like rods, soaking his limbs in deep red blood that saturated his tattered suit. But his face was the most terrifying part of all: long, silver needles pierced through his eyes, securing his head to a metal sheet behind him. Streams of blood had dried on his cheeks like gruesome tears, his
jaw hanging open as if his screams could still be heard.
Eve knew this face—she didn’t need to see the dead boy’s eyes to know that
this was Marshall Woodgate, son of the current President of the United States.
As her paralysis slowly subsided, Eve’s eyes made their way to the
bloodbath at her feet. Huge streaks of ruby red were spread over the courtyard
grounds, wildly smeared across the concrete beneath the X. Suddenly, she
realized that the savage display was much more than just a horrifying mess—it
was a message. Large letters painted in fresh, young blood detailed a hateful threat that could not be ignored:
STAND DOWN, OR MORE HUMANS WILL DIE.
CHAPTER 6: NIGHTMARES
“We will not stand down. This country does not fold under the threats of terrorists, nor will it accede to the demands of the Interlopers.”
The Vice President and his podium were projected into the middle of the rec
room, the hologram so clear and vivid that Eve could’ve sworn it was real. She
and the Vice President were the only two figures there—the room had cleared out long ago, as this press conference was a rerun from days prior—but Eve
couldn’t seem to move from the spot where she stood. She watched the speech
on repeat, playing it over and over again on every news station she could find,
until she had memorized each word and hand gesture. It was almost a form of
self-torture.
If she were honest with herself, she’d admit that there wasn’t much need to
watch the news anyway: the word of Marshall’s death had spread like wildfire,
and no one knew more of the gruesome details than she did. Still, even a week
after she’d discovered his body, she could think of nothing but the bloody message and the needles protruding from his eyes.
The Vice President disappeared from the room, and a somber anchorwoman
took his place. She cleared her throat before she spoke.
“The autopsy has confirmed that Marshall Woodgate was human, which
would make this the first documented murder of a human being by an Interloper.
Police have released a statement confirming that Marshall’s death did not involve any type of dissection, and that it appears the Interlopers’ only intent was to send a message to the American people. While their agenda is still centered on the chimera population, it is clear that the Interlopers are now willing to execute humans in order to meet their goals.”
