Breakaway

Prologue

Andilyn

My steps are quiet as I make my way through the dense foliage that surrounds the compound.

I’ve walked this path a thousand times, but something is different today.

There’s a weighted feeling in the air, like I’m teetering on the precipice of something dreadfully monumental, but I can’t quite pinpoint what has me so unsettled.

Maybe it’s because my thoughts have never felt as volatile as they do right now, my growing repulsion becoming an entity of its own.

I’ve known for quite some time that this place isn’t what it was made out to be, but even my wildest imaginings couldn’t have dreamt up such wickedness.

A part of me, the tiny fragment that’s buried beneath the expectation of perfection, begs me to test the bounds of my freedom.

To bear my chin defiantly and march across the vast expanse of property I’m forced to call home, right through the guarded gate that bars the rest of society from our existence.

But deep down, where clarity and common sense reside, I know that wouldn’t be possible.

Despite what we’ve been led to believe, leaving isn’t an option.

They’ve caged and conformed us to their liking, and the so-called autonomy we were promised is nothing more than a worthless illusion.

Two years ago, my parents were persuaded to join Veritas.

Not that it took much convincing. My childhood was spent gallivanting around the country in a rusted Airstream, forced to tag along on whatever bandwagon adventure my mother and father were duped into crusading.

If Danny and Prissy Adams have a kryptonite, it’s hairbrained ideas.

Nine times out of ten, they can be talked into just about anything if properly incentivized.

I can vividly recall an instance where we stumbled upon a group of activists who’d been enraged by our government’s overreach and the myriad of resources our elected officials were using to spy on their own citizens.

The very next day, my parents were armed with protest signs, voicing their outrage and the unjust impediment of our constitutional right to privacy.

Given the right circumstances and cause, they could be a powerful ally for legitimate civil rights concerns.

But like a dog spotting a squirrel at the most inopportune time, their nomadic tenacity eventually causes their attention to stray, and off we go in search of the next big thing they’re all too eager to get behind.

And on a random Tuesday at a roadside diner in Oklahoma, my parents were presented with a pipe dream that was far too tempting to resist. Without invitation, a man I’d never seen before took the empty seat at our worn Formica table and proceeded to pitch a spiel so enticing that even I, the travel-weary teen who’d seen more than her fair share of ill-conceived notions crumble in the wake of reality, was intrigued by the idyllic scenario he was presenting.

Kennedy Stillwater spun a fantastical tale, waxing poetic about a sacred place free of worldly constraints and expectations.

My parents ate up every word like it was the finest delicacy to ever grace their taste buds.

His offer to join their movement and discover what life could be like without such tiresome hindrances couldn’t have come at a better time.

The state of political and cultural rapport was in an upheaval, with violent crime at an all-time high.

And then there was Veritas, riding in on its white horse, offering the perfect solution to those who were fed up with the government and wanted to separate themselves from the insanity our country was falling victim to.

In the midst of strange and uncertain times, when it was easy to feel lost and insignificant in the grand scheme of things, a place that represented the simple existence that Kennedy described was a welcome reprieve in the exhausting continuity of always bouncing from one place to the next.

I was sick to death of being so transient, and the possibility of planting roots, however minuscule, excited me more than any half-cocked plan Danny and Prissy would inevitably fall victim to.

Plainly put, Veritas was offering secession from the world as a whole, and while the premise was promising, seldom is reality as wondrous as the idea.

Looking back, I wish I would’ve given more credence to the proverb: if it’s too good to be true, it likely is.

I should’ve paid more attention to the way Kennedy had been so fixated on my two-toned eyes, the way he hemmed and hawed about the rarity of such a flawed phenomenon, but his drivel had barely registered.

It’s basic human nature to be inquisitive about things we perceive as different, and I’d learned from a young age not to take offense to people’s abrasiveness when it came to my heterochromia.

Curiosity doesn’t always translate in the best light, and children show far less restraint than adults do when filtering their comments.

I’d developed a thick skin when it came to any taunting, and as a result, I made it a point to remove myself from conversations that could do more harm than good.

It was a practice I frequently implemented when it came to my own parents.

I had no interest in listening to a grown man make passive-aggressive remarks about my appearance, so I’d tuned out everything Kennedy said beyond the initial sales pitch he’d delivered.

What felt like seconds later, we were throwing our half-eaten lunch in the trash and stowing away our belongings in preparation for the long trip ahead.

Unbeknownst to us, the second my parents accepted Kennedy’s invitation, our fate was sealed.

We piled inside our ancient Airstream for the last time and began our days-long trek to some rural patch of earth in Southern Mississippi.

The compound was massive, and upon arrival we were assigned living quarters, then given a cursory tour of the property.

Their initiative was centered around self-sustainability and a lack of outside influence, so it made sense that the majority of their necessities were sourced from within.

My eyes practically bulged when I caught sight of the massive garden.

It was lush and well-tended, and though I didn’t particularly salivate at the thought of vegetables, it was preferable to eating off the value menu from the nearest fast food chain.

For weeks we were coaxed into a state of contentment, convinced we’d made the best decision of our lives.

I was thrilled to finally interact with other kids without the dread of knowing that any connections I was making would only be temporary, and there was plenty to keep my flighty parents occupied.

But slowly, inconsistencies began to make themselves known, popping up like dreaded bearers of bad news.

Unfortunately, it appeared that I was the only one concerned with the eeriness our new home was seemingly entrenched in.

The first red flag, of what would become many, was the startling number of people I began to encounter with heterochromia.

It was barely more than a handful, but for being something that Kennedy thought so rare, there sure was an abundance of the condition within a rather small community.

Subconsciously, I began to take note of the hierarchy that was becoming increasingly obvious, despite their best attempts at pretending otherwise.

The harsh reprimands I’d overhear and the way a certain group was sequestered from the rest of the commune had raised a multitude of questions, but any time I attempted to voice my concerns, I was brushed off, and the subject was swiftly changed to a more pleasant topic.

However, nothing prepared me for the day we were summoned to The Atrium–a circular monstrosity with a glass dome ceiling, located at the center of the compound, and a place we’d been forbidden from entering thus far.

A dais sat front and center, with church-style pews curved around it.

On the floor directly beneath it sat a stone rectangular box, and for some inexplicable reason, the sight of it made my skin crawl.

I immediately took notice of Kennedy and his militant posture, the way his hands were crossed behind his back as he surveyed the growing crowd from his raised platform.

He tracked my every move as I scrambled to find a seat, his unwavering attention making me anxious and paranoid.

When he lifted a single hand, a hush fell over the cavernous room instantaneously.

The power he wielded with such a simple gesture made my spine tingle.

To my absolute horror, the first thing that left his mouth was my name–Andilyn?* Rae Adams–as he beckoned me to join him with a crook of his finger.

My gaze sought my parents, searching for any inclination that they were aware of what was happening, but they only smiled and nodded their encouragement.

Cautiously, I made my way to the dais, doing my best to ignore the probing stares of everyone in attendance.

Without uttering a word, Kennedy held his hand out, and despite the heavy dose of wariness weighing me down, I reluctantly took it and allowed him to position me so I was visible from every vantage point in the room.

Placing a single finger beneath my chin, he angled my face until my eyes met his.