Chapter 7
EVELYN
We ran. Low and fast across the overgrown lot, my lungs burning, my cut palms stinging with sweat.
Trent moved slightly ahead, one hand still gripping mine, the other holding his gun at the ready.
Each step took me further from Carol and her rifle, but also further from Dutch’s store, from familiar territory.
Yet all I could think about was getting closer to Sophia.
“Cut through here,” Trent whispered, pulling me toward a gap between two buildings—the back of the hardware store and Mrs. Pickering’s yoga studio that nobody actually used for yoga. The narrow alley smelled like mildew and old paint.
“What the hell is happening here?” I gasped between breaths as we pressed against the brick wall.
Trent peered around the corner, then pulled back. “Not now.”
“Trent.” I caught his hand. “Tell me what this is.”
He stared at me for a beat. “Mind control tech.”
“Mind control—“ I couldn’t process the words. “That’s not possible.”
“It is.” He checked around the corner again. “NeuroLink-II. Military-grade neural interface technology. Someone bought it at a black market auction using your real name.”
“My… real name?”
“Someone’s targeting you specifically.”
My blood ran cold. “Langston?”
“I don’t know yet.” His eyes met mine and softened for an instant, showing a quick glimpse of the man, not the soldier. “Whoever it is, they’re using NeuroLink on the town.”
“How?”
“It’s a two-part system—compounds in the water, then activated by an electromagnetic signal. Takes days to fully manifest.”
The town’s water main broke last week, and we were without water for almost twenty-four hours. Dutch had complained about the county taking so long to fix it, and then how cloudy the water was for days afterward.
But it hadn’t been a broken pipe at all.
“They tampered with the town’s water supply,” I gasped. “So everyone who drank it...”
“Is compromised or getting there.” Trent’s jaw tightened. “Different people, different rates of absorption. Kids metabolize faster, might be affected more quickly.”
Sophia. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“She only drinks bottled water,” I said, desperate for it to be true, hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t drunk from any fountains at school. “I never let her have tap water. Not after Hope’s Embrace.”
Something like relief flickered across Trent’s face. “Smart. What about you?”
“Same.” After the cult’s drugged communal meals, I’d become paranoid about what we consumed. “I even use bottled water for my coffee and tea.”
He exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding his breath. “Good. Then you should both be okay.”
But then another horrific thought struck: Sophia in the tub just last night, piling bubbles onto her head to see how high she could get them. “What about showers, baths, washing clothes, and dishes? We use water for a lot more than drinking.”
“As far as we know, skin contact isn’t as effective, but prolonged exposure could still cause problems.” He tugged me forward, and we moved deeper into the alley. “Do you have a cell phone?”
I blinked at him, thrown by the sudden topic change. “Uh, no. When you left us here, you told me they were too easy to track.”
“Not even a burner?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t want to take the chance. We just have a landline, and it’s registered in my landlord’s name. Why?”
“Compound in the water builds up in neural tissue over five to seven days. Makes people susceptible to electromagnetic signals broadcast from the cell tower. Once both components are active, someone can send commands and override natural behaviors.”
“Like make everyone wear blue shirts and khaki pants?”
“Exactly like that. It was probably a test run.” He pulled me back against the wall as we reached the end of the alley. A small group of people stood on the corner of Chester Street, all dressed in blue and khaki.
Riss Hollenbeck.
Gus Wagner.
Florence Pickering.
All people I recognized.
“We’ll go around,” Trent said. “Through the backyards.”
We doubled back, then hopped a wooden fence into someone’s yard.
A small dog started yapping, and I froze, but Trent kept moving, pulling me along.
We crossed Spruce Lane at a run, heading for the vacant lot behind the old feed store.
The school was still at least a mile away, and we had no more backyards to cut through. We’d have to risk some street exposure.
We reached Mason Street, the last major cross-street before the school.
“Almost there,” Trent said, scanning the area. “Stay close.”
I nodded, unable to speak through the tightness in my chest. Every step brought us closer to Sophia, but also closer to confronting whatever had taken over the town.
The people I’d started to trust, to build a life among—all potential threats now.
All potential puppets being controlled by unseen hands.
The abandoned grain elevator loomed ahead.
According to Carol, it had stood empty for decades, its rusted metal sides and crumbling concrete foundation a monument to Garnett’s fading agricultural past. Kids dared each other to venture inside, spinning stories about ghosts and accidents. The perfect place to move unseen.
We darted across Mason Street toward the grain elevator’s rusted fence. The school’s bell tower was visible just beyond it, so close now. Sophia was there. My daughter. The only thing in this world that mattered.
“Wait.” Trent’s arm shot out, stopping me. His whole body tensed, head tilting slightly. Listening.
I heard it too—the crunch of gravel under boots. Someone was on the other side of the fence.
We froze, barely breathing, as the footsteps approached. Trent’s hand tightened around mine, his other reaching for his weapon.
The gate swung open, and Sheriff Wade Parker stepped through.
He wore the same blue shirt and khaki pants as all the others, but his sheriff’s badge was pinned to his chest, catching the afternoon light.
His eyes—still crinkled at the corners from years of squinting into the Montana sun—were vacant and unfocused like Carol’s had been.
Like someone had wiped away the person behind them.
His gun belt hung at his waist, the leather worn from years of use. His right hand rested on his holster.
“Identification required,” he said, his voice stripped of the good-natured drawl I’d come to know over diner breakfasts and chance meetings at Dutch’s store. “State your purpose.”
Trent shifted almost imperceptibly, angling his body between Wade and me. “Just heading to the school, Sheriff. Parent-teacher conference.”
Wade’s head tilted, but it wasn’t a natural movement. “No conferences scheduled today.”
“Wade,” I said, stepping forward despite Trent’s attempt to keep me behind him. “It’s me, Evie Phillips. Sophia’s mom. You know me.”
Something flickered in Wade’s eyes—the barest hint of recognition, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. His hand hesitated, then continued toward his gun.
“Unrecognized visitors will be detained for processing,” he said, his voice flatter than before. “Resistance is not permitted.”
“He can’t hear you,” Trent whispered. “Not really. The override is too strong.”
Wade drew his weapon and pointed it at Trent’s chest. “Surrender and prepare for processing.”
No. This was Wade Parker, who’d helped me change a flat tire in the rain two months ago. Who brought treats for Sophia to give to the stray cats that hung around the bar and grill. Now he was aiming a loaded gun at us without a flicker of emotion.
“When I move, run for the fence,” Trent murmured, his lips barely moving.
“What are you going to do?”
“Something stupid. Get ready.”
Sweat trickled down my back. The school was so close—just beyond the grain elevator.
“Last warning,” Wade said. “Surrender for processing.”
“Hey, Sheriff!” Trent called suddenly, his voice loud and commanding. “10-64 at the water facility. Repeat, code 10-64. All units respond.”
Wade’s body went rigid, his head snapping toward the direction of the water treatment plant on the edge of town. The movement was so abrupt, so unnatural, it made my stomach turn.
“Priority override,” Wade stated, his eyes unfocused as if listening to commands I couldn’t hear. “Water facility security breach. Responding.”
For three endless seconds, he stood frozen in place, the gun still pointed at us, his mind clearly processing conflicting instructions.
Trent’s hand found mine, and we bolted toward the fence.
Behind us, Wade’s programming finally resolved its conflict. “Halt! Security breach!”
A shot cracked through the air, the bullet whining past my ear close enough that I felt the disturbed air against my cheek. Trent yanked me sideways, and we zigzagged across the open ground toward the fence.
Another shot. This one punched into the dirt by my feet.
“Keep moving!” Trent shouted, pulling me toward a gap in the fence where the chain-link had been cut and rolled back.
Wade fired again, the shot going wide as he began jogging toward us with that same mechanical gait. Not running, not hurrying. Moving at a constant, efficient pace that somehow felt more terrifying than if he’d been sprinting.
We reached the fence, and Trent shoved me through the gap first. The rusted metal caught on my shirt, tearing the fabric and scratching my side. I barely felt it, scrambling through to the other side. Trent followed, his broader frame struggling to squeeze through the narrow opening.
“He’s coming,” I gasped, watching Wade’s steady approach.
“I know.” Trent finally pushed through, then grabbed a piece of concrete from the ground and wedged it into the gap, making it smaller. “It’ll slow him down, but not for long. We need to move.”
We ran through the abandoned elevator complex, past rusted machinery and empty silos. The place smelled of old grain, dust, and chemicals that had seeped into the ground over the decades.
“How did you do that?” I asked between ragged breaths. “That code thing?”
“Took a guess. 10-64 is the police code for a crime in progress. These systems often have priority hierarchies.” Trent glanced back to check if Wade was following. “Protecting the technology source would override normal patrol duties.”
“But he’s still coming.”
“Yeah. And he’ll alert others. We’re running out of time.”
We emerged from the other side of the elevator complex, the elementary school now in sight across the empty baseball field.
My heart hammered against my ribs at the sight of it—so ordinary, so normal-looking.
Yellow buses parked in the row along the side.
The flag fluttering in the breeze. Colorful construction paper art visible in classroom windows.
Somewhere inside was Sophia. My daughter. Surrounded by people who might no longer be people at all.