Chapter Twenty-Two
Caius
R omy felt it too.
There was something about Huxley’s speech that unnerved me. Whether it be him or the words coming out of his mouth, something wasn’t right about it.
Maybe he just puts me on edge because his son is a twat. I can pick out assholes from a mile away. Takes one to know one. Doc Junior—what kind of stupid name is that anyway?—is a carbon copy of his father.
Doc Junior and his buddy Dr. Portman had a predatory vibe I’d been able to pick up on the second I laid eyes on them. It wasn’t just because they were salivating over Romy like she was a part of tonight’s dessert menu. There’d been an arrogance there like they’d known they could have her if they truly wanted.
Over my dead body.
I’m not thrilled with my recent obsession with her. I realize I’ve thrown away everything I’ve worked so hard to build to be with her. It’s messy and dangerous, yet I can’t seem to stop. The game I’d been so skilled at playing feels as if it’s over.
She’s the queen with all the power moves.
“I’m going to go say hello,” Romy says, gesturing to Bastian and Megan. “You coming with?”
At least she’ll be marginally safe from admirers with her brother. I’m not exactly keen on carrying a conversation with him, so this is a good opportunity for me to see what Dad is up to.
“I’ll come back for you in a bit. Stay with your brother.”
Romy smirks at me. “Don’t be gone too long or Dr. Portman might come sweep me off my feet like he promised.”
Hearing his name makes my eye twitch. Naturally, this amuses Romy to no end and she laughs. I grab onto her delicate jaw and press a chaste kiss to her lips in lieu of a goodbye. Her smile falls and her eyes grow hooded with desire.
Who’s the better player now, little girl?
Before I change my mind about leaving her, I force myself to pull away and go on a hunt for Dad. I’m also keeping my eyes peeled for the CUP Star soldier, the dimwit doctor duet, and the mysterious S. This event is exactly what I’ve been working up to my entire life. It’s a culling of who’s who, giving me an eagle-eye view of the most elite and powerful this country has to offer. If there are clues to be had about Calista, at the top is where I’ll find them. I know this deep in my bones.
Calista, I haven’t forgotten about you.
It’s definitely crossed my mind several times that the texts “she” sent could have been fabricated by someone else. But, even if they were, it won’t change my objective to find her. That just means whoever has her is working overtime to make sure I don’t find her.
And that thought always circles me right back to my dad. He knows my desire to find Calista.
As if I have the power to make him materialize, I find Dad in conversation with a couple of men. When I approach, I recognize them to be Gideon Langston and President Huxley. They all three turn to see me at the same time. The tension that forms at my presence sends my senses on high alert.
What is it about me that they would all react that way?
Several theories assault me at once, but I don’t have time to ponder any of them thoroughly. I offer my hand in greeting, shaking hands with both Gideon and Huxley.
“Gentlemen,” I say in a forced, amicable tone. “What did I miss?”
Dad’s gaze remains impassive while Gideon’s jaw muscle ticks. They’re hiding something. It’s then I realize Huxley’s expression wildly differs from theirs.
He’s beaming at me.
Not that fake, practiced smile from on stage earlier.
No, this one is real, genuine, and honestly, off-putting.
Huxley continues to watch me like one might as their toddler takes his first steps. There’s a familiarity and pride there that makes me want to turn on my heel and run far from this weird fuck.
And yet…
My body feels unusually warm. There’s a tingle that starts from my head and dances its way through me to my extremities. I move my fingers and fist my hands, trying to shake the strange sensation out of me.
It’s a nice event.
Everyone’s so friendly.
If only we could pass this feeling to our friends, families, and even foes. This could be a new era. President Huxley truly is the best man in the position we’ve ever had.
Wait, what?
I realize all three men are watching me with interest now. My head feels fuzzy inside. Like I’ve been drugged.
The wine?
I watched the bartender open the bottle. It would have had to have been tainted before the cork popped. That’s not it.
I like this song.
Wait.
This song is the same song they were playing in the background when we arrived. In fact, I think it’s the only song, playing over and over on repeat.
The whistling is never ending. It makes me insane. Why must they play this part over and over and over again on repeat. To make me lose my mind?
Of course they are.
That’s what they do.
I yank at my restraints, to no avail. I’m desperate to beat my fists against my skull to get the music out of my head. At the very least, I’d like to cram my fingers into my ear canals to dull the sound.
I’m forced to listen, though.
There’s no escaping this.
How long have I been here? Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? It’s long enough that they keep fluids in me intravenously. Someone comes in periodically to change the piss bag hanging off the side of my bed.
I’m held captive by faceless monsters and tortured by a stupid, annoying, unfinished song.
“Don’t Worry Be Happy” by Bobby McFerrin.
One of the piss bag changers told me the name. They said I ruined the song for them. Me. The one trapped and held hostage by said song.
I can’t escape it.
It’s maddening.
Thoughts turn to mush inside my head. My brain tries to grasp on to memories or make sense of where I am, but I can’t think.
A hoarse moan rips from my throat. I hear the young man begging. The young man is me.
The pleading falls on deaf ears.
Sometimes, they turn the whistling part of the song up louder, drowning me out.
My eyes burn and I know it’s because I’ve been crying. I think it’s because my heart aches, but I can’t seem to remember why.
My family.
Think.
The whistling splits my mind into so many fragments, I have no hope of holding it all together. It’s slipping through my fingers, crashing to the floor, and shattering into even smaller slivers.
This is hell.
What is hell?
I have a brief, fleeting thought of a woman with dark hair and a loving smile. Who is she? Mom. I have a mom. My trembling lips tug into a small smile as more tears form.
I remember.
I remember, I remember, I remember.
She would read me parts of a book—the Bible—on Sundays. I remember being especially interested in the last book of the Bible. What was it called?
Revelations.
She spoke of a burning lake of fire.
It was mesmerizing.
Everything turns bright white as my body jolts with unimaginable pain. It blocks out everything, including the maddening song, as I succumb to the sheer horror of every nerve ending feeling as though they’ve been set on fire. My screams are otherworldly.
And then the assaulting pain subsides.
Sweat, mixed with salty tears, streaks down my face. I smell the scent of blood. My wrists burn and my heart races.
Someone enters the room.
“I think he juiced you up a little too much this time,” the woman says, making a clicking sound of disproval with her tongue. “You nearly broke through your restraints.”
She’s blurry because of my tears. I want to meet her eyes and beg for her to release me. Not that she will. The whistling continues in the background, though someone has turned it back down.
“I’ll get someone in here to bandage you up. Sit tight and be a good boy.”
I writhe against the restraints as she starts to leave. She doesn’t care that I’m dying from madness. No one cares.
Despair chases away the lingering pain and coats me with a numbness that is welcoming. Why do I always fight it? It’d be much better if I let this torture just end me once and for all.
My mind tries to recall what it was I was thinking about before the burning, electrocuting sensation, but nothing materializes.
White, blank nothingness is all I can think of.
And the whistling.
I wonder if I’m getting used to it now. The music seems to calm me in a way that floods me with warmth and contentedness. Maybe instead of fighting the music, I should embrace it.
With dry, cracked lips, I purse them and softly blow air through them, mimicking the whistling. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll whistle.
Something loud jars me from my memory. A glass breaking. Someone dropped something. People laugh at the person’s clumsiness.
There’s a fuzziness clawing at my brain, but I fight it away. The three men are still staring at me—watching, waiting.
For what?
I have to get out of here.
Panic, a familiar emotion from a lifetime ago, courses through me, shooting life into my muscles and forcing them to move. I don’t manage a polite goodbye, instead scramble for an escape.
The song being played is an enemy.
I can feel it crawling over my skin and soaking into my pores, infecting my bloodstream.
Now that I’m aware of what’s happening, I’m able to do things to stop from focusing on it. I hum a song Kaitlyn always sings while I look for Romy.
Focus on my niece’s song.
Find Romy.
Those are my two objectives. Nothing else matters. Frantic energy pulses through me, invigorating me and making me feel as though I’m waking from a deep dream. I pass several people who are swaying to the music, eyes glazed over with happiness.
I want to scream at them all to snap the fuck out of it. When I accidentally shoulder check a guy I pass, he doesn’t even grunt or get angry.
Someone is doing this to us.
They’re playing a damn song to lull us into a sense of happiness or complacency. To what end, I have no fucking idea. It’s real, though.
It’s a nice event.
Everyone’s so friendly.
If only we could pass this feeling to our friends, families, and even foes. This could be a new era. President Huxley truly is the best man in the position we’ve ever had.
I nearly stumble over my own two feet as my brain works overtime to grab the thoughts that repeat from early and make sense of it.
A cold, oily sensation washes over me.
I don’t think this event is nice. People aren’t so friendly. If anything, I’ve met a few assholes. And President Huxley isn’t all he pretends to be.
This is a message being fed to us.
Through the music.
We willingly walked right into their trap.
It’s obvious to me what this is. I know this because I’ve not only been a perpetrator of it, but a victim as well.
There’s a dark agenda at play here.
We in the psyop world call it subliminal messaging.
And President Huxley is at the helm of it.
How do I know this, besides the fact this event is in his honor?
I read his books.
He’s well-versed on this topic, among others.
We have to get the hell out of here.