Chapter 7 James
James
Chapter 7
Fuck this shit.
Fuck this place.
I hate it here, hate myself for thinking this was a good idea, hate my family for being right about how much of an idiot I am, hate the fact that I can never prove them wrong because I’m a moron, hate that Warner is probably right, that profanity is probably a failure of the mind, that only idiots need to rely on foul language to express themselves properly—or whatever stupid shit he said to Adam that one time, I can’t remember—but I’ve already acknowledged the fact that I’m an idiot, so I think it’s okay for me to just lean into the personality for the moment.
Fuck.
I bang my head against the tree trunk, startling a group of birds, disturbing a dusting of snow. The rough bark scrapes my forehead in a painful, pleasant sort of way, and this pisses me off, too, though I’m not sure why. Whatever.
At the moment, everything is pissing me off.
On the one hand, I’m really happy I managed to escape. On the other hand—
Did I?
Did I, though?
This place. This creepy place. These tricky assholes. I don’t believe they’re really this stupid, that they’d really let me walk out of a highly secured prison/laboratory with all their awesome guns.
I glance at the stock of weaponry camouflaged in a nearby thicket. If I can manage to get even one of these magnificent pieces of machinery into Winston’s hands, I might be able to beg forgiveness for being a moron. But the truth is, despite the fact that I’m technically a free man standing here freezing my ass off in the middle of—I squint upward, then around—some mossy, frosty mess of forest, I’m not sure I’m actually free. And I’m not sure I’ll ever make it home.
I begin to pace.
Fact one: There’s snow on the ground. There’s snow on the ground, and I killed, like, a bunch of people, and definitely left a trail of blood in my wake. I managed to suffer through the worst of my injuries as they healed, but I’m not exactly equipped with a medic kit. I had to pry two bullets out of my leg with my bare hands and then pack the open wounds with snow; a toddler could’ve pointed in the direction of me screaming obscenities at the sky. Fact two: I’m hiding in the forest like a cartoon princess. Even without a blood trail, The Reestablishment could easily scan this island with a heat-seeking drone. Fact three: A squirrel had the audacity to climb up my leg with its freaky claws and look at me with its stupid, adorable face, and I swear to God I thought I saw its little eyes glowing. I don’t know if I’m seeing things, but the fourth fact is: I don’t trust these people.
And fifth of all—
I groan as I drag my hands down my face.
Fifth of all, I should’ve killed the girl.
A bright red bird swoops overhead, landing on a nearby branch. It studies me with its beady eyes, and I glare back, practically daring it to be some kind of robot.
“What are you looking at?” I ask.
It ruffles its feathers, head twitching.
“Hey—don’t shake your wings at me. I know you’re probably some cyborg bird—”
It cuts me off with a soft trill, alighting with another shake of its head.
I sigh, backing up against the tree trunk. The Reestablishment took pretty much everything useful off my body, including my watch, but based on the position of the sun I think it’s safe to estimate that I’ve been out here for at least several hours. Several hours I spent hiking through the forest and they still haven’t tracked me down.
I haven’t had to kill anyone at all.
This distinct lack of recent murdering is making me anxious. Every sound startles me. Every fairy-tale creature pisses me off. Unspent adrenaline is coursing through my veins, winding me up—making me paranoid.
I slide down the trunk into a seated position, accidentally bumping my heap of weapons in the process. They illuminate through the brush, awakening from their electric stupor. I’d bet all my clothes plus the very excellent hair on my head that these things have trackers in them.
I close my eyes, exhaling.
I spent the first couple hours keeping myself busy, setting up camp. I built a temporary, concealed shelter with local materials; collected snow for water; stole nuts from squirrels, berries from birds. Aside from the fact that I’m freezing through my bloodied sweater, this landscape is not a challenge. Seriously. In one of my early training sims I was stranded in a remote jungle for ten days with nothing but an empty canteen for water, and by the end of it Warner almost paid me a compliment.
He said—and I quote—
“That wasn’t altogether disappointing. But just because your body can heal itself at an extraordinary rate doesn’t make you invincible. Stop showing off. You spend too much time with Kishimoto. Next time, don’t bleed all over everything like an idiot. Don’t let your enemy know what you’re capable of. Unless, of course, it is your intention to be swiftly murdered in your youth.”
A glowing review.
The only problem is, I didn’t learn from my mistakes. I did bleed all over everything, and maybe I was showing off a little. But Warner is pretty much never wrong, and according to his calculations, I should be at that swiftly murdered stage in my life by now.
This is some kind of psychological manipulation, I know it is.
They let me escape.
I had a feeling this was a trap when they threw me on a gurney without strapping me down. I should’ve known for sure it was a trap a few beats earlier, when they sent a gorgeous murderer into my prison cell to distract me with her gorgeousness. I should’ve killed her the moment I realized she was human. Should’ve disarmed her immediately and drove the knife through one or both of her eyes instead of losing a full heartbeat of my life wondering how a person could walk around with a face like that without warning people first. Honestly, killing her at literally any point would’ve been a really excellent idea.
Instead, I left an enemy alive, and I did it on purpose.
I bang my head against the tree again.
Usually I’m good about compartmentalizing things. Usually I keep my childhood trauma in a hermetically sealed box buried under piles of other useless shit in my brain, but in that moment—
I don’t know, it was like I was ten years old again.
She was stripped down, about to die, totally vulnerable, and all she could think about was her little sister. As far as I’m aware, serial killers don’t stop to think about their little sisters. Sociopaths don’t get emotional before they’re murdered. And while it wasn’t clear just by looking at her face, under my hands the girl felt so slight it was almost unnatural. As if she was malnourished. As if maybe The Reestablishment was starving her.
She reminded me of Adam.
Adam Kent Anderson, half brother of Aaron Warner Anderson; husband to Alia; father to Gigi and Roman. My big brother, nicest guy in the world. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, refuses to own a gun. He runs a design firm with his wife. Helps organize fundraisers at the elementary school. Has no interest in the family business. Doesn’t like to talk about his past. We go to the same restaurant every Thursday, and he always orders the same thing: a cheeseburger with no onions.
Adam used to be a soldier of The Reestablishment, but he enlisted only to protect me. He dropped out of high school to become a hired gun against his will, and he did it to save my life. I made the mistake of projecting his backstory onto her.
It was a stupid, emotional move.
I don’t know anything about the girl except that she murdered me, and then tried to murder me again and again. It was a huge mistake attributing complexity to her character. I don’t even know for sure that the girl is still alive—but I know the kind of medical miracles The Reestablishment is capable of. If they got to her in time, she’ll definitely live to murder another day. Hell, I saw that guy with the robot arm and I knew right then that we’ve been underestimating these fascists. There’s no world in which I just escaped The Reestablishment without real consequences, and the inviolable truth of that fact is stressing me out.
I pop a gross berry in my mouth and chew.
I wonder why they left the gummy bears in my pocket. I wonder why they’re letting me think I got away with something. I wonder why I thought I’d be able to get off this island without a solid exit strategy.
Your power has made you intolerable.
Warner said that to me once.
He said, “I thought you were annoying as a child. I was right. I thought you might grow out of it. I was wrong. Now you seem to think you’re a superhero. You walk through the world like nothing can touch you. I don’t know why you smile so much. Kent knew better than to smile so much. I certainly never taught you to smile. Shut up,” he said, when I tried to point out that he smiled all the time these days. “One day that overzealous optimism is going to get you into trouble. You think I’m being hard on you. I am. It’s because I don’t want you to die, you idiot.”
I smile at the memory. That’s as close as he ever comes to saying I love you, little brother.
I spit out the berry pit.
I stole a jet to get here—add that to the list of stupid things I’ve done—except in order to get here sort of undetected, I landed the plane on a smaller island nearby, one still under the governance of The New Republic. I kayaked from the smaller island to an even smaller island, and then paraglided off a cliff into the densest, most unpopulated stretch of Ark Forest. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t really leave a trail, and anyway, I’m guessing the guys back home have already repossessed the plane I stole. It’s unlikely to be where I left it.
“Okay. New pivot.”
I jump to my feet and clap my hands, startling a raccoon in the process. It stares at me from a couple yards away, a pair of frog legs poking out of its mouth.
“Yeah,” I say, pointing at the furry bandit. “Get excited. These assholes aren’t making any effort to find me, so I’m going to build a fire, roast some nuts, and then we’re going to hammer out the details of a new plan.”
The raccoon resumes chewing, unblinking.
“Ideally,” I say, popping another berry in my mouth, “the best way off this island would involve stealing another jet.”
I chew; the raccoon chews.
“But, realistically, all I need is a boat.”
I poke around the underbrush, searching for dry kindling.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, brandishing a stick at the raccoon, now clutching a nut in its fist. “You’re thinking—James, that’s the obvious thing! They’re going to expect you to do the obvious thing! The ports are probably rigged with explosives! Heavily secured! Soldiers everywhere! Too many to kill even for someone as strong and capable as you are!”
The raccoon nibbles at the nut.
“Well, I appreciate the compliment, but that’s not what we’re going to do.” I gather up a few more sticks. “The thing is, I’d tell you what we’re going to do, except— You’re recording me right now, aren’t you, you little trash panda? And I’m not going to tell you shitheads exactly what I have planned.”
I step toward the animal, staring into its dark eyes. In the perfect slant of light, the blue sheen is unmistakable.
“So,” I say, bending to better meet its gaze. “If you’re watching this program right now, I’d encourage you to ask yourself this: What would Aaron Warner Anderson do? Because that’s the question I’m about to answer. And he taught me everything I know.”