Connor was drawn to the light like a moth to a flame. After walking through the woods for hours after sundown, constantly keeping the road within earshot and hiding from the prying gyros which buzzed overhead, he had found a town. Food and warmth were high on his list of priorities. So was finding a device to call his mother on. He had to call her. He had to hear her voice and let her know that he was alive. After five long years she had probably given up hope of ever seeing him again. That needed to change. He needed his mother.
He came across a carbon processing plant first. The fans roared in the darkness, audible over the drone of multi-trailer trucks coming in for more of the processed petrochemical it produced. A giant Exxon sign greeted him, its neon colours welcoming after hours of darkness and the vivid flashes of memories from his waking nightmares of being strapped to an operating table. He skirted around the chain-link fence of the compound, his eyes roaming over the long trucks, reading the names of the mega-farm corporations on the sides. Perhaps he could hitch a ride on one going west. Human drivers stood in groups, talking and smoking e-cigs, stretching their legs after a long haul. Others congregated around the entrance to the Exxon sponsored truck-stop, buzzed with cheap coffee and legal methamphetamines.
A small farming town sprang up behind the carbon plant. A larger copy of the one he had been prisoner in. Logistics and freight buildings sat stoically on the outskirts with a range of commercial shops and low-level apartment buildings in the centre. Beyond these larger buildings were old, pre-war houses, a throwback to a time when regular people could afford to own property. The air was warm from the exhaust of the scrubbers and mixed with the aroma of spilt petrol and the cooking odours of the greasy spoon diner.
Connor sighed at the smell and his feet dragged to a stop. He would kill for a burger or anything deep fried for that matter. But he was penniless and likely wanted by a shopping list of authorities.
“They feed you in prison,” he joked to himself, hoping the words would convince the last sliver of consciousness which wanted him to keep running. He had to try talking to the police. Whoever had taken him had broken the law. He was sure of it. Operating on people against their will had to be a crime, didn’t it? His mind went back to Boise.
“The C.D.C and the Feds were complicit to some degree though…” he whispered, reminding himself of who had been behind his capture. In his imagination he came across a wise, honest lawman — someone incorruptible and willing to take on the shadowy powers that had imprisoned him. The cop would listen to him, believe him, maybe even enlist the help of a small-town lawyer. Together they would take on the government or whoever had authorised his capture. It was pure fantasy, but it was the only hope he had.
“I’ve got to try at the very least,” he said, breaking the spell which kept him rooted in place. He started to walk, aiming for the bright lights of the main street. Old style signs pointed the way to the various amenities and attractions. Connor found the police station down a side street after following the printed signs. Yellow light spilled from the glass windows onto the clean sidewalk. An illuminated sign read “Chesterton Sheriff’s Department. OH.”
Connor hopped the short steps and opened the door. He froze halfway through the entrance at the sight of an android behind the desk. The pre-war relic had a deputy’s hat and colour scheme spray painted on its polycarbonate armour. The thin, featureless face swivelled towards him. The red lights of the android’s optics flared behind a protective visor, regarding him. Connor, like many others of his generation, felt an overwhelming fear of the robotic creatures after years of history lessons surrounding the automations of the Khalists. How had this one survived? He thought the Stateside robots had been rounded up and destroyed after the L.A incident. It was around the same time as the first internment camps, when the “Asian Invasion” hysteria was at its zenith.
He heard a chuckle as a door swung open. A young deputy walked into the foyer, one hand holding a tablet while the other gripped a large coffee mug.
“He’s harmless,” said the deputy with a sly grin. “Missing his lower half an’ the sat receiver. Never got hacked like the others. He’s little more than a doorbell. Means I can get some shut eye out the back every now and then. Now what can I do for you?”
Connor looked from the deputy to the freedom of the street. “I…”
The deputy raised a hand to Connor, motioning for him to calm down. “It’s okay, son. No need to be spooked. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Connor took a deep breath. “I’ve been held against my will for the last five years. I need help.”
The deputy raised an eyebrow. “Okay… Not what I was expecting. Come on in. Let’s have a talk.”
Connor licked the delicious burger juice from his fingers and slumped back into the uncomfortable metal chair. The two lawmen had watched from the other side of the table in stony silence, giving Connor the freedom to demolish two burgers and a mountain of fries in mere minutes. Connor rubbed his belly. It felt good to have real food in his stomach, rather than the intravenous cocktail of nutrients he had been force fed at the research facility. He could feel his body going to work on the fuel already. He closed his eyes for a second and started construction on a new set of tendrils. His body reacted immediately, stacking and expanding cells in the nape of his wrists at his direction. The process felt easier and streamlined, as if the constant research had conditioned his body and mind. He opened his eyes and looked at the Sheriff, keeping the construction going on in the background of his subconscious.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Are you done?” asked the Sheriff, an older man with a heavily lined face by the name of Hudson. Light scars traced the side of his head and up onto his scalp and he sported a second-generation robotic prosthesis on his left hand, a sure sign that this man was a veteran. He had an edge to his voice that suggested he was still bitter he had been called back in to work.
Connor sighed. He could do with another burger, but he felt like their generosity had met its peak.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Your accusations…” said the Sheriff, trailing off as he sought the right words.
“Are fishier than a barrel of rotten crawdad left in the sun?” suggested the deputy with a grin.
Sheriff Hudson ignored his off-sider and levelled a finger at Connor. “Your accusations border on fantasy, young man. Government agencies capturing kids in the night? Evil companies conducting illegal research? Forgive me if I don’t believe you without a shred of evidence.”
Connor resisted his urge to pound the table with his fists. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to take a photograph or two before I escaped. Please, just look me up. There must be some kind of file on me. You’ll see I’m not making this up.”
Hudson shook his head sadly. “You’re not the first kid to darken my doorway with made up stories of superpowers. Every punk with an absent father held onto the notion that they too were de-Programmed or Seeded or whatever they liked to call themselves. Thank god they found a cure and the media moved onto the next sensationalist topic, so we didn’t wind up with anymore assholes trying to hop the fence into the nuclear wastes of New York.”
“What do you mean there is a cure? And what’s this about New York?” asked Connor.
Kyle the deputy leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Those de-Programmed that slipped the feds net wound up in New York, or so the independent media would have us believe. For a couple of months, every deluded runaway tried heading east to their freak show Mecca before the man could hit ‘em with the cure.”
Connor snorted. The whole East Coast was an irradiated hell hole. “People are travelling to New York for safety… Please… And this cure? I’m pretty sure I’d know if there was a cure.”
Hudson tapped his prosthetic hand against the metal desk, his mood souring by the second. “You’re a cocky SOB, you know that? Especially when Chemco…”
“Kemprex,” corrected Kyle.
“…God damned Kemprex got themselves out of hot water with the cure,” continued the older man, his voice rising to a shout. “Whole mess was over in a matter of months. Now we got to go through this shit again. Fucking fairy tales! You can buy god damned military upgrades off every street corner in the big cities. Son, you couldn’t come up with something better than this comic book shit? Samurai swords that come out of your arm… Sub-dermal armour plating or… Something more believable than this horseshit! Hardware, the real gangsters and thieves are getting fitted with!”
Hudson pushed himself to his feet, the chair grating noisily on the concrete floor. He turned to his deputy, his metal hand flexing into a potent fist. “You dragged me out of bed for this, Kyle? I’m going to get some coffee,” he spat as he strode to the door.
The door latch buzzed open at his approach. The Sheriff wrenched it open and pushed himself into the outer corridor with a thunderous force. Kyle watched him depart with a wry grin on his face. “You sure got on his nerves,” said the deputy.
Connor bit his tongue. Soon his tendrils would be complete. He’d have something tangible to show the Sheriff then.
Kyle leaned closer to Connor. “So… What is your ability? Anything cool?”
He grimaced. How could he describe it? “Not really. I can grow things. I guess…”
“You can grow things,” said the deputy deadpan. “Like what?”
Connor shrugged. “Like… body things.”
“So, you can’t shoot lasers or fly or lift a car over your head. None of that cool stuff?”
“No…” replied Connor.
Kyle sat back in his chair. “I should be glad, I guess. Didn’t want to try and cuff you if you could rip my arms off or melt my face.”
“Look. Could you try and just find some information on me. There must be a missing person’s file at the very least. I’m sure my mother fought tooth and nail to find me.”
Kyle chuckled to himself. “Alright… I’ve got nothing better to do. I ain’t going to get myself some coffee right now, that’s for sure,” he said removing a cylindrical device from his pocket and placing it on the table in front of him. He pressed a glowing button and the cylinder unfurled, becoming a portable screen. “Yo, Robo-Cop. Could you bring up the file on young Mr…” he transferred his gaze from the screen to Connor. “What was your full name again?”
Connor leaned forward to look at the screen as he spoke, but Kyle tipped it up as soon as he caught wind of his snooping. “Connor Alejandro Hill. Boise, Idaho. Born September…”
“Got you…” said Kyle frowning and pursing his lips. He jabbed at the screen with his free hand. “That is weird.”
“What’s weird?” asked Connor.
Kyle flipped the pad over so Connor could view it. “You do have a file, but it’s sealed.”
Connor saw a large red ‘X’ displayed briefly on the colour screen before the deputy stood and walked to the lone door of the interview room.
“I told you I had a file,” said Connor.
“You could be a dangerous criminal for all I know. Stay here. I’m going to make a call,” replied Kyle, all of the humour drained from his voice. He walked out, head down to the screen. The door clicked closed. Connor felt his forehead prickle with sweat. Did they have something on him? Was it too late to run?
“Fuck.”