Catalyst - Casey L. Bond Page 0,2

accept. Not like Mother and Father, not like Sonnet. The prognosis hadn’t upset them at all.

Her condition is terminal. I’m very sorry. There’s nothing more we can do. Allow her to enjoy life while she can. That’s my only advice. When the illness or resulting pain becomes too much for her to handle, please contact me. I will assist her journey into death.

My father had asked, “Should we have her assigned? The plan has been accelerated.”

I didn’t know what they were testing me or other people for, but it wasn’t the first time Father had mentioned it in conversation lately.

“Her assignment won’t matter. She doesn’t have enough time.”

My father had nodded. My mother had picked at her cuticles. My sister had smirked. And I…ran.

They wanted to put me down? I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t go down without a fight. They’d have to take me kicking and screaming. Besides, the physicians didn’t know what was wrong with me—just that I wasn’t getting better. “The condition” was getting worse. Everything was. I ran from the physician’s office, out his door and into the streets.

From there, I’d stolen some clothes from off a clothes line. The pants were men’s, but I pulled them up and fastened them around my hips and rolling the top hem down until they fit well enough to stay up. I ditched my gown at the scene of the crime, tugging a tee shirt on over my head and running out of the yard of the person I’d robbed. It was impossible to disappear, but blending in was something I could do. Or so I thought. The soldiers were relentless and, as it turns out, very good at tracking.

My footsteps began to echo in my ears. Or maybe that was the beating of my heart or the clacking of high heels on concrete. If only there had been some boots in that yard. The glass shards colorfully sprinkling the pavement in macabre confetti were the only things keeping me from kicking the too-tall heels off.

And my breath, it wasn’t enough to keep me going. I couldn’t…

I needed to…

When I gave up. When I stopped running, the only things I felt were the pounding of my heart in my chest and the feel of the gritty brick of the nearest building’s exterior on my palm. I let it bite into my flesh. It was better than feeling the dog’s teeth tear into me.

I braced myself, wincing in anticipation of exactly that sort of pain. But it never came.

“Halt!”

Glancing back, my chest still heaving, a soldier not much older than me approached with his fist in the air. Clad in the navy uniform of cargo pants and matching T-shirt, he came forward hesitantly, as if I were the snarling mutt his friend firmly held back by a leash. The young man’s features were sharp and angular, but not in an attractive way. Just harsh.

Short, dark hair and small brown eyes, he eased his hands out toward me. “Come with me now, Seven.”

“Who are you?”

“Soldiers Enoch and Blaken,” he said, motioning first to himself and then to his fair-haired accomplice, who was still jerking on the leash, trying to restrain the dog. It lunged, growled at me and lunged again.

I exhaled deeply. He knew who I was. My disguise hadn’t fooled them for a second. I looked down at my black trousers that were two sizes too big and then at the black, long-sleeved tee that was two sizes too small. It had still been the best option. I was always cold—even now, at the end of summer.

At the end of the alley, heat distorted the scene, wafting up in waves from the pavement. But I couldn’t feel it. Despite my illness, I was covered in more than ice and stolen garments. Guilt was the heaviest shroud of all. Not everyone had enough clothing. I had more than enough at home, and I’d taken from someone else. Perhaps the person I stole from could sell my gown and purchase more clothing. It was worth more than most people would make in a year’s time.

The stifling, moist, heat made thick beads of sweat drip down the two soldiers’ foreheads and into their eyes. I couldn’t feel it at all.

The physicians said it was a symptom of whatever plagued me. And, believe me, it was a plague. I was sixteen, almost seventeen and could barely leave my home. I had never even been swimming. Even in the summer, it was far too cold.