Induction, Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine: Aftermath

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” the Black woman says softly, her hands coaxing me to my feet. She has high cheekbones and hawkish eyes, sharp and keen. Despite the intensity in her gaze—and the fact she’s a total stranger—I trust her.

Even though my legs feel like Jell-O, I manage to stand and lean against the woman as we head up to the mansion. Ahead of us, the military-style man and Devon help Elizabeth ascend the stairs. I don’t know where the other two brothers are. Maybe helping the pilot with the helicopter. Beats me, this is a whole new experience I’m convinced is somehow unreal.

The man is shaking his head while Elizabeth talks, her voice carrying down to me, but too soft to make out the words. He pulls her into a hug and kisses the top of her head. Is he her dad? There’s a pang in my heart when I think of my own dad. My throat gets all tight, but I grit my teeth.

“My name is Jacqulyn. I’ll help you get cleaned up and take care of your wounds, okay?” The woman’s voice is reassuring, and I get the sense she does this a lot. Calming and guiding scared people.

“Thanks. I’m Mika,” I say with a nod, words quiet, getting stuck on the gunk in my throat as we ascend the steps.

Smooth cobblestone stretches before me, constructing a courtyard boarded by creeping juniper. The shrubs’ slender branches choke the ground between clusters of tall, golden grass. A large, three-car garage stands on one side of the courtyard, across from a two-car garage not attached to the main house save for a bridge to the upper level of the house. The driveway leads out under the bridge.

We enter the attached garage, pass two SUVs, and head to the door at the back where the man who walked with Elizabeth talks with Devon. The girl is nowhere to be seen, but the two males glance at me, the man’s brow furrowing. We don’t stop to talk with him, though, and he doesn’t stop us.

Jacqulyn leads me into a room, pulling the door closed behind her.

Two adjustable chairs sit in the center of the room, like what you’d see in a dentist office—the kind that lean all the way back into a flat position. Warm LED lights attempt to make the room appear cozy, but the drains in the stained concrete floor and the stainless-steel countertops and cabinets reflect the opposite.

My expression must be one of horror because Jacqulyn reassures me, “You’re safe.” She’s going to help me get cleaned up now. I let her lead me past the chairs to a room with tiled floor and walls. There’s the familiar cadence of a running shower. Lockers with benches line the wall on one side. Across the room is a full wall mirror and sinks.

“Do you have any allergies to medications?”

I shake my head. The woman nods, then asks me to wait a moment as she grabs an unmarked bottle from one of the benches and heads to the back toward the showers.

Alone now, I brace myself with a shallow breath and face myself in the mirror. For a moment, I fail to recognize my reflection, then am overcome with dismay. Those are my hazel green eyes staring back. The few freckles I have are covered by streaks of blood and vomit. I lean closer to the mirror, tears welling as I examine the cigarette burn on my neck. With quivering fingers, I poke around the wound. The skin, an angry red color around the seared black mark, asks to be left alone.

Jacqulyn walks back in, and I pull away from myself. She hands me two small, round pills and a small white plastic cup filled with clear-ish liquid. I stare at the pills for a moment before I recognize them as ibuprofen, then give the contents of the cup a quizzical look.

“Coconut water,” she says. “Do you have any food allergies?”

I shake my head again. “Why coconut water?”

“Electrolytes.”

Ah, of course. I swallow the pills, chasing them with the liquid. She takes the cup and discards it.

I grimace at my long-sleeve shirt: the large bubble font of One Times Three, with the brothers’ faces below the band’s name. I peel the shirt off with Jacqulyn’s help, and without too much pain.

We both examine the wound I sustained from the mountain lion. The gashes aren’t leaking blood anymore. Under the dried and crusted blood, blue-purple bruising is visible.

“Not deep, and clotting really well.” She tentatively touches around the wound. “Doesn’t look like you’ll need stiches.”

“I’m just glad I still have my arm,” I say.

She chuckles, nodding. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I am glad I still have my arm.

We enter the shower room. Tiled floor and walls, chrome knobs and showerheads. Shower spaces with their own curtains held off to the side with a chrome hook. Only one shower has the curtain pulled with rising steam. Likely where Elizabeth is.

I’m led to an already-running shower. Jacqulyn hands me my own unmarked bottle.

“It’ll sting at first,” she says, “but it’ll help disinfect.”

After removing the rest of my clothes and setting them off to the side in a neat pile, I step under the water and pull the curtain closed. At first, the warm water makes me tense and shake, and I realize how cold I am. The liquid stings as it touches my wounds, but soon eases the tension of my body. Washing away the sweat, snot, bile, and blood in brown and red swirls down the drain.

Under normal circumstances, I might relish the warmth, but I am too conscious of the fact that I’m in a strange house, a strange shower.

It stings, the transparent brown contents of the unmarked bottle. Far worse than the water had. A pitiful whimper escapes me. Eyes misting from the vinegar-like scent alone, I carefully lather it on my wounded arm and neck.

Minutes later, I’m rinsed off. My clothes aren’t where I left them, but a black towel hangs on a chrome hook. Jacqulyn appears just as I wrap myself up in it. The shower across from me stands empty, drops of water clinging to the nozzle. 

“I’ve brought you some clothes,” she says, gesturing to the locker room. “The sizes are probably a little big, but I think you’ll be comfortable.”

She heads past me, collecting the unmarked bottles from Elizabeth’s and my showers.

“How long have I been gone?” I ask quietly.

“About six hours.”

My eyes widen. “Six hours…”

I’m not sure what to think about that. It felt much shorter, and way longer, than that. Time flies when you’re unconscious and running for your life. I remember the sky when we emerged from underground, the evening sun casting long shadows from the trees.

Six hours. I wonder if my family have any clue I’m missing, or if they think I’m at work.

Work. Crap. They’ve likely tried calling me. I almost start patting myself down to check for my phone when I remember I’m wrapped in a towel, and the device is missing in the forest. Unless…

“You guys didn’t happen to find my cell phone in the forest, did you?”

Jacqulyn shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I can ask the boys.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I regard the floor. I’m still trying to wrap my head around everything. This mansion. I rode in a helicopter. The beast is real. Ninjas are real. My childhood band members are ninjas. Vic, my best friend, is a ninja. And he didn’t tell me. How could he not tell me?

Against protocol, my mind interjects, inflecting Adam’s tone.

In the locker room, I get dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt Jacqulyn set out for me. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, and the bold letters spelled out across the shirt:

OSE.

Underneath, in smaller font, are the words: Knowledge. Courage. Integrity.

“O. S. E.” I frown at the letters. Sahara had mentioned the acronym. What was the other one? “E. O. N.”

What ABC organization have I stumbled upon?

The helicopter pilot appears in the doorway, no longer wearing her baseball cap and sunglasses. Her short black hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She offers a small smile.

 “I’m Nelly,” she says. “If you’ll come with me, we’ll get you bandaged up.”