Collide (2 page)

THE ARCHITECT WATCHED DR. TATE LEAVE THE HOSPITAL AT 5:00, JUST LIKE HE HAD EVERY NIGHT FOR THE PAST MONTH
. He walked from the elevator to his mid-sized sedan, fumbling for his keys. Sweat dotted his brow, darkening the grey streaks along his hairline. He opened the car and slid inside.

It’s time
, the Architect thought. The parking structure was unusually quiet, the air thick with exhaust. She settled herself as Dr. Tate closed the door. The sound echoed against the cement beams and a nervous smile formed on her lips.

His death would be child’s play to her now. After practicing for the last ten years, she had the technique down. Just picture the blood vessels in the brain exploding and
poof
, Tate would drop dead from an aneurysm before he knew what was happening. Quick. Easy.

The Architect wanted to believe the lie; was desperate to escape the truth she couldn’t afford to accept—killing took a piece of her soul. Every single time.

Dr. Tate pulled his cell phone and began to speak. The Architect stared, her mind wandering through his thoughts. The Doctor knew about death. Murder. He deserved this; he deserved to die.

His memories merged with the Architect’s, transforming her thoughts into a distant sterile lab. Experiments. Mice.

And death.

The Architect tried to kill the mice, tried to make their tiny brains explode. But the feelings overwhelmed her—fear mixed with the blinding hot agony that settled behind her eyes as she pictured the rodent’s death. Dr. Tate ordered her to try again. And again. But each attempt brought more of the animal’s pain to her, causing the bile in her stomach to churn and rendering her useless.

Until Dr. Tate had tried a new approach—self preservation. Dr. Tate had strapped her to the chair, injected her veins with a cocktail of cocaine and heroin, knocked her to the ground and unleashed the vermin. Moments passed before they nibbled at her feet, her hands, her face. Hyped up on the mind blowing poison, she’d slaughtered hundreds of mice as they chewed on her bound flesh. She had no choice. Through her own agony, the Architect could see the rodents’ tiny brains lined with blood-filled balloons. She burst them all. The mice screamed as their lives ended with one sharp explosion. It was a sound she’d never forget.

No matter how many more executions she completed.

The Architect had cut herself off from her emotions that day. She’d channeled her anger and hate into something else, something worse. She’d learned to kill.

Are you ready to prove yourself?
the Creator asked.

Her memories of Tate and the lab faded in an instant.

I am
, the Architect thought as Dr. Tate ended his call and adjusted his rearview mirror. The engine roared to life, echoing through the still-vacant structure. She had little time to complete the mission before he left. The last thing she wanted was to risk collateral damage.

The Architect’s eyes rolled back and she imagined life from Tate’s perspective. Her vision blurred as she focused on the blue glow of the sedan’s interior dash lights. She forced his fingers around the steering wheel, took a quick breath, and centered her thoughts.

“Your turn to die,” she said to no one.

Dr. Tate slipped the car into Reverse, his foot on the brake. Blinding light split his head in two. Nausea swirled up from his stomach, racing toward his throat as the pain intensified. He gripped his forehead with both hands. Tears welled in his eyes and a strangled gasp came from his mouth. He pressed harder on the pedal as his thoughts shattered into a million pieces. Chaos, terror, agony and regret mixed in equal proportion.

The Architect experienced every moment. Tate’s pain became hers; his regrets, hers. The end came in a single heartbeat. His head fell back and his foot slid off of the brake pedal. Dr. Tate’s sedan rolled, hitting the large SUV behind him. Alarm bells pierced the silence and reverberated around the concrete grave.

The Architect detached and left his mind.

It’s done
, she thought as she opened her eyes. She started the ignition of her own black sedan and drove away.

Good
. The Creator left her thoughts.

Her lips turned upward as she maneuvered out of the dark parking structure. The setting sun filled her car with pink and orange light. Long shadows told her the time as she sped off toward the Pacific Ocean, pleased. She had passed the test; she’d killed willingly. Acceptance into the Order wouldn’t be a problem now. Her life would be spared.

The others shared a different fate.

Project Stargate 2.0

The Solomon Experiments

Dr. LeMercier’s Personal Journal –

July 14, 2002

Day 15:

The final trial starts today. I’m still optimistic the right recruit is among the eighteen remaining subjects. The group has surpassed my expectations in both physical and mental prowess. Now we start the psychic trials. I can’t predict how this may end, but I suspect the answer lies with Recruit #15. He’s demonstrated strength and a keen mind. Recruit #18 is also impressive, brilliant in every respect save one. She has yet to demonstrate psychic abilities. Even when pushed to her limit. I’m uncertain if she demonstrates self-control unmatched for such a young child, or if she’s useless to our cause.

Of course, 15 and 18 aren’t the only ones I watch. Three others show great potential. Five in all—that would be enough to prove our value. Five highly trained recruits can accomplish more than all of our special forces combined.

If the experiments are a success.

Dr. Jennings worries about the difficulty of training subjects so young. He says I push them too hard and questions the mission’s parameters, the ethics of using children in the first place. The rest of the team expresses no misgivings. Christyn and Tate understand what must be done. Harrison never questions my authority.

Perhaps bringing Jennings onboard was a mistake—one in need of correction.

THE RAIN TAPS ON THE WINDOWSILL, ECHOING ALL OF MY FEARS
. I don’t belong here . . .

in this hospital . . .

in this ward . . .

Nothing’s wrong with me. The doctors think otherwise. They say I’m
masking
my true problems, faking good so I can avoid a residential stay at Mountain View Institute for nut-jobs. They’re right. I’ll do anything to prevent a trip there. Wouldn’t anyone? We’ve all seen
American Horror Story
. I wrote a report about the mental health crisis in the US, detailing the 20/20 exposé on Mountain View and similar institutions. I know what happens.

I won’t stay. Sure, I freaked out a little. Okay, more than a
little
. But if you’d seen my daydreams, my nightmares, you would’ve lost it for a moment too.

The faded image of some familiar old guy grabbing his forehead was one thing. The belief that my head was exploding was quite another. Sensing the presence of someone else in my mind, directing my dreams and controlling my thoughts . . .

Let’s just say the experience guarantees a trip to crazy town.

So I screamed. I threw hot coffee in the face of the first person who tried to help me. I refused to quiet down—not until the random images, too real to be mere hallucinations, subsided.

Anyone would’ve freaked out in that situation.

Wouldn’t they?

I circle around these thoughts in the span of a heartbeat or two. I try to convince myself the visions mean nothing. But I can’t, not completely. The doctors are right to distrust me. If I’m being 100% honest, I don’t trust myself as much as I pretend I do.

I shift my focus back to the rain drops, counting them as they splash in staccato rhythms against the window sill.

“Miss Harrison.”

One. Two.

“Dakota. Are you listening to me?”

Three. Four. Five.

“You need to join the group, Dakota. I won’t repeat myself again. Come, or I’ll report your continued lack of compliance.”

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine
.

The pauses blend together, punctuated by the stilted words of Ms. Whoever, today’s counselor determined to get into my mind and discover the hidden secrets the staff thinks I’ve buried deep within my subconscious. The timbre of her voice is too high to be taken seriously, despite her rough demeanor and strict approach.

“I’m coming,” I say, not really paying attention to anything or anyone.

Today’s assembly of misfits is smaller than yesterday’s. Only three other trapped souls:

The first girl glares at me from under a veil of dishwater colored hair matted against her head. She’s a frequent flyer, or so she’s told the group. Her crime? Slicing her wrists with anything sharp she can get her hands on. Cutter-Girl’s made three appearances here in the past few months. The next one ends with a long-term residential placement with the crazies.

Victim number two is a guy who’s suffered horrific abuse. He likes to tell stories about his father’s sexual escapades, life as a sex-slave and more graphic depictions of a world I can’t imagine. It’s all TMI. I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not, but I’d like to pretend he exaggerates his problems for effect. So much easier than believing this tiny Central California town has such a perverted underground.

Abuse Dude’s hair hangs in greasy strands around his face, peeking out from an old, faded hoodie. He’s more depressed than last night, his eyes dark and half closed. Either that or the staff found a stronger cocktail of meds to shove through his veins. Something to calm down the horrors he describes.

The last girl in this morning’s group is here on a suicide watch. I think she’s the most interesting of the bunch. Flaming red hair, nearly translucent skin, she looks too strong for a girl who claims to want to end it all. What happened to her to make her want to kill herself? Sure, if you’re Abuse Dude, yeah. Do it. But this girl isn’t like him. She comes from a
normal
family, whatever that means. Dressed in designer jeans and a sweater, she doesn’t look the type to stroll around crazy town. She says her mother expects too much; everyone does.

I get it, sort-of. I mean, I guess I do. I’ve been under pressure before, told to earn good grades, behave a certain way. But even with my freak-out session, I’ve never considered taking my own life. In fact, there isn’t a situation I can imagine that would make my death the
only
viable option.

I stare at Suicide Girl, Mari, trying to imagine her life. Flashes bolt through me, clips of children laughing as they work in what appears to be a small lab. They whisper to each other as glass beakers float in the air above their heads. Mari is among the children. And me. More vignettes pass through my vision. More items floating with no strings, more sterile labs and experiments.

The images whirl too fast, blurring before I can understand them.

“Dakota.” The counselor’s voice breaks the trance. “Dakota, you’re required to participate in these groups in order to be released.”

I shake my head and look from Mari to Ms. Whatever. “What?”