Tabula Rasa Kristen Lippert Martin (6 page)

The kid looks alarmed and holds the walkie-talkie away
 from his body like whoever it is can see him through the
 speaker.
“I take it that’s not your boss,” I say.
He shakes his head and puts the radio back in his pocket.
Of course it’s Hodges. Her voice is a razor blade covered
 in nectar. I know this, but I don’t want to tell him. I won’t
 be saying anything more to this kid until he’s willing to
 trade more information with me.
“Why does she have your boss’s radio?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but I have to go. Now.”
Like that hadn’t occurred to me.
“How about you just tell me where I am,” I say. “Tell
 me where the nearest highway is and point me in the right
 direction. That’s all I need.”
He snorts once. “That’s all you need? One, you’re
 assuming I even know that. Which I don’t. If I didn’t have
 this thing”—he pulls out a small, handheld GPS and shakes
 it in front of my face—“I couldn’t find my own zipper.
Two, even if you did know where you were going and had
 the right clothing and a snowmobile—which obviously
 you don’t—you’re not going to get anywhere in this freak
 of a storm.”
“How did you get here?”
“How I got here is not relevant. Look, time is short. I
 really can’t help you. I’m not even sure I can help myself.
I’m sorry.”  
“Where is this yurt thing you were talking about? Can I
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just follow you there? Just for a little while? You don’t have
 to help me after that. I need to get away from here . . . from
 them.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Look, those military guys inside are after someone.
Some personal vendetta or something. I can’t believe 8-Bit
 got involved with this. I don’t care if it was a personal favor.
I’m telling you, if you just lie low, they’ll clear out eventu-
 ally. They’re not interested in you.”
“No? Then why are they trying to kill me?”
“They’re trying to kill you? You?” He looks me up and
 down, and for a moment, his eyes settle on my bare head.
“Yes.”
He presses his lips together and says nothing for a few
 seconds. Then he points at my head. “You’ve got some
 dried blood. There. Above your left eye. And on your
 neck.”
I lick my thumb and wipe the blood off my forehead.
I’m not sure who this blood belongs to. I think of the
 woman who’s probably still lying in the lobby right now.
She’s gone from being a person to being a thing. So have
Steve and the coma kid. The horror of it, the unrealness
 of it, hits me like a wave of nausea. For all I know, Larry
 is also dead.  
And Jori.
My face burns white-hot when I think about the way
I ran out on her. The way I completely forgot about her.
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I wipe my nose and eyes with the back of my hand. I
 don’t even realize I’ve let go of the nailer until I hear it hit
 the floor.
“I don’t know what to do or where to go.”
I’m half convinced that I’ve only said this to myself,
 but then I realize he heard me, because when I raise my
 head, I catch him looking at me. I can’t tell if his expres-
 sion shows pity or something far deeper. Something more
 like empathy.
His shoulders drop in resignation.
“Okay, fine. You can come with me for now. Maybe
 wait the storm out. But after that you’re on your own. And
 we might not even make it. We might end up frozen in the
 woods.”
I pick up the nailer and stick it in the inside pocket of
 my coat. “I’d rather freeze to death than get shot.”
“That’s the spirit,” he says as he checks his watch again.
After a minute, he closes his eyes and says quietly, “Where
 are you, man?”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“I was. But now I’ve got to leave without him.”
“Who?”
The kid kicks the mutilated body of his laptop across the
floor and says, “Somebody who’s going to be very annoyed
 when he finds out what you did to his twenty-thousand-
 dollar computer.”
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CHAPTER 7
 e go back outside and stay close to the walls of the
Wmainframe building. The snow is coming down so
 thick and fast that it builds up on the tops of our boots
 each time we stop to check if it’s safe to move forward.
I’ve never been this far from the main building. Now
 that I’m closer to the fence line, I can see that this place is
 a fortress, just like the kid said. There’s a twelve-foot-high
 fence with razor wire on the top. If there are roads leading
 here, I can’t see them. This compound is an island set in the
 middle of a sea of mountains.  
I see a snowmobile with a sledge tied to the back. The
 kid points to it. “That’s mine.”
“We can’t take it—they’ll hear us.” I don’t have to trans-
 late that what I really mean is, They’ll shoot us.
“I need to get some stuff from out of there. Come on.”
He starts to run and I follow. We reach the snowmobile
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and kneel behind it. The kid reaches under the tarp cover-
 ing the sledge and pulls out a pair of rain ponchos, except
 they’re white. A moment later he takes his GPS out of his
 pocket and hands it to me.  
“You know how to use that?”
“I might. Give me a second.”
This is an effect of the tabula rasa treatment. Sometimes
 we don’t know what we can do until we do it. Something
 inside us takes over and suddenly we can paint or draw or
 read another language. Or in my case, climb the gym walls
 like they’re nothing. Like I knew that being up high was
 where I belonged.
The GPS sits in my hand; I wait to see if I know what to
 do with it, but I guess I’m too slow. He takes it back from
 me and says, “It’s okay if you don’t. I’m surprised you’d
 remember how to use a light switch with all the holes you
 have in your head. I counted five of them, by the way.”
“Five of what?”
“Holes in your head. Not including the metal studs in
 your skull for the halo.”
How does he know about that?
I guess he heard me thinking this—or maybe he noticed
 that I jumped when he said it.
“I know a little about what goes on here. To be honest,
 there are days I’m half-tempted to check myself in.”
“I don’t think they take people like you.”
“People like me? Who are ‘people like me’?”
“You just don’t seem to be as . . . you don’t seem the
 type, is all.”
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“You don’t know what type I am,” he says darkly. He
 pulls a white poncho over his head and hands one to me.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He hesitates for a short, telling moment. “Pierce.”
“Pierce what?”
“Pierce Belmont.”
“Pierce Belmont?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s obviously a fake name.”
“No, it’s . . . not.”
“Whatever. Don’t tell me.”
We stay low as we head for the fence. Pierce takes out
 the bolt cutters he’d used inside. I put my hand on his arm
 before he can use them.
“What?”
A thought rushes at me suddenly, warningly, out of
 nowhere. “It might be electrified.”
“Oh. You’re right. I could have just fried myself.”
He reaches into his pack and pulls out what looks like
 a small pair of scissors. The cutting end is shiny like black
 glass.
“Nonconductive,” he says. “Thanks for the heads-up.
You’re already earning your keep.”
Once we are both through, he takes a plastic zip-tie out
 of his pocket and ties the fence flap back in place.
“From a distance they won’t be able to tell where we
 went through. Might buy us a little time.”
I’m suddenly annoyed. “Don’t you want to know my
 name?”
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He puts the tool back in his pack and says, “Do you
 even know what your real name is?”
“Sarah?”
He looks at me skeptically. “You sure about that?”
I open my mouth to respond but find I really don’t have
 anything to say.
The woods are black and white. White from the snow
 coming down, black from night falling. We’d be walking
 in circles if not for the GPS.
By the time we get a few hundred yards into the woods,
 every step takes a huge amount of effort. The wind has
 blown the snow into drifts in places, and as we cross them,
I sink up to the middle of my thighs. The cold has numbed
 my legs, and I’m only walking from memory, one foot in
 front of the other, over and over again.
Just as I’m about to tell Pierce that I’m done, I can’t walk
 any farther, he looks at the GPS and says, “We’ve only got
 twenty more yards to go.”
There could be a herd of elephants twenty yards ahead;
I can’t see more than a foot in front of my face. We walk
 another few steps and suddenly a small tent appears, as if
Pierce waved a magic wand to summon it.
“So this is a yurt,” I say.
It’s a round structure, maybe fifteen feet wide. It looks
 like a miniature circus tent with a satellite dish on the top
 of the center pole.
“8-Bit got it from some guy he knew who quit the
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Russian intelligence service. He was selling all his equip-
 ment off. The Russians will sell you anything. Secrets,
 guns, kidneys, their children. Anything.” He grabs the flap
 of the tent and flips it over to show me the layer of fur on
 the other side. “That’s reindeer hide.”
He pushes the flaps back. “There’s only room for one
 person at a time in the doorway. You’ll see. Take your
 boots off and turn the lantern on when you go inside. It’s
 hanging next to the inner door.”
He holds the flap back enough for me to duck inside,
 into a small foyer kind of thing. I guess it was designed so
 you could take off your coat and boots without letting the
 cold air into the tent. Yurt. Whatever it’s called.
I’m not sure if I should take my coat off, but then I feel
 warm air leaking from the inner chamber, so I figure it
 must be all right. My socks come off with my snow-packed
 boots. It’s so cold the snow hasn’t melted, even though it
 was pressed against my feet.
I push the inner flap back and go inside. I find the lan-
 tern and flick it on.
In the middle of the ceiling is an opening about two
 feet wide and, below that, what looks like a small cauldron
 with a perforated top. Something inside the cauldron is
 glowing orange—the last embers of some weird fire that’s
 just about gone out.  
There are two inflatable mattresses, a couple portable
 chairs, and a folding table with three large laptops the size
 of briefcases on it. Next to each mattress is a big, bulging
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backpack. I also see a portable camping stove near the table
 and some dirty plates with utensils stuck to them.  
“Welcome to Hackville,” Pierce says as he pushes the
 inner flap up and enters. “You won’t be staying long enough
 to enjoy the amenities, which is just as well, because there
 are no amenities.”
I stand in the center of the yurt, not sure what to do
 with myself. After a minute he smiles and points. “That
 right there is known as a chair. You sit on it. A lot of people
find them quite handy.”
“Thanks for the guidance.”
I plunk myself down while he turns on all three com-
 puters. As he takes his hat and jacket off, he draws himself
 up to his full height. His head nearly touches the top of the
 yurt.
“This place makes my hospital room look huge by com-
 parison. I hope your boss doesn’t snore.”
“As a matter of fact, he does.”
“He’s paying you extra for putting up with that, right?”
Pierce uses some bottled water to fill a small kettle and
 then lights a propane stove beneath it. “I’m not getting
 paid anything,” he says, running his fingers through his
 hat-flattened hair. “Well, I get room and board, I suppose.
8-Bit is my father.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you just say that to begin with?”
“I’m not used to saying it yet. I only met the guy eight
 months ago.” Pierce pauses a second and then says, “He
 doesn’t want anyone to know.”
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“That he’s your father or that you’re his son?”
“What’s the difference?”
“There’s a difference, depending on who’s ashamed of
 who.”
He snorts. “I hadn’t thought of that before, but I guess
 you’re right.”
He sits down in the computer chair. We’re maybe three
 feet apart. I sneak a look at him while he’s fiddling with
 one of the laptops. I’ve been in that hospital for who knows
 how long, and I can’t remember the last time I saw a boy
 who wasn’t bald with holes in his head.
Pierce catches me looking at him and smiles. My cheeks
 suddenly feel like they’re a hundred degrees warmer than
 the rest of me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to stare.”
“That’s okay.” He gives me a cocky grin. “I get that a
 lot.”
He puts his ski hat back on and raises his eyebrows at
 me.
“Going somewhere?”
He points at my hat. “Didn’t want you to feel all alone.”
I touch the acrylic cap, which, now that it’s wet from
 sweat and melted snow, is very itchy. I take it off, but once
I do, I feel naked in front of him.
“So,” I say. “What were you doing up there, to the
 computer system?”
He shrugs.
“What did you do to end up in that head lab back
 there?”
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I shrug.
“What did they tell you?” he asks.
“Not much. Telling me why I was there would sort of
 defeat the purpose of erasing my memory.”
“They had to have told you something.”
“Just that my parents are both dead, and that I have
PTSD. Like everyone else there. I guess we couldn’t get
 over whatever it was, so we needed help forgetting.”
“Help? You don’t seem like you need help with any-
 thing.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean, those treatments don’t change your personal-
 ity.”  
“How do you know?”
“I told you. I’ve done a little reading about what they do
 here. Point is, PTSD or not, you are who you are.”
“Which means what?”
“Which means—how can I put this? You and your
 nailer don’t seem like the kind who’d have trouble dealing
 with anybody’s hurt feelings, including your own.”
His words hit me hard. All I’ve feared, all I’ve sus-
 pected . . . could it be that obvious? Even to this stranger?
Maybe that’s what I really am.
Perpetrator.
I look up, expecting him to be disgusted by me, but
 instead I see a flicker of . . . not sympathy. Understanding,
 maybe? It’s strange.
He stands up and moves toward me. I spring to my feet,
 slightly crouched, my hands already hardened into fists.
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“Hey, relax, will you?”
“Sorry. I’m not very good at relaxing.”
He pulls something out of his jacket pocket, and now
I see what it is: a flash drive. “I need to do a few things.”
He takes me by the shoulders and moves me over slightly
 so he can skirt past. “This may take a while. Feel free to lie
 down and rest.”
“I don’t want to lie down,” I say, even though all I want
 to do is lie down.
“Okay, tough girl. You can stare at the wall if you pre-
 fer. But you look exhausted.”
He rolls his eyes a little, like he’s known me forever and
 this is just the kind of thing I’m always doing, forever put-
 ting up a brave front. It makes me feel a little better about
 him. And about myself, too. The nurses were always so
 cautious and wary around me, but he’s not. Even after I
 punched him in the face. And shot his computer with a nail
 gun. I’m very relieved to imagine that I might be whatever
 he thinks I am. Being plain old all right would be a huge
 step up for me.
Pierce sits down at one of the computers and takes out
 his heinous, thick-framed glasses. He hesitates a moment
 before putting them on.
“They’re really, you know, not that . . . bad,” I say.
“Don’t patronize me.”
“You’re right. They’re completely hideous.”
He begins tapping away. I can tell that even if I ask
 him a question, he won’t answer, because he won’t even
 hear me. Whatever he’s doing, though, it’s clear that it’s not
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