The Chosen (A Talents novel)

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

We followed a packed dirt path into the south end of the camp—the area I’d previously been politely encouraged to avoid. Just beyond the clearing, the trail led us through a copse of old red cedars, massive trees that rose from the ground like creatures from a Tolkien book. There were old trees scattered around the camp, but these were the biggest I’d seen yet, and they seemed to be telling me to calm down and be peaceful. The heat of the day enhanced their fragrance, and sent warm breezes sliding through the tall canopy, and left dappled shadows on the ferns that grew below.

Callie walked beside Izzy. Neither of them said much, but she walked purposefully, her arms swinging, her pace easily taking her ahead every fifteen or twenty feet, which then required that she stop and wait, thereby increasing her annoyance.

Actually, the closer we got to Gregori the less her expression looked like annoyance, and the more it looked like fear.  For Callie, I had the impression that fear was not acceptable emotion, so instead of moving slower, she moved faster, and instead of being hesitant, she became even more aggressive.

At the end of the path we reached a low, broad building that had a distinctly different look to it than the other cabins. Where they were made of rough wood with cheap aluminum windows, this structure had horizontal siding and small, high windows, with trim painted to match the dark tan of the siding. The front door was wide and solid, and bore little resemblance to the uneven plywood sheets that closed off the entrance to the other cabins. The entire structure was easily twice as big as the dining hall, though the low profile and way it had been tucked into the trees made it look smaller.

A wide porch crossed the front of the building, with a young guy I didn’t recognize stationed on one side and a similarly unfamiliar girl on the other. They looked to be in their early twenties, and from the size of their biceps and the meaty calves above their black boots, they were evidently guards of some sort. Not that I would have considered trying to mess with Gregori, but these two definitely left an impression that any such attempt would have been futile. They reminded me of Thad—all muscle, with a gleam in their eyes that suggested they would greatly enjoy using it.

I reached out with one hand to touch Izzy’s sleeve a few feet away from the porch. He and Callie turned in unison, both with head cocked in question. I locked eyes with him, trying to send a silent message.

Don’t tell him about the picture. Don’t tell anyone. Please.

He closed his eyes and gave the barest of nods. Callie’s nose twitched with interest, clearly picking up on the silent communication. I straightened my shoulders and masked my relief by smiling at her. “Come now,” I said, moving forward. “We don’t want to be late.”

Obviously determined to be the first inside, Callie charged at the door. Izzy grabbed it and held it open for her, gesturing for me to follow. My heart was leaping now, and I could feel energy starting to collect in my fingertips.

Slow it down. Don’t let him see your fear.

The door opened to a large, empty space. It reminded me of a gymnasium, with cages covering the lights overhead and a gleaming wooden floor. The few high windows I had seen from the outside cast a dim light on the large space, and shadows swallowed up the corners.

Callie didn’t hesitate, just marched across, her boots making a dull thump on the floor. My sneakers squeaked behind her. In the far left corner, there was a set of double doors with a bar handle that ran the width of the door. She slammed on it with both hands, and then disappeared down a set of concrete stairs. 

I followed more slowly, trying to pay attention to our path. At the bottom of the stairs we came to a sort of open office, with a rows of computers with Lifers at their keyboards on one side, and a wall of nameless equipment whirring on the other. There were metal racks holding more gear that I couldn’t begin to identify—a mix of plastic and metal, rectangular boxes that could have been computers from the 1990s, things I assumed were printers or scanners, boxes neatly marked with long strings of numbers and letters. I wondered absently if someone had committed to memory what “A1xcv321-2” meant, or if they had to look it up every time.