Murder Board

A COLD AND UNSETTLED FEELING takes up residence in my chest. I mute my TV and set my sketchpad and pencil on the bed next to me. Then I sit up straighter and strain my ears for sound. Any noise anywhere in this small house echoes in even the corners farthest from the source. Like the current scraping of metal slipping into the lock in the kitchen door, not a key… something clumsier, something that wasn’t made as an exact fit for those specific tumblers. I try to attribute it to my imagination, but I can’t deny the truth.

Someone is trying to get into my house.

Panic swirls in my chest like a tempest. What am I supposed to do? Staying home alone when my mother is out of town for work has never been a problem before, never been a threat to my well-being. We live in a safe neighborhood. All my neighbors have known me since I was born; they’re supposed to be keeping an eye on things here. It’s what they do. I have no contingency plan for a break in. Nothing beyond panic and pray.

“Dear God, protect me,” I whisper as I visually scan my room for something, anything, that I can use to defend myself. I come up empty. I change tacks and reach for my phone. I dial 911 with shaky fingers, hit send. The call drops with a cheery, three-note chime. My hope drops with the call. I try again with the same result, then check my service. Zero bars. The walls of my house are paper thin. I’ve never had less than full bars anywhere on the property. My stomach tightens into a solid lump in my throat, threatening to cut off my air supply.

And then the back door creaks open. I all but fall out of bed, praying the sound isn’t crashing thunder in the virtual silence, giving away my location. Even if I am already on the move. With every step I take toward my open bedroom door, a heavy boot step answers in my kitchen. Closing in on me. I make it to my door before the intruder makes it to the hallway, but his shadow looms at the other end of the passage as I slam my door shut and lock it. The soft steps turn into a pounding thump, thump, thump, thump—a solid mimicking of my racing pulse—as the intruder kicks into a jog across the hardwood floor. He stops just outside my room. The locked door offers little protection. One good kick and that thing’s probably coming down. My fear rages like an ice storm, chilling the blood in my veins. My hands shake with adrenaline as my pulse spikes even more, swishing in my ears with a heavy whir, whir, whir, whir. I sprint to the other side of my small room and tug up the window blinds with clumsy fingers. My front yard is empty and still and looking so much like a blessed haven compared to the danger in my house right now. As I fumble with the window lock, still clutching my useless phone, my doorknob jiggles forcefully. A heartbeat later, something solid and heavy thuds against my door, and the whole house shudders from the impact. I yelp in surprise, but don’t let it deter me from my task.

I finally manage to push my window up high enough to slide through, and I drop into a crouch in my mom’s favorite flower bed. The November cold tickles my cheeks and the tip of my nose, and mulch and other plant debris digs into the soft soles of my bare feet like tiny icicles, but I don’t let it distract me. I push off from the ground in a runner’s start, or what I imagine one to look like. In seconds, I’m halfway across the lawn in aim of the Fergussons’ house.

My feet sink into the grass, and soft dirt squishes between my toes with every step. Twenty more feet and I’ll be at the Fergussons’ front door.

I shoot a frantic glance behind me, but no one is chasing me. In the midst of my panting breath is a soft sigh of relief. My chest loosens from short, panicked gasps to a deeper, cooling lungful with every new inhale. Refuge is almost close enough to touch.

The Fergussons’ living room light seeps through the cracks in their curtains to spill out over the space between our two houses in soft yellow streaks. As I round my garage, I open my mouth to call out. Before I can make a sound, a hard body slams into me. The impact knocks the wind out of me, and I can’t even scream. My phone skitters across the driveway, and suddenly, I’m face down on the ground. The concrete scrapes my skin, abrading the layers off like a cheese grater. The sting is sharp, and tears well in my eyes. Someone’s full weight rests heavy on my back.

I inhale sharply and cry out. The person holding me down shoves a coarse cloth into my mouth. It tastes like dirt and gasoline. I choke on the aroma and try to spit it out, but a cloth bag drops over my head. Drawstrings pull tight around my neck, cutting off my sense of the outside world. The ties are dangerously tight; if I move wrong, it could end very badly.

But I don’t stop struggling, bucking and twisting and fighting for freedom. Not when he ties my hands behind my back so tight the tendons in my arms stretch painfully, and I think my shoulders might pull from their sockets. Not when he lifts me by the arms and sets me on my feet like I weigh little more than a toddler. Not when strong arms grab me in a suffocating grip around my middle and my captor starts a forward progression that, even without my sense of sight, I’m certain is toward the road. My heel connects with his shin, and pain radiates into the sole of my foot and up my calf. But the guy holding me only grunts in response and doesn’t let me go. I try again and again but get nowhere. My muscles are weak from exertion already, and try as I might to get free, my movements are becoming sluggish and unsubstantial. The human vice grip carrying me must be made of steel.

An engine rumbles closer, then idles next to us. Metal scrapes against metal, and the person holding me tosses me into the back of what must be a van. My shoulder crushes painfully against the floor. I take longer than I should righting myself, wincing in pain as my muscles stretch to accommodate positions my limbs are not supposed to bend into. As soon as I’m up on my knees, I scramble across the gnarled carpeting in the direction of the opening. The door slams shut before I get there, and I fall against it, slumping in defeat. The metal is cold against my skin even through my T-shirt.

I voice a prayer for help, for protection, for rescue, but every word is a garbled mess behind my gag. Somewhere to my right, the sound of a car door opening is muffled, as if the back of the van is separate from the front. The vehicle bounces with the weight of someone large climbing into the cab. Before the door shuts again, we’re speeding away from my house.

Did any of my neighbors notice the commotion? Did anyone see me trussed up and thrown into the back of a kidnapper’s van? God, please let someone have seen what happened and called the police. But deep down, I harbor the suspicion that no one did. It all happened so fast, how could they have seen? My mom’s not due back from Seattle for two more days. By the time she gets home, I’m going to be lost forever, disappeared without a trace.

#

We drive for a hundred years. My fingertips have long ago started to go numb, and all of my extremities burn from being stuck in the same position for too long. The twists and turns and stops and accelerations are too many to count. I try at first, but I lose track after a while. Eventually, the ride becomes bumpier, underscored by the crunch of gravel under the tires. The van slows to a crawl, then stops with a jolt, and I’m on high alert, fatigued muscles tense, before the engine shuts off. Both cab doors open, and two men engage in conversation as they climb out. But I can’t make out their words.

The door I’m leaning against moves, shifting out from behind me. I’ve been in this position for so long, my muscles are weak and slow. Before I can catch myself, I fall backward through the opening. But I don’t hit the ground. Instead, a pair of strong hands catches me under my arms and lifts me to stand. Gravel prickles the undersides of my feet, and I wince against the pain. My legs ache as blood suddenly rushes back into them. Whoever caught me continues to hold me upright until I’m able to bear my own weight. Then he unties my wrists and moves my arms so that they’re joined at my front instead of my back. Just as the feeling starts to return to my fingertips, he ties my wrists back up.

The space around me is accented by distant movement, the rustling of foliage, and the sounds of night, but nothing that might tell me where we are or if anyone might be close enough to hear me scream. But scream I do. It’s mostly pointless with my gag absorbing most of the sound and my hood absorbing even more, but I wail at the top of my lungs. Until something hard jams solidly into my gut, forcing the last of the air from my lungs. I’d vomit, but I’m almost positive the blow has ripped me open and left my stomach flattened against my spine. Also, vomiting against a gag and into a bag over my head feels like a really bad idea. I double over, gasping for breath, and do my best to will away the wrenching pain in my abdomen.

There’s a tug at my wrist, and a second later, another more forceful jerk. It pulls me forward like a tether. I have no choice but to follow where my lead takes me. Each step is like walking on sharp glass, and by the time I step onto thick, soft grass, I’m certain I’ve left a trail of bloody footprints behind me. But I don’t whimper or cry. I don’t make a sound. As scared as I am, I won’t give these brutes the satisfaction of seeing my pain.

They lead me onto pavement and then up four stairs, two of which I stub toes on before I realize a step is there. Thanks for the heads up, guy. Then I’m standing on a landing, maybe a porch. The wood beneath my feet is smooth and finished, and I send a silent thank you skyward. At least God is looking out for the tender flesh on the soles of my feet. Even if He did let me get kidnapped.

A door squeaks open, and my tether pulls tight, encouraging me forward again. In two steps, I’m inside a building. The air inside is cooler, and a soft doormat cushions my battered feet. Until a body shoves me from behind, almost knocking me on my face. “Move, recruit.”

Recruit? I get my balance and begin a tentative progression forward. My lead isn’t taut anymore. Is there still anyone on the other end? Maybe not, but there is, for sure, an impatient jerk behind me, probably just waiting for the next opportunity to shove me. So I continue forward. And slam into a wall.

The impact reverberates up my left shoulder, and the side of my head makes contact a heartbeat later. I swallow a muffled oomph. From the feel, I’ve just walked into the side of a doorframe. And the guy behind me snickers quietly. Thanks again, jerk. I correct my trajectory and enter a room. The noise here is different. The sounds of tense breathing, from several directions, is muted only by rustling fabric. There are multiple people in this room, but no one is speaking. How many people are here? Are they dangerous foe or innocent victims like me?

The flooring in here is different, too, padded but not carpet, smoother. I take several steps. Then a gentle hand grips my arm and leads me farther in. When we stop, the hand at my elbow glides down to my wrists and begins working at my ropes.

No way this is the same guy who almost shoved me on my face and watched me slam full force into the doorframe. This one’s touch is benevolent, almost… careful. As soon as my hands are free, I rub at my aching wrists, caring more about the blood flow to my fingers than the abraded skin there. And he sets to work on the sack covering my head and tied around my neck.

When it’s gone, bright light is my new enemy. I have to close my eyes against the pain and slowly squint them open to adjust to the brightness. By the time my eyes acclimate, my gag is off, too. I lick parched lips to wet them, but my tongue is like sandpaper after sucking on that gag for so long. And never mind the prickling needles in the back of my throat. I would give my right pinky toe for some water right now.

Without moving from where I stand, I turn my head to take in my surroundings. Floor to ceiling mirrors cover the long wall in front of me. And reflected in it are twenty-plus other teens. The room is large, longer than it is wide, and set up like a home gym. Free weights and kettle bells are stacked in a corner.

Everyone is dressed in various states of casual, from jeans to sweats—to pajamas, like me—and every face reflected in the mirror matches my shell-shocked expression. Except for the guy on the far end, who was apparently abducted in nothing but a pair boxer briefs. I avert my gaze to give him some privacy, but he doesn’t seem too bothered by his lack of clothing. He seems more interested in the mirror, more specifically, the handful of people haunting the space behind our reflections. Like guards on patrol.

In front of us is a tall woman with exotic features, a tight black bun, and slender frame. If it weren’t for the fact that she is apparently the end of the line in this little abduction game and dressed head-to-toe in burglar black, I’d peg her for a model.

She takes a moment to survey each of us, and when she gets to me, her stare gives me the heebs. I try to hide a shudder, and she continues down the line to the end. Then she looks at our group as a whole. “Hello, recruits,” she says in a clear, crisp voice. “Welcome to The Program.”

“HOW MANY OF YOU HAVE heard of The Program?” the austere woman at the front of the room asks.

“The Program is real?” someone whispers—an echo of my own thoughts. The Program is an urban legend, a myth of bogeyman proportions that we tell each other around campfires and at sleepovers. No one actually knows anyone who’s been through The Program. No one even really knows what it is. Or that it’s actually anything more than a ghost story. All down the line, tentative hands go up. I keep mine at my side, partly because I don’t have any worthwhile knowledge of The Program, but also because my arms ache from being tied behind my back for eleven million hours. I shift onto the balls of my feet and back again, trying to stretch my calves so I can stay upright.

“Good. And how many of you actually know what The Program is?”

This time, only three people raise their hands. A cheerleader type near the door, a boy a few spots down from me, and the guy in his underwear holding down the other end of the line. Part of me wants to avert my gaze because of his state of undress, but my eyes linger on him the longest because of the attitude he’s displaying. He’s well over six feet and runner lean. His dark hair is cropped short, military style, and the expression on his too-handsome face is neutral, unsurprised. He knew this was coming. Even if they did manage to nab him in his drawers.

Wish someone had given me a heads up.

“Good. You three already have the advantage. The rest of you will have some catching up to do.” She looks us each over again, but this time with a scowl, like she’s disappointed in what she sees. “I’m Wraith. I will be your instructor. One of four. Ruger, Sever, and Matrix.” She waves a hand toward two men and then a woman who have moved from behind us—now that everyone is unbound—to stand at her sides. They each wear matching monochrome-black ensembles and expressions that clearly say, “Don’t mess with me.”

Message received.

“Who are you guys? CIA, FBI?” the boy next to the mostly naked guy calls out.

Wraith turns only her head in a move that’s more horror-movie villain than secret agent. “Who we are is classified. Information will only be given to you on a need-to-know basis, and all you need to know right now is that we own you. No one knows where you are or what has happened to you.” And it’s possible they will never find you. She doesn’t have to say it. Her threat is implied, but it’s loud and clear.

The boy drops his challenging gaze to the floor, and his shoulders slump.

“The Program,” Wraith continues in a booming voice, “is a top-secret training program designed to recruit the best and brightest for the purposes of intelligence and counter-terrorism. You sorry bunch are this year’s recruits. You will spend the next six weeks living together, training together, and failing together. Look around you.”

Six weeks? My mother doesn’t even know I’m gone. What about school? My friends? A shower? Right now, I’d settle for just being able to sit down.

This isn’t your everyday run-of-the-mill abduction. This is government sanctioned. It feels like a betrayal. I don’t lean out of line to look at the others, but several of my fellow recruits do, including the mousy girl to my left. She leans so far out of line, she tips and starts to fall with a tiny squeak. Before I can move, the guy on the other side of her reaches down and steadies her with a hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him gratefully, but he’s not even looking at her. He stares straight into the mirror, straight at me. I shrug off the intensity of his gaze and focus instead on absorbing the information Wraith is throwing at us.

“Six weeks from now, only six of you will remain. If you want to be one of those six, you will need to train harder, learn faster, be better than the rest. Each of you were chosen because you have a special skill, and you have been assigned code names accordingly.”

Great, my code name is going to be Sarcasm.

As Wraith speaks, she stands firm in the center of the room, her cohorts flanking her, arms behind their backs and legs shoulder width apart in what I assume is a military “at ease” position. The robotic nature of their stance and movements is unnerving. Even her voice is emotionless as she continues to address us. “To be successful in The Program, you will need to not only hone your own skill, but also learn the skills of those around you. You will need to be the best at not just what you do, but also what everyone else does.”

Here’s hoping my special skill is learning other people’s super-secret special skills. But do I really want to win the day in a government training program designed to… well, I don’t really know what The Program is designed to train us for. Intelligence and counter terrorism Wraith had said, but what does that even mean? I’m not about to ask. I learned my lesson vicariously through the mouthy guy next to Underpants. Wraith has the air of someone who would sooner put a bullet between my eyes than answer a stupid question. And I have no doubt all four of these instructors are packing.

“For the next six weeks, you will be divided into two teams. After that, it’s anybody’s game. You will compete, both as teams and individually, for the privilege to remain in The Program. Instructors Sever and Matrix will be your team captains. Teams have already been assigned.” She emphasizes her announcement by holding up two tablets and handing one to Sever and the other to Matrix. “You’ll be given your code names and shown to your rooms. Anyone caught revealing their real name will be penalized. Your code name is your new identity. Who you were before no longer exists. Rest up, because you will be expected to be back in this room at 0600 to begin training.” When she finishes speaking, she turns on her heel and marches from the room. Clearly, there will be no Q&A session.

“There are more of us than there are of them. We could probably take ‘em.” The boy next to me is hatching a plan, and the idea is contagious, taking root in my brain with little tendrils of hope. Until I survey our group. Half of us are barefoot, and almost as many are in pajamas of some sort. What are a bunch of barely dressed teens going to do to four armed, and likely lethally trained government operatives?

“No thanks.” My money’s on Wraith and company.

Sever steps into the spot Wraith just vacated and clears his throat. He is softer looking than Wraith, and possibly shorter, too. Though his muscles are bigger. Massive really. He could probably snap my neck with one hand tied behind his back. “When I point to you, I want you to take two steps forward and wait for further instruction. Clear?” His voice doesn’t carry as well as Wraith’s, but his ability to imply a threat does.

I send up a silent prayer that I’m not assigned to his team.

He starts with Underpants. “Maverick,” Sever calls him. I like Underpants better. Maverick steps out of line two paces, crosses his arms over his chest, and waits. Sever moves on down the row, selecting people the exact same way.

“Ammo.”

A girl two spots down steps out.

“Sim.”

The girl right next to Ammo.

“Houdini.”

A lanky boy with a narrow face that kind of reminds me of a weasel.

“Shadow. Figment.” Two boys side by side. With each new name he calls, with each person closer to me he gets, my pulse races that much faster.

“Havoc and Hazzard,” Sever says the names together and points to a boy and a girl who are most likely twins. The family resemblance is obvious even from my bad angle and only a reflection to view. Matching coppery hair, patrician noses, and unreadable expressions. They step out in unison. He’s two people away from me now. I take a shaky breath and hold it.

Then he points at me. “Infinity.” Shoot. Clearly, I’m on a lucky streak tonight.

And what kind of a code name is Infinity? With that as my clue, I’m not even going to be able to figure out what my own super awesome skill is, let alone anyone else’s. I step out carefully, trying my best to hide the fact that my legs are shaking. I mimic Maverick’s cavalier pose with my arms crossed over my chest and what I hope is a completely disinterested look on my face.

Sever doesn’t seem to notice my nerves and continues through the line.

“Bug.”

I picture someone small and pest-like, but a giant of a boy steps out of line. His fist is easily the size of my face. He could probably squish me like a bug.

“Prodigy.”

Prodigy is definitely too young to be here. He can’t be a day over fourteen, which right now, feels a million years younger than my seventeen. He’s small and wiry, with wire-rimmed glasses and a mop of shaggy brown hair. He looks just as terrified as I am.

“Vita. Legacy.” Two girls step out of line, the last one being the cheerleader who already had the dish about The Program. Two of the three people who knew about this little shindig beforehand are on my team. Maybe I can get them to share some of that insider info.

“All right, recruits. Follow me. Let’s go see your new home for the next six weeks.” Sever makes the announcement like it’s supposed to be the most exciting thing to happen to us today. Because being abducted, forced to participate in a top-secret government training program, and given the stupidest code name in the history of code names isn’t exciting enough. I bite my lip against the urge to scoff and fall into step behind Bug on his way to the door. Time to get the tour of my new home.

Sever leads us out of the room and into the long front hall of a two-story house. A flight of stairs stretches from the other end of the hall, near the front door, to a landing above our heads. “You are Team Sever. Don’t bother trying to think of a better team name. That one’s permanent until the teams are disbanded in week four. This is the main house. It’s where you will work and train.” He pauses to open the front door and ushers us out onto a surprisingly cozy front porch. The house we’re exiting is flanked by matching houses on either side.

The paint is fresh and crisp, the lawns are perfectly manicured. Three identical American flags even fly from the post to the right of the stairs leading up to each front porch. It’s the quintessential, all-American neighborhood. Except that it’s not. These three houses are the only ones on the street. The only ones anywhere in sight, in fact. Whoever runs this program has gone through all the trouble of creating a miniature neighborhood, comprised of three brand-spanking-new houses and nothing more. Nowhere to run to for help.

Sever marches down the steps to a walkway leading out to the street and heads to the house on the left. “Team Sever, you will be sleeping in Cottage A.” Team Sever; Cottage A. Such original names. But it’s still better than Infinity. What could my special skill possibly be? The length of time I can hold a grudge? My limitless supply of snark? My penchant for circular reasoning? Or, maybe my name is a reference to how I used to sing that never-ending song from that old show with the lamb puppet when I was little. These people really did their homework.

No one speaks as we follow Sever to Cottage A and wait while he punches a code into the electronic keypad where the doorknob should be. The door swings open, and he steps aside so we can file in.

Inside, Cottage A is an exact replica of the main house. Dark wood flooring, pristine white paneling halfway up the walls, neutral paint on the upper half. A crystal chandelier hangs from the impossibly high ceiling, and a set of white-banistered stairs climbs to a landing overlooking the foyer. Off to either side are a dining room and a living room, respectively. The décor in those rooms is the same: dark wood, white paneling, neutral paint.

I’m no expert, but aren’t kidnappers supposed to take you places that aren’t a major upgrade from where they took you from? This place makes my house look like a run-down shack.

“Common areas are down here: living room, dining room, kitchen, and at the back,” he points to the room behind the stairs that is the gym in the main house, “is a game room. Upstairs are the sleeping quarters.”

A game room? Are these people for real?

“You mean, the bedrooms?” a boy—I think Sever called him Shadow—asks with a snicker.

Sever levels him with a glare so murderous, I’m surprised the boy doesn’t spontaneously combust on the spot. He bites his lip and loses the smirk immediately, but it isn’t until he drops his gaze in submission that Sever continues on as if Shadow never spoke in the first place.

“This way, recruits.” He leads us up the stairs. At the top, the landing stretches into a hallway on either side. He takes us down the one to the left and stops in front of the first doors. “Boys are on this side. Girls on that one. There are four bedrooms on each side, already assigned. So, don’t try to pick your room. Maverick and Prodigy, you’re in room one. Houdini and Figment, you’re in two…”

And here I stop listening while he spouts the guys’ room assignments. This whole thing is insane and only getting worse. Am I being tested, Lord? I mean, besides the obvious training-program-designed-to-test-you-thing. Is me being chosen for this a test, like of my faith? I send my thoughts heavenward, but feel a little flutter of doubt. What if I fail this test of faith? I haven’t even been here one day and I’m already on the verge of ‘Are you there, God?’

Then it’s our turn. The guys all file into their respective rooms, two by two like good little ants. And Sever takes the rest of us over to the girls’ side. “Infinity and Sim, you’re bunking in room five.” He points toward the door closest to the stairs, and I step inside. A tall, purple-haired girl in a skull-print pajama set follows me in, and the rest of the group moves farther down the hall. Sever’s voice is still audible as he shows the other girls their rooms, but I tune him out to survey my new bedroom. Two single beds are pushed up against opposite walls with a desk between them. A tall dresser stands at the end of each bed. A doorless opening on one side of the room leads to a small walk-in closet, and through an open doorway next to it, I spot a bathroom.

I look longingly into the bathroom and think about a shower. As much as I’m freaked out by this whole situation, I’m wearing hours—and an entire kidnapping’s worth—of dirt and abrasions. My new roomie, Sim, has already taken over one of the beds and is staring intently out the window behind the desk, unbothered by the dirt smudged across her toes and rimming the soles of her feet.

“Do you think it opens?” she whispers.

Dear God, I hope so.

I listen for Sever’s location before I answer. His voice is fainter now, likely placing him at the end of the hall. So, I whisper, “Try it. I’ll keep a lookout.” I move to the door as Sim leaps for the window. I lean against the doorframe and look out, trying to effect a casual air. I don’t want to let on what I’m actually doing. He’s busy droning on in answer to some question one of the last two remaining girls asked.

Sim fidgets with the window for a long minute, then two. Finally, she gives up and sits back down on her bed with a curse. “That would have been too easy. Of course we’re trapped.”

Understatement of the century. I move back into the room as Sever finishes his monologue and heads for the stairs. As he passes my room, he calls out, loud enough for the whole house to hear, “The exits will remain locked until 0600. You will be expected to be at the front door when it unlocks and ready to head to the training room. Sleep tight, recruits.”

The way he says sleep tight sounds like a challenge, or maybe a promise. I pray that it’s not a threat. I listen as Sever clomps down the stairs with heavy boot steps, and then a keypad beeps as he punches in the code. A moment later, the front door opens, then slams shut. And we’re effectively alone… thirteen unwilling recruits in a program that isn’t supposed to exist.