Hexad: The Ward (14 page)

"Dale, nothing could be more out there than our lives today, let alone what we did before. Just get on with it, please. I'm fading fast here, I need to go home." Amanda prayed that Dale had a plan, one that could work anyway.

"Okay, um, well..."

"Spill it, Dale, come on," said Peter in his usual undiplomatic way.

"All right, stop rushing me." Dale took a deep breath. "Okay, this may sound silly but how about if we say that once we get hold of a Hexad, which I'm sure we will as we have to if we want to sort out this mess, then we promise that one of us will jump with two of them, leave a fully loaded one behind us on that swing — don't look now, just in case —" said Dale in a panic, "then jump away. Problem solved, right?"

Nobody said anything. Dale coughed and said, "Okay, anyone got a better idea?"

"No, don't be cross, that's a great idea," said Amanda, excited that it could work.

"Don't be a muppet, Dale, how can that possibly work? We need to have a Hexad now to get out of this mess, and we haven't, so how can you make one magically appear?"

"Because we promise to do it in the future, that's why."

"Fine. Well, if that's the case, then there should be one on that swing right there as I... Wow! That is so cool."

Dale and Amanda turned. Sat on the swing, swaying gently back and forth, was what definitely looked like a Hexad. They rushed over, tiredness forgotten, and Dale grabbed the silver cylinder from the plastic seat. "See," he said proudly, "told you it was a good idea."

"Unbelievable. Just be sure we do send it back to here."

"Well, I guess we do, or it wouldn't be here," said Dale, staring happily at the flashing 6.

"Maybe, maybe not. Think what we had to do, jumping to meet ourselves, Dale. That version of us forgot to do it and now we're in this mess. So, Peter's right, we need to be sure to do this as soon as we get the chance. But hey, great idea, my hero." Amanda stood on tip-toe and kissed Dale.

"Ahem, don't mind me." Peter looked away and went to fetch Wozzy who remained on the bench, seemingly completely uninterested in the wonders of time travel.

"Time to go," whispered Dale into Amanda's hair, taking her scent, sighing at the familiar smell.

"Definitely." Amanda stepped back and shouted for Peter. He came over cradling Wozzy like he was a newborn kitten not a lean, mean, fighting machine — at least when he had no other choice.

"Let's do this thing," said Dale. He set the dials and frowned as he thought hard about the jump. They held on to each other and Dale went, "Whoooooooooooooooooosh."

They jumped.

Home Sweet Home

Present Day

"Okay, who wants a huge, and I do mean huge, fry-up?" asked Peter cheerily, already opening cupboard doors, getting out frying pans and turning on the oven. "Dale, where are the sausages?" He didn't wait for an answer, just carried on checking for anything that looked like he could fry it up and was relatively unhealthy.

"Help yourself," mumbled Dale, smiling, as pleased as Amanda that Peter was keen to be cook.

"God, what time is it?" asked Amanda, happier than she'd even been in her life to see her kitchen tiles.

"Let's not even think about it. Let's just eat and drink and forget about the day." Dale hugged Amanda tight and moved her over to a chair; she sank into it gratefully.

"What's that cat doing now?" Amanda watched as Wozzy jumped onto the counter and made straight for the butter.

"Shoo, get out of there, Wozzy," ordered Dale, less than seriously.

They watched as Wozzy licked at the butter, shooed away by Peter who then went to slice off some of it to add to the frying pan.

"Peter, that is so gross. You can't use that now," complained Dale.

"Why not? It'll heat up, that will kill any germs if you're worried about that kind of thing," he said, waving away such nonsense with a waft of a spatula.

"Whatever, I'm too tired to care." Dale opened the fridge door, not shut properly by Peter, and grabbed a bottle of wine. He held it up and both Amanda and Peter nodded vigorously.

"I could drink the bottle," said Amanda, every bone in her body feeling like it needed to rest for a week.

"Me too," agreed Peter. He grabbed the offered wine after Dale poured three glasses and continued to bang cupboard doors while he dumped two packs of sausages out of their packs onto the trays he'd found. "I am so hungry I could eat Wozzy."

Wozzy turned to Peter at the mention of his name and tried to scag a raw sausage. "Wait until they're cooked," Peter admonished, opening the oven door and sliding the trays in.

"This will be the longest wait ever for food, I'm starving." Amanda nodded her thanks to Dale as she took the glass of Chardonnay. She gulped it gratefully and let the alcohol work its magic. "Ah, that's so good."

~~~

"Amanda, Amanda." With a start, Amanda woke up to find Dale shaking her shoulder gently. A lovely aroma of cooked sausages, eggs, bacon, beans, hash browns and more, assaulted her nostrils as she sniffed in delight.

"Oops, sorry, I must have fallen asleep."

"No problem, food's ready," said Dale, as he put a knife and fork down either side of a placemat.

"Here we go," said Peter, sliding a plate stacked dangerously high with food in front of her. He carried his and Dale's over, put them down, then got up again. "Forgot the toast."

"Wow, this looks... Big!"

"You bet! We need to keep our strength up if we're going to stop maniacs stealing Amandas and ruining the world," said Peter as he began to eat.

Dale and Amanda exchanged glances. They had a lot to talk about, but it could wait. Food first.

~~~

"I have never felt so full in my entire life," groaned Dale, undoing his belt and sighing with relief.

"Me either. That was amazing though, thank you, Peter."

"You're welcome. Good, eh?"

"Oh yeah, lovely," said Dale. He undid the button on his jeans.

"Let's go into the living room, I need to sit on something soft and squishy." Amanda got up slowly. Her muscles ached, body heavy and listless.

They moved into the other room, leaving the dirty dishes, unable to even consider such mundane tasks yet. They settled down only to hear a clattering in the kitchen — nobody could be bothered to tell Wozzy off, he deserved his foraging time after what he'd been through.

They talked, quietly and with no real focus, just general chat about the day, but the sentences became slower, less intelligent, and within five minutes all three of them were asleep as the light faded and the rain pattered at the glass while a bright half-moon shone silver light into the dark room.

Peter snored.

Nobody noticed apart from Wozzy, who finished cleaning away the scraps in the kitchen then padded silently into the living room and leapt onto Amanda's lap, turned in a circle three times, had an emergency lick of a pink pad, curled up with his tail under his chin and fell asleep too.

~~~

A huge silhouette of a man blocked out the light of the moon. He stood still for a few minutes until his eyesight adjusted to the gloom, then walked silently over to Amanda, his muddy boots staining the new carpet. He stared intently at her face, ignoring everything else. He made adjustments to a Hexad, grunted when satisfied, then put a huge, calloused hand lightly on her shoulder. He pressed the end of the dome with the flashing five against his chest and pushed hard.

He, Amanda and Wozzy, disappeared.

Some Alone Time

37 Years Future

Amanda's head was full of clouds. Her limbs felt heavy, but light too, like they were just stuck to her torso, tied down so they wouldn't float away. Pins and needles were a constant background hum to accompany her quiet moans, her legs prickling from being still for so long.

Her face had a sickly pallor, slick with a sheen of sweat. Once gloriously golden hair hung lank over her face, obscuring dark eyes that saw nothing but white, white, and more white.

She squatted in the corner of the room, thinking nothing, neither happy nor sad, not knowing such emotions existed, just knowing on some level, deep down and buried behind the clouds, that she wasn't herself, far from it.

Her back rested against the padded wall of the cell where the corner of the small room allowed her to focus occasionally on the door, the only focal point in the empty room. Her bare feet were pale from where her toes gripped the padded floor tight as if she might fall off if she let go. Amanda's head hung forward to peer between her knees through her hair every time she thought she heard a sound from outside her isolation.

She'd been there for months.

Every day was the same, not that she had much concept of time, only that the light changed every so often, dimming and allowing her to sleep before waking in the fetal position once more, arms screaming at her as she'd slept on her side again, trapping the nerves in her shoulder, unable to stop herself from sleeping the same way every night, if it was night.

She paid the same price every morning before the hurt faded after she ate her morning meal, pushed through the slot in the door, eating greedily as the food numbed her mind and body from the misery and she wanted to be a good girl and not get into trouble like she had what seemed like a lifetime ago when she'd refused to take her meals — and her medication.

The straitjacket itched but she didn't mind, not now. Now it was just an outer layer as familiar as her own skin, but it would be nice to move her arms about, wave them wide, wiggle her fingers and run them through her hair.

It didn't matter, not really. Nothing did.

Amanda pushed with her feet, leaning hard into the wall to gain purchase, and slowly got to a standing position. Her knees creaked like they needed a good oil. Her body told her of numerous other distant pains, bunched muscles, knots of nerves that needed to be rubbed soft, take away the lumps that seized up her body and contorted her into strange positions. She needed a good service, that's for sure. To be stretched out and gone over inch by inch, inspected and cleared out, then filled up again with energizing fluid, put right and refilled.

But she wasn't a car, was she? No, she was just being silly. She was a person; she was Amanda. It stood to reason — she was thinking these thoughts about not being a car, so everything was all right then, wasn't it? She wasn't lost to herself entirely, still had her name to cling to, and she had her visit to look forward to today. It was today, wasn't it?

It felt like it was the right day, but it was hard to keep track. What were the days? There were Mondays and there were Tuesdays, and there were Thursdays... No, wait, what came before Thursday? Wednesday! Yes! That's right, and today was a Friday.

This was the special day, this was the day when she gave of herself, gave to get better and was told she was a good girl and that soon she could wiggle her fingers as much as she wanted and walk around large rooms and she could shower every day if she wanted to, rather than just once a week like they told her she did. She never remembered the shower, it was always late in the day after she had Given, and everything was always really blurry after that, like the needle numbed more than her back, like ice flowed right through her veins and her brain and she was emptied of everything and all that remained were the clouds and the satisfaction of having been a good girl and not crying or screaming or moaning like a baby like she had when she'd first had to lay on the floor and let the old man roll her onto her back where the nurse then untied the straitjacket and they lifted it up, the cool air hitting her skin like a taste of freedom before the needle went deep and the ice consumed her.

Jumbled, fast-moving thoughts faded as the slot in the door opened and a tray of food appeared. Amanda moved on stiff legs and took the tray without a word. Nobody ever spoke; the food just appeared. It had been hard to understand how to take the tray at first, and she had grown anxious and even angry as she was unable to figure it out, but then she learned. Now it was as easy as using her hands.

The gray plastic tray had a long curved handle that faced her, with a flat semicircle at the top. She grabbed it in her mouth, moved the tray to the floor, then got down on all fours to eat.

Amanda let the soft scrambled eggs slide down her throat, not tasting them but knowing she needed the energy provided. She felt the crunch of the tablets, her special medication to keep her well, but she ignored the bitter taste and swilled it away with a sip of the watery orange juice that pooled in one of the compartments on the tray, complete with short straw, also a part of her morning platter of plastic.

As the meal was finished, so the numbness grew, both mental and physical, until everything was lost: memories, emotions, sense of self.

All that remained was a woman squatting in the corner of a padded cell, rocking back and forth on her haunches, eyelids half-closed, face angular and eyes dark against waxy skin.

Just a woman. She needed to get well.

Her name was Amanda.

Wasn't it?

You're not Well

37 Years Future

Amanda lay still. She had no inclination to move, but even if she wanted to she would have found it impossible.

Hector, her psychiatrist, the man that watched over her, helped her get well and always insisted on being addressed using his first name, had warned her of the dangers of moving when she had her weekly lumbar puncture. One move as the needle slid between her lower vertebra and she could be paralyzed for life, or worse.

It didn't matter. Why would she want to move? She was a Giver and that was important, it was what helped her to heal, to let the craziness seep away just like her tainted cerebrospinal fluid. That's what Hector told her, and although at first she didn't believe him, over the weeks and the months there was no longer any doubt that what he told her made sense.