Jacqui Castle - The Chasm

The

Chasm

Jacqui C astle

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright 2022 Jacqui Castle

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Inkshares, Inc., Oakland, California

www.inkshares.com

Edited by Sarah Nivala and Adam Gomolin

Cover design by Tim Barber

Interior design by Kevin G. Summers

ISBN 9781950301331

e-ISBN 9781950301348

LCCN 2021937783

First edition

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Prologue

I n a bed in Nevada, in a bunker nestled in the Black Canyon of the Colorado River, the shell of a young man lay motionless. The form of an eagle, wings extended, was displayed on the gray wall behind him. The eagles posture was at once protective and hostile. It was accompanied by four words.

Secu rity.

U nity.

P ride.

Stre ngth.

A Compliance Officer named Regina Tellman perched on a hard metal chair near the doorway. The same place shed sat every day for the preceding sixty days. Her wide feet were kicked up and splayed forty-five degrees on an extra chair shed dragged over for just that pur pose.

In the evening, when her monotonous shift was up, she would swipe out and switch places with another officer. For now, there she sat, playing a card game projected into the air, determined to distract herself as the long hours ticke d by.

It was the dullest post Regina had ever had, which was saying something, since she was once charged with monitoring an automated wind power plant. She took each appointment with a smile, though. Anything to serve the B oard.

Every few minutes, Reginas hand would shift to the directed energy weapon, known as a pacifier, clipped to her hip. Her fingers would wrap around its handle, the way a child would clutch a favorite stuffed animal. Her thumb hovered above the biometric pad that, with a bit of firm pressure, would activate the weapon in an instant. A thin blue light emanated from the hand-length burnished barrel, indicating that the pacifier was charged and ready if needed. Reginas eyes would dart to the man in the bed, assuring her that her ward was still where he should be. He always was. Then she would release her grip and go back to what she was doing before, as if unaware of what she had just done.

Itd been the same every day. Just her, hanging out with an unconscious prisoner. She didnt know who this boy was, or what he had done to warrant this peculiar treatment outside of a standard American hospital. He looked young, and sometimes she imagined what he could have done to end up here. But she didnt inquire further. If she needed to know, she would have been told.

A representative of the Board had visited twice, and while she would have loved the opportunity to brag to her friends and family about meeting a member of the Board in the flesh, shed signed away her rights to share this informa tion.

Machines were fixed to numerous ports of entry into the young subjects prone body. Magnetic cuffs at the wrists and ankles restrained him to the bed. They were superfluoushe wasnt going anywhere. She was to call at the slightest movement, any sign he was wakin g up.

A ventilator puffed his lungs while a feeding tube propelled a gelatinous substance into his stomach. A machine supported his sluggish heart. Rods held his splintered bones in their fixed order, and the muscles and cartilage healed around them. His skin was patched together like a quilt in the places where it had been punctured and torn, and a laser had smoothed the pleats like an iron so only smooth pink scars remained. These would diminish with time.

Sensors dotted his body, stimulating his nerves. His brain, underneath it all, was active, unharmed. Raven-black hair, buzzed short months prior, grew during his slumber, and was now long enough that it began to curl over his olive skin. Deep brown eyes darted around beneath pale lids, until all of a sudden, they shot open.

Chapter 1

Patch Collins

H omesickness doesnt serve reason. It makes no logical sense to miss a country that abused and deceived and destroyed you; still, I missed America. I missed it deep within my bone marrow. Sometimes I would tell myself it wasnt the place I missed, but the people. That was true as well, but it wasnt all of it. I would dream of the desert, ache for the lakes, and pine for the familiar view from my apartment window where I could see my small garden in bloom in the early spring. For the intense Arizona stillness I used to lament. For the taste of the desert air on my lips. For my rock collection displayed on a shelf in my living room, featuring treasures Id pocketed on my days out in the field, each one its own unique artifact. For a specific teacup, my grandmothers old favorite, with the ivy pattern around the rim, handed down to me by my mom.

On the slow days, when my brain wouldnt move on, I told myself I was being absurd, but my brain was a tornado, tearing up memories like trees from the ground with little care for the wreckage they would leave in their wake.

I couldnt force the feeling of homesickness to disappear more than I could pluck up the parts of America I loved and bring them here with me. I couldnt ignore everything that had taken place since the day wed left Tucson and return to the person I once wasthe girl who found solace in gardening, delight in hiking, and relief in man tras.

What am I doing here? I asked myself. I said the words out loud as I stood in the elevator, staring at the pearly octagonal buttons lined up in five rows of ten until I felt as though I were staring right through them. The lights overhead dimmed. Enough time had passed that the compartment was assumed empty. The shift pulled me out of my daze, but the ache persi sted.

I remained in the near blackness, closed my eyes, and combed my memory, working backward from the point the door had closed in front of me. You put your jacket on. Where did you want to go? In the bottom-right corner, next to the inter-building direction dial R for the roof. I pressed it. The compartment whizzed left, and then up, and then r ight.

I stepped into the snow, leaving a trail of fresh boot prints winding behind me. The ground beneath me buzzed ever so faintly as it harnessed the energy from my foots teps.

Nearly two months had passed since the day Id escaped America. Two months that somehow flew like a falcon and inched like a snail, all at once. Time doesnt always follow reason either , I reminded my self.

The billowy powder barely topped the toes of my boots. Large whirling flakes fell from the sky, salting my maroon jacket and winter hat. I pulled the zipper higher, tightening its warmth against my neck. I tipped my head to receive the snowflakes as they fell, and a few perched on my eyelids, their cool sting grounding me.

Rexx would have loved the snow. I imagined him opening his mouth, letting the flakes settle on his tongue. Then hed turn and playfully pull me toward him and kiss me. I closed my eyes and imagined him doing just that. Standing next to me, as he was last yearvibrant and full of life, his jet-black curls tumbling in front of his face. I thought of him running through the forest and hopping over downed branches as I stood at the base of a tree and watched, not aware of how much I already loved this pe rson.

I laughed, standing there in the snow by myself. It was an unexpected, fleeting moment of bliss. Then the ache in my chest deepened and I took a few more steps toward the edge.