Page 16 of Good and Gone

9

John Doe

You can always tell which ones are going to be trouble. I refer to them as “the fighters.” If I say, “Oh, that one’s a fighter,” everyone knows what I mean. It makes us careful. Fighters, you have to work a little harder to break. I’m always up for a challenge, but experience has taught me not to mess around. It means you have to go full bore right out of the gate. You leave nothing to chance. Show no mercy. One mistake and it will cost you. Everything can be undone in an instant. Believe me, I learned the hard way.

I’m looking at the woman in front of me, trying to decide how to proceed. Hailey Adams is coming to, but she’s still groggy from the drugs I used. It won’t be long before she’s completely coherent, though. I need to make my move before that happens. Millions of followers across her social media platforms, and I have to ask myself:What do they see? What makes her so special?

It’s the answers to those questions I find so appealing. I know what I see—I know why I’m drawn to her, but there has to be more to her than a pretty face and a nice ass. If I’m going to believe in the future of humanity, there has to be.

I watch as she stirs, coming to consciousness. She is definitely a fighter, this one. Attractive, too, but then, they almost always are. I can see the determination in her eyes, even through the haze of the drugs. I wish I could say I admire her for it. Unfortunately, it will lead to her undoing, and she hasn’t the first clue. We haven’t said two words to one another, but I can already tell she is one of those “it’s about the principle” types. Defiant. Stubborn. Feisty. She hasn’t yet learned to harness that energy. To direct it at the right time. She doesn’t know to make it count when it matters. Otherwise, her enemies will make sure she’s the first to go.

I should know; I’m one of them.

“I suggest you stop fighting and listen to me,” I say, my voice cold and menacing. “You’re going to do exactly what I say, when I say it. Understand?”

She glares at me, but says nothing.

“Good,” I tell her. “Now, I’m going to let you sit up so you can get some water. But I want you to remember this: you fight, you die.”

I stand up and walk over to the small fridge in the corner of the room. I grab a bottle of water and bring it back to her. She takes it with shaky hands, but her eyes never leave mine.

She chugs several big gulps. That's the drugs. They make your mouth bone dry. There's no greater thirst. I had to try their cocktail once, just for the hell of it. An initiation, one of their many rituals. These people, they're big on those, always testing. Never trusting. The way it should be, I guess.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” she chokes out, slurring her words.

I laugh at her false bravado. Maybe this is what all those people see. “Oh, Hailey,” I say, and watch as she blanches at the sound of her name. “I already have. You’re mine now.”

10

Tyler

Jeannie steps right into “tornado mode,” which is what Hailey always said her mother did, whether her assistance was warranted or not. In truth, this is where my wife gets her assertiveness and her work ethic from—not that she’d ever admit it.

Jeannie calls the local hospitals, while I call the police. I suggest searching the neighborhood first, speaking with the neighbors, but Jeannie insists that Hailey’s dad canvass the neighborhood.

“Are you feeling okay?” Bob asks me. Hailey’s father is known to be the laidback type, and I get the sense he’s not nearly as concerned as he should be.

“My wife is missing,” I say. “What do you think?”

“Are we sure she’s missing?”

“Well, she’s not there, is she?” Jeannie says with exasperation. Bob grumbles something I can’t make out.

“Just a minute, Tyler,” she says, and I hear her cover the receiver.

I listen as the two of them bicker in the background. Bob is complaining about the drive. It’s thirty-five minutes one way.Not far enough,Hailey is always saying.

In the end, Jeannie gets her way. Bob agrees to drive over. Jeannie phones the area hospitals from the passenger seat. She instructs me to call 9-1-1.

I tell the operator I want to report my wife missing, and the words sound so strange, so foreign, coming out of my mouth. It’s almost like someone else speaking on my behalf. The dispatcher asks several questions before transferring me to a different department. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the process is very subdued. It’s not at all rushed like you see on television. Cops don’t show up within minutes, sirens blaring and guns blazing. In fact, it takes them an hour and a half to show up at all. And even then, it’s not like I expect. There’s just one officer instead of two, like you see in the movies. He’s a street cop, not a detective.Diaz,his badge reads. He’s only come to take my statement, which I give in less time than it took to make the actual call.

“And her car?” he asks. “It’s here?”

“It’s in the shop.”

“So she doesn’t have a vehicle.”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

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