Page 18 of Regressive

The only thing I do know is that for the first time in days I feel satisfied, physically and emotionally, which either means I’m on the right path, or headed down a very, very, wrong one.

11

Rex

The exchange takesplace in the back entrance of the Lambda fraternity house. The crates lined with bricks of weed, then covered in soft packing material. On top is an assortment of fresh fruit and vegetables. The truck I’m driving today is rusted out and looks like something that belongs on a farm, the faded Serendee logo on the side. It’s all part of the image: organic and wholesome, yet pull back a few layers, and the truth is exposed.

“Thanks, man,” Mac says, handing me the envelope of cash. “We’ve got a big party coming up this weekend. We need tofeeda lot of people.”

Mac’s a big guy—looks like he spends more time in the gym than in class—but what do I know? My father limited my education to the classes available on Serendee plus his own lectures. I guess he did give me a big dose of economics, too: supply and demand. There’s a reason he picked weed as his primary product. Our community is adjacent to a notorious party school.

“Happy to do business with you,” I say, opening the creaky, rusty door. “I think you’ll be very happy with our… produce.”

“Hey,” he calls as I step inside. “You should come by the party this weekend. Bring some friends.”

“Thanks, I’ll swing by if I have time.”

I get in the truck and crank the engine. This is how it works. Serendee grows the product, I deliver it, posing like I’m just a regular guy, and I get an invite. Then I start recruiting for more sales and yeah, marks for my dad.

He only wants the rich ones—preferably women, but he’ll take a few men. He needs able bodies to do the grunt work down at the farm or around the community. Turning out of the frat house driveway, I take a left, riding through campus. I check the time. The hand off went pretty quickly, which gives me time for another stop.

I find a spot to park on the street and head up the big set of stairs toward the University library. Inside I go straight to the bank of computers, passing clusters of students on their laptops or at tables surrounded by books. It’s not hard to fit in. I’m the right age and know how to acclimate—another one of my father’s traits that I inherited. Most of it is about confidence, justthinkingyou belong. Knowing it. I pass a group of chairs where a girl in a short skirt looks up and gives me a flirty smile. I return it, but keep walking, sliding into one of the privacy corrals. I take one more discrete look around, before getting online. I never can be sure, but I don’t think Anex has any spies in here.

I have an entire series of accounts that I only use when my father can’t see them. Although the rest of Serendee shuns electronics, the Chosen have access to pretty much whatever we want. He talks a big game about not rotting your mind with secular devices, but he knows how the world works. You can’t rule it without high-speed fiber and access to offshore banking.

I start how I always do, pulling up the file I’ve collected on my mother, Beatrice Wray. Sometimes her maiden surname, Holt. Nothing much comes up, a few articles about the beginning of Serendee. I bring up one article that I’ve read a dozen times. It’s from the University paper, talking about a group of students with an inspiring project; the development of a self-sustaining community. It’s mostly my father’s early ramblings, about fresh air and food, equality and getting back to basics. It’s long before he took on his iconic role of the leader in the community. Back when his name was Tim Wray, before he took the title of Anex.

There’s one quote from my mother. “I look forward to living in a safe, supportive community, free of the disparity and corruption of society.”

“Safe,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You married a sociopath. There’s not much safe about that.”

I flip over to the medical examiner’s report—Beatrice died at home, a blood clot exploding in her brain. I’ve skimmed this paper a hundred times, but I don’t believe it. I was fourteen when she died, and I felt the change in her long before that. I saw her nervous smile and heard the whispered arguments between her and my father. He’d started implementing the Domums. He’d changed his name. All eyes were on him—not the community as a whole. Guards were placed around the borders, and the barn was under construction. He had plans for Serendee and my mother didn’t agree with them.

How lucky for him that she died during this tension and turmoil. And, I think, looking at the bottom of the report at the medical examiner’s signature—Virginia Bloom. How lucky is it for him to have the doctor that signed this paper to now be a member and his personal healer in Serendee?

I pull up the internet browser, taking the steps to open my social media accounts. They’re under false names—as much to hide them from my father as from anyone looking into our business dealings. I like friend contacts in the secular world—the frat boys and people I meet at the club. I’ve also found my mother’s long defunct account. I can see her profile, but it’s limited. The photos are old—she’d stopped using it when they moved to Serendee, back when it was more of a campground than a commune. Just the fact she kept it up feels like an act of defiance to my father—something that makes me feel closer to her. It’s useless to me though. What I need is to get into the actual account, but I have no idea what email she used or her password.

I stare at the computer for a long time, frustration building. This is where I always hit a brick wall. How can I prove what my father did if everyone believes his lies? If the medical examiner is covering his tracks? On her page, I click on the different tabs. Photos: just old profile pictures. Information: blank. Friends: the list is short, but it pops up. I scan down the page.

A face pops out at me, and I pause, feeling a hollowing out in my stomach. The name, Camille Sanders means nothing to me, but the face… I know it. I’ve seen those lips pull back in a nervous smile and the eyes widen with fear.

That face—or a younger version of it—belongs to Imogene. My mate.

Imogene wasn’tat The Center when I stopped to look for her. Another girl sat behind the desk, gawking at me and mumbling about how she wasn’t feeling well and went home. I drive back to Serendee. In general vehicles aren’t allowed outside of the garage and work areas, but I’m too impatient to stop, pulling the old truck in front of our cottage.

I’ve just closed the front door when Silas walks out of the downstairs bathroom, holding something in his hands.

“Where is she?” I ask.

“Upstairs, but—”

I don’t wait for an answer and take the stairs two at a time. I’ve always known about Imogene’s mother—the Regressive. She’d been removed years before for her destructive thoughts and attitude. I’ve never really thought about where she is now, or the fact she knew my mother. Maybe she can tell me more about what I’m looking for.

I enter our bedroom without knocking, prepared to rouse Imogene to tell me what knows. She’s asleep. Flat on her stomach. I move to wake her when I hear, “Don’t. She needs her rest.”

I spin and see Silas in the doorway. “What gives you the right to tell me how to handle my mate?”

“The fact she stumbled in here, barely able to walk two hours ago.”

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