Oculus (Oculus #1) Read online

  “It won’t change policy, Iris. If they changed the rules for you, they’d have to do it for everyone with a handicap who wanted to job train at FSS with the other prospective employees. It’s just not going to happen. Now—”

  “I refuse to accept that!” I snap, slapping my palm down hard on the countertop. “I’m not paralyzed! I’m not a vegetable! I’m blind! So what!”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Explain to me why I can’t do something—anything for The Corporation? I manage just fine. Even you have to admit that I have more awareness of my surroundings than most other visually impaired people!”

  “That’s enough! You’re blind. All blind people have heightened senses to compensate for their lack of sight. You’re no different and you telling yourself that you’re somehow special is sabotage! You’re only setting yourself up for failure.”

  “I am not living off a charity program set up by The Corp for people who are truly helpless. I’ll find something.”

  “Iris, no.”

  “I’m tired,” I mutter as I set myself in the direction of my bedroom with a gnawing feeling at the back of my mind telling me that he is right. The administrator made it clear that they simply don’t accept students with impairments of any sort. She used phrases like “not ideal for employment,” and “liability for the Efficiency Enforcement Department” and it knocked the wind from my sails. I just hope that it’s a temporary problem.

  He’s running, bounding across the land beneath his feet as if he were the wind and rain that shape it. My heart pounds in my chest as if I’m running too. As if in my dream we are one. The coarse fabric of his shirt flutters behind him. What hair isn’t clinging wetly to the nape of his neck, whips back and it amazes me just how fast he can move. For a person who can’t see, the simple act of running intrigues me so.

  I want to run with him. I want to reach out and touch him. I want to fall to the ground with him. I want to discover him in my own way, to run my fingertips over the plains, hills and valleys of his face and body. Though I know he’s merely a figment of my imagination I want to commit the scent of his skin to my memory so that I’d know him forever.

  His pace quickens and he races away. “Wait! Come back,” I call out to him feeling slightly panicked that he’d leave me. He freezes in his tracks, and slowly turns to face me, his chest heaving, I see the clearest vision of him I’ve yet to see. He’s perfectly still as he seems to stare right back at me, eyes as cool as ice. I struggle for words, unable to think clearly. He takes long easy strides, maneuvering his large frame with grace that I wouldn’t expect from someone his size. The blurred edges of his figure come closer to me. He lifts his large hands and cups my face. His palms and fingertips roam my features just as I have done my entire life. It’s how I see those close to me. It’s a sort of unspoken language, my version of eyesight, and now he’s looking with his hands, too. It’s my language and he’s speaking it.

  His skin is warm and smooth and damp with exertion. I melt into him. My pulse speeds. A craving, a need like I’ve never known blooms within me. I want to… consume him, to take him into me. I want to possess him and altogether forget the hurt that my dreams of him always spawn within me.

  I wake suddenly and focus on clearing the haze that rest has left behind. I must’ve been barely beneath the surface of sleep, dreaming of him because our scanner chimes throughout the house announcing the arrival of Dr. Wooldridge. Blearily, I catch my breath and remove my own hands from my face feeling a little embarrassed that it had been me touching my face not the running man.

  Somewhat shakily I take a deep breath and swing my feet out of bed to rest against the cool wood floor. My fingers brush against the face of my watch.

  Just past seven.

  I slept right through dinner but I didn’t feel very hungry to begin with. The only thing I have an appetite for is sleep because with it usually comes dreams of my imaginary friend.

  In the living room I can hear my father talking to Dr. Wooldridge who works alongside him in the lab, about a message that had been written in blood, Hector Benson’s blood.

  Rumors and speculation spread quickly throughout The Corporate compound so it was no shock that news of Mr. Benson’s death began making its rounds immediately. Word is that he was found in quite a state with gruesome injuries all about his body in an outbuilding equipped for torture.

  The Corp immediately pinned the murder on Dark Land savages working on behalf of The Resistance whose reputation for barbarity often precedes them but I’ve never heard of anything quite like what happened to Hector Benson. The news of it certainly has the grounds within which we safely dwell humming with anxiety.

  “So suffers all those who prey upon the innocent,” Doctor Wooldridge whispers across to my father over a stubby glass of whiskey that I silently supply from his liquor cabinet. Wooldridge requires ice with his whiskey and dad takes his neat. Always. He says good whiskey is forty hours a bottle. Why ruin it by adding ice that costs half an hour per bag? Drink the whiskey neat and save the ice for lemonade and hot days. That’s what he says, anyway.

  “That’s what it said. Some vigilante from The Resistance, no doubt about that,” he huffs noisily then tips up his glass, ice cubes clinking as he gulps his now watered down liquor.

  “And the rumors about Benson?” my father prompts.

  “Pah! Nonsense. Hector Benson was a fine man of The Corporation. I refuse to believe a word of it. Just more muck thrown by the animals. When will they understand that if they insist on sneaking about in the Dark Lands, telling vicious rumors and biting the hand that feeds then they’ll only stand to be treated worse than they already are. Animals!”

  My father sighs heavily, clearly refusing to instigate Doctor Wooldridge any further. The wedding band given by a woman whom I never knew taps against the side of his glass of neat whiskey. My only indication that he took a sip and that he’s growing tired of his guest. Though we don’t discuss it much, my father’s views on those unfortunate people living outside the safety of the compound are similar to mine. They seem misinformed, stubborn perhaps, but they are still human beings.

  “And I’ll tell you what else, I heard that The Corporation is considering taking measures to find out who exactly is responsible for this--this vile display of viciousness and it’s thirty days of cut rations for outer sectors. If they don’t like the punishment maybe they can help flush out the degenerates who did this! I’d make it sixty days of rations if it were up to me!”

  “Yes. Well—I,” my father begins only to be cut off by his colleague.

  “Those in their rags and disease ridden camps! Do they really think they’ll fair so well without The Corporation? Without The Corporation we’d all be dead. How are we to make peace with such imbeciles?”

  He has a point about The Corporation. I don’t understand The Resistance either. Surely they understand that The Corporation is our saving grace. Surely they understand that without The Corporation there would be no help for any of us. The Corporation isn’t perfect but I can’t fathom fighting back against them. What possible reason could there be to warrant such a thing? I’ve never been outside the compound. I was born and raised within guarded walls and while I feel pity for those without the luxuries that Fenra provides its employees, I also feel confused by their opposition. If only someone could get through to them and make them see that The Corporation can help them too. I doubt that they’d all be taken in as employees but a good portion of them probably could and then they’d have access to the things we have here. They would have to earn it but at least they would have that option.

  Dr. Wooldridge was quick to call them animals but I think that maybe they are just confused, misinformed. They need help not poor treatment that will only lend credence to their opinions of The Corporation.

  I can tell that Dr. Wooldridge, the loyalist that he is, isn’t truly asking the question he just tossed out but merely expounding on an opinion that he has already made very clear
and I’ve heard enough. The more I think about his remarks the more I think about the dream I just had—a dream that is still very fresh in my mind.

  Blurry as my dream-vision always is, I can tell that the running man’s shirt isn’t refined woven or knit fabric. It’s rough and serves only one purpose—protection from the elements. He’s never running within a gated compound. Limited as my dreams are, I’ve never once seen a gate or a wall or… anything. Always just him and trees and dirt and streams and grass…

  He never has a sector cuff on his wrist either. If he lived within one of the multiple compounds, how does he buy things without a sector cuff? He doesn’t. He’s an outsider, a Dark Lander and for the first time since I began dreaming of him, I feel relieved that he isn’t real. I wouldn’t wish that sort of reality on anyone. Especially not him.

  “Dad, Dr. Wooldridge, would you two like something to eat?”

  “No thank you, darling. Iris, you remember Dr. Wooldridge, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. I can smell him,” I motion my head toward the chair sitting across from my father’s chair, give an insincere smile and excuse myself to the kitchen.

  I know I shouldn’t allow myself to feel so aggravated with Dr. Wooldridge’s obvious distaste for those he considers to be beneath him. Maybe it’s the fact that often times people view me the same way.

  Somehow, I’m not good enough because I’m blind. I make people uncomfortable because they don’t quite know how to approach the blind woman whose prospects for serving The Corporation seem… slim.

  I want so badly to earn my keep with The Corp and to serve our compound in whatever way I can, but the visit to Fenra Second School only further solidifies my father’s beliefs that there is no place for me or my handicap. I’d have to live on what was available to me, my inheritance and what The Corp provides for me out of pity for my condition.

  As far as I can tell, I have no place, no purpose, no prospects and it cuts deep. My dreams are the only place where I feel truly safe and comfortable. The fact that I ache when I’m visited by my running friend doesn’t matter. I still feel safe and like I belong there in my dreams. I feel like somewhere there in my dreams with him is where my purpose resides, undiscovered.

  Hattie doesn’t say much on the way to FSS and neither do I, so we share the silence in comfortable companionship like we have so many times before. It’s one of the things I like best about her. We don’t have to talk or do anything, really, to enjoy each other. I can tell something is bothering her and she can probably sense the same in me but we choose to leave it alone. Probably a wise choice.

  “Have fun,” I whisper to her as we wait in line for the scanner at the entrance to the school.

  “Oh, yeah. Loads of fun in store today. Science aptitude exam. Wahoo,” she whispers back grimly. The line inches forward at a snails pace, scanners buzzing and announcing as students pass through the entrance.

  I smile and nod, feeling frustrated because I’d give anything to be the one taking those stupid aptitude exams that are cornerstone to the Propensity Screening. They are designed to help prospects figure out whatever professional path they’d be most suited to.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk. I just have a lot on my mind. You’ll sort this out. They’ll get you in. Maybe verbal tests or something.”

  “Yeah. Or something.”

  “Hattie. Brighton. Please step forward.”

  “Iris. Tierney. Please step forward.” The scanners drone on behind us as we walk arm in arm through the doors of the school. Scents and sounds mingle at a dizzying rate, forcing me to focus on my footing and sense of direction.

  “I’ll walk you to the office,” Hattie offers, making me feel relieved and inadequate all at once.

  “Good luck,” I call after Hattie as she hurries away, the heels of her boots clicking against the floor as she goes.

  “Ms. Tierney,” the same administrator from yesterday greets me. “How can I assist you?”

  “Ah, yes. I was hoping that I could speak with the dean today. Or maybe I could just make an appointment. A note. Something.” The woman lets out an exasperated sigh which only serves to anger me versus deter me, which is what she is aiming for, I’m sure.

  “I’m sorry but the dean is quite busy with the exams going on and—”

  “Yes. I’m sure. I just wanted to speak with him about the screening. Surely, there is something that can be done. I could—”

  “No. I thought I explained to you yesterday that FSS is not the designated school for the visually impaired. We cannot allow you to screen.”

  “I could take a verbal test,” I offer, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment as the feeling of being a beggar grows inside.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Tierney but I’m afraid there isn’t anything I can do.”

  “You can arrange a meeting with the dean,” a low voice from behind me announces authoritatively. I startle and wait for an introduction, feeling entirely more exposed than I’d like to.

  “Chief Dillon Ingram.” His breath brushes against the shell of my ear making me flinch as wisps of my hair flutter at my neck.

  “Oh. Um. Iris Tierney. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” The inappropriate undercurrents in his comments don’t escape me. I’ve heard of Dillon Ingram before and it would seem that the things I’ve heard aren’t too far off the mark.

  It’s rumored that, being the Chief of Fenra Security, he often abuses his position to do as he pleases… and to do who he pleases.

  “I’ll leave a message with the dean,” the woman at the desk amends, bringing my attention back to her.

  “Thank you.” I turn with my stick in hand and think for a moment, doing my best to recall the route back to the main entrance.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Chief Ingram says as he helps himself to my arm.

  “I’m quite capable. Thank you.” His grip on my arm tightens as he pulls me forward.

  “I don’t need your help.” I insist, again, tugging my arm from his.

  “Oh, but I think you do. I oversee all the Security Prospects. I can find a nice… position for you in my department.”

  “I—”

  “No test needed,” he whispers. “… Just the pleasure of your company.”

  I’d be lying if I said I don’t consider his crude offer for a moment or two. I could have a place. A purpose. It’s a way in but almost immediately I feel repulsed by his obvious exploitation of power and of me.

  “No. Thank. You.” I grind out my answer with as much conviction as I can muster as we come to a stop outside the entrance of the school.

  “Think about it,” he whispers again, this time with his lips just barely brushing against my earlobe. It elicits an unwelcome tingle that spreads across every inch of my skin. I hear him exhale and I’m tempted to touch his face to see if he’s wearing the smirk that I just know he is but he’s already gone.

  Before I can say anything else, he leaves me standing here, contemplating how much I’m willing to sell my self-worth to the devil in return for the chance to feel… normal.

  “Moral wounds have this peculiarity-they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.” – The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas

  I THOUGHT THAT THE DAY I lost Anna was the worst day of my life. Then the sun came up the next day. Facing the morning, knowing that I wasn’t going to see her ever again, made me want to curl back up in my blankets. With each passing moment, the reality of her loss settled upon me like an iron weight in my chest. By the time I left her gravesite behind I had accepted that she was gone, but I wasn’t ready to accept her loss. I’m still not ready. The Corporations are going to suffer for what they have taken from me. Before I can get to work though I need to lighten my load.

  To do that, I need to visit The Black Market. A roiling collection of tents, trailers and portable structures, it’
s never set up in the same place for more than a few days. Coded messages are sent out over the HAM radio network, letting prospective clients know where to find the travelling bazaar.

  The current location is set up around an old metal barn, up in the hills. As I approach I spot the security team well before they encircle me. Some of them are pretty good, almost escaping my notice. What they lack in military precision though they make up for in ordinance. One man steps out of cover onto the road, but I’ve already seen at least two more moving into position, both with high-powered rifles. The man on the path is in his twenties, with a shaved baldhead, and black bushy eyebrows that frame his brown eyes. He’s dressed in a motley homemade camouflage outfit.

  “Hello there, Good Sir! Where are you off to with such a big bundle?” His cheerful tone is offset somewhat by the large caliber handgun he’s carrying. Glancing behind me, I see people have moved into position to close the trap. Keeping my hands open, I look pointedly around, then back at the man on the path.

  “Here to trade. Got some goods.” His eyebrows rise, but otherwise he remains motionless, as if waiting for me to say more. Then his eyebrows drop and he looks thoughtful.

  “So,” he says, his body language betraying his growing discomfort. “Have you traded with us before?” Having to deal with this kind of socialized idiocy sends a pang of discomfort through me. Anna used to deal with these people, now I’m going to have to figure out a way to put them at ease. No simple thing, especially since I always seem to make people nervous.

  “Anna used to trade for us. She got sick. Died.” The man’s face falls at the news, yet his body language shows he’s still nervous. Raising my hands slowly, I pull my hood back from my face. As soon as he sees me he gives a low whistle.

  “You’re him, aren’t you? Anna’s Shadow? The one that makes The Corp puke’s bowels turn to water.” Behind me, I hear rustling as two people step out of cover. Ahead, two more step out onto the path. I shrug, not comfortable with the direction the conversation is going. I don’t like to talk about myself, especially not with a complete stranger.