Suzanne Young - The Treatment

I take off, sliding until I get enough traction, and then I’m through the doors leading out into the main hallway. The handlers are yelling, both to me and into their walkie-talkies. I’ll never get out like this, but I refuse to let them walk me to my death. If they’re going to take me, they’re going to take me kicking and screaming. I won’t make it easy for them.

The walls are white again and I’m running as fast as my legs will carry me. I’m not sure how far behind me they are, and I don’t turn to look, afraid it will slow me down. I expect the shock of the Taser at any second, but I keep going. I’ll never stop.

I take the final turn and see the backs of several security guards. The air catches in my throat, my stomach sinking to the floor. It’s over. I’m about to scream, fight to the death, but they don’t turn to me, and then suddenly the handlers behind me stop yelling. They listen to their handsets, glancing from me to the scene up ahead. I’m confused, my adrenaline pulsing through my veins until I hear the other voices. I realize security isn’t concerned about me or the calls from my handlers because they’re talking to someone, or rather, actively trying to keep someone out of the hall.

I continue in that direction, knowing I’m walking straight into the arms of security, but hoping it’s my salvation somehow. I cast glances back at the handlers, who have paused, looking torn about what to do. One of the security guards raises his voice, repeating that he has no comment. Oh my God.

I start to jog, craning my neck around the broad-shouldered men. Another voice shouts that he will not be censored, and I recognize him. I stop next to the stairwell door, flooded with relief, overwhelming relief.

A guard steps toward him, and he comes into focus. Kellan—his dark hair, his eager eyes. “Kellan?” I say, not loud enough for him to actually hear me because my voice is still hoarse, because I’m already crying. I’m saved. The reporter won’t let me get lobotomized.

Behind Kellan there’s a cameraman filming the entire exchange, even though one of the security guards keeps pushing his lens, knocking it aside. I get on my tiptoes, lifting up my tired arms to wave them and get the reporter’s attention, when the door next to me opens with a loud click. Before I even have time to see who it is, a hand darts out and grabs my elbow, pulling me into the stairwell. The door slams shut behind me.

“HOLY CHRIST, SLOANE,” JAMES SAYS, pulling me behind him before he jams a tire iron in the metal bar of the door, securing it closed. Without another word he gathers me into a hug, pressing his lips to my forehead as we stand in the cold concrete stairwell.

I can’t even hug him back. My hands are shaky as I lift them, slowly, to touch the sleeve of his shirt and then his arm—his warm skin. I look up and study his blue eyes, his shaggy blond hair, the blond beard on his jaw. He’s the James from my memories. Is he just a memory?

“Are you real?” I ask, my voice wavering. I half-think I’ve slipped into a delusion, that I got the lobotomy and this is the resulting psychosis. But then my fingers touch the scars on James’s bicep and I know it’s him. I moan and fall into him again.

“I’m here,” James whispers, holding me so tightly, so securely. “I’m here, Sloane. I told you I’d come for you. Now”—he leans back to see me—“we have to get out of here. Your reporter friend is running a distraction, but we have to get out now . Can you run?”

I nod, wiping my face, but unable to let go of James’s arm. I’m afraid he’ll slip away, and then someone will grab me and drag me back into the white hallway. And I can’t go back. I just can’t.

“What about Dallas?” I ask. “They have her and—”

“I’ve already sent for her,” a voice says from the landing below. I look down the stairs and see Realm standing there, wearing a white jacket, his hair combed smooth. The image of it makes me so sick to my stomach that I think I might throw up. Realm as a handler. Realm as who he is.

“Once you’re out safely, Asa is going to bring Dallas down,” he says. “He gave me his keycard, and in the madness of everything, we were able to slip in unnoticed. It was a brilliant plan, if I do say so myself.” He smiles a little, but I don’t return it.

I drop James’s hand and start down the stairs, my body trembling, my face hot like it’s on fire. Realm’s expression brightens the closer I get to him. When I pause on the landing, I look him over. His scar is still jagged on his neck, just above the collar of the white jacket. His skin doesn’t look quite as pale and the circles aren’t as noticeable. I’m not sure if it’s makeup or just that handler-white suits him.

I slap him hard across the face. Tears spill onto my cheeks and my palm stings. Realm keeps his face turned for a long second, and then he slowly straightens, his eyes watering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, knowing. I lean closer.

“I don’t forgive you,” I growl. There’s a touch on my arm, startling me, and I turn to see James.

“We have to go,” he says gently, glancing at Realm sympathetically. Does James know Realm is a handler? Would he have let him come here if he did?

James’s fingers slide down to take my hand again, and he nods like he’s asking me to trust him. I do. He tugs me forward, past Realm, although I’m not done with him. Not yet. We trample down the stairs, Realm lagging behind. Just as we get to the exit door, we hear the stairwell door shake, clanging against the tire iron. They’re coming. James squeezes my hand just before we explode out of the door, and blazing sunlight temporarily blinds me. Pebbles on the pavement are cutting into the slipper socks, but I keep going, even though I have no idea where James is leading me. An alarm sounds from the building and my fear spikes. We’ll never get away. They’ll never let us.

“Over there,” Realm calls from directly behind me, pointing past my shoulder to the left. He could pass me—he’s faster—but he’s trying to protect me. On the side of the building is a small alleyway where the front of a white van is sticking out. I hear the slam of bodies against the metal door; the handlers are nearly outside. My lungs burn as I run, knowing that I’m running for my life.

There’s a parking lot half-filled with cars, but we’re heading for the alley. Just then I see the flash of a white coat next to the van and my entire body tenses up, making me a stumble a step before James rights me. The handler is pushing a wheelchair, stopping to slide open the back door of the van. A cry bursts from my lips because I’d recognize that blond hair anywhere. I watch as Asa loads Dallas into the back of the van, her body limp and uncooperative as if she’s heavily drugged. In the distance I hear the start of sirens, and I know I don’t want to stick around for the police to arrive.

Even though The Program is wrong, I’m not taking the chance the authorities won’t believe me. In the chaos, I could end up back inside the facility while they sort things out. I’m not so naive as to think The Program wouldn’t do everything possible to keep me quiet.

“You have to run faster, Sloane,” James says, gasping, looking once behind us and then renewing his speed, practically ripping me off my feet. The handlers must be closing in, and it’s as if I can feel them breathing down my neck. Dallas once said it was impossible to break someone out of The Program—they’ve tried. James told her she must be doing it wrong. I sure as hell hope he’s figured out the right way.

We round the corner and Asa is already in the front seat, the engine running. He tears off his white jacket, pulling on his seat belt and revving the engine. The back is still open, and we’re so close to being free I’m sure we’ll make it. We have to make it.