C. Adams - Version 2.0

“I’m aware. It’s a figure of speech, Reesy. I swear to God, you have zero film-history knowledge.” Emmett turned his attention back to Birdie. “As I was saying, you may not be in Kansas. But you’re certainly not in the wonderful land of Oz, either.”

“What he’s trying to tell you,” Reesy took over, “Is that you’re not in some different dimension or something. You didn’t cross over. You’re still on Earth.”

“Well, technically under it,” Emmett elaborated. “This is Pritchard’s Island. But where you are specifically at the moment, is a very top secret underground debriefing facility.”

“Debriefing for what?” Birdie asked.

Emmett and Reesy shared a glance, and Reesy looked back at Birdie with a slightly raised brow, “So you’re not… completely freaked that you’re in an underground facility, a few states south of where you died?”

“You know so much about me,” Birdie countered. “You should know that I’m not really surprised by much of anything. And you should also know that I start to get aggravated when I have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on,” the impatience was starting to show through.

“Okay,” Reesy sighed. “But we need to start from the beginning, or it won’t make much sense.”

“None of it does, so far,” Birdie interjected with a hint of aggravation. “So please, go on,” she narrowed her eyes.

“You’re part of a group of second-generation subjects, labeled The Proprietors.”

It was Birdie’s turn to raise an inquisitive brow, “Like, owners of property?”

“In a way,” Reesy replied.

“So… what, I die and inherit some real estate?”

Emmett and Reesy let out a small laugh. “You don’t really inherit anything. It’s already a part of you,” she explained.

“What’s already a part of me?”

“Your gift,” Reesy told her.

“What gift? I mean seriously, do I need to ask the right questions to get a straight answer around here?” she spat, incredulously.

“I wish the gift came equipped with some manners,” Emmett said slightly under his breath, as he turned back toward the counter.

Reesy let out a sigh as she shook her head and brushed off his comment, turning back to Birdie, “Well, it’s obvious you have the ability to come back to life.”

“So, what… I’m a vampire? I’m immortal?”

“Not immortal, honey,” Emmett chimed in. “Immortals can’t die. You died… and then you came back.”

“Then, I’m a zombie?”

“You don’t crave the taste of human flesh, do you?” Reesy asked, sarcastically. “If you do, let me know now, ’cause I’m outta here.” Emmett let out a giggle.

“This isn’t funny,” Birdie scoffed.

“It’s a little funny,” Reesy countered.

“No, you’re not a zombie,” Emmett told her, coming back to the table. “You’re not a werewolf and you don’t sparkle in the sunlight. You’re a Proprietor. It’s not something you’ve heard of in a book, or saw on the big screen, because it’s not fiction; it’s real. There’s not a whole lot of you, but you’re not alone.”

“Wait,” Birdie shook her head, as if to clear it. “You’re telling me there are more people like me?”

“Well, we did say ‘group’. Yes,” Emmett explained. “There are something like four-hundred of us reported in the United States.”

“Us? You mean, you…?”

“Yeah, honey,” he replied, “We’re Proprietors, too.”

“First generation,” Reesy supplied.

“Not many of us left, sadly enough,” Emmett added.

“I don’t understand,” Birdie squinted. “I thought we couldn’t die- I mean, I thought we came back to life.”

“We can, normally,” Reesy told her. “Come back, that is. But we’ll discuss that later. Right now, I just need for you to trust us.”

“Trust you for what?”

“To help you to recover, for now. Then we’ll show you your new home.”

“And then,” Emmett interjected, “We’ll introduce you to someone whose job it is to explain what’s going on. Okay?”

Birdie’s eyes shifted around in front of her before she gave a small nod. “Guess I really don’t have that much of a choice, do I?” she thought.

“This is the living-quarters area,” Reesy told Birdie as she slowly led her down the corridor. Birdie’s strength was still barely present, but she was able to walk at a fairly slow pace without too much trouble.

The hall was cramped, both in height and width for walking. Birdie surveyed the metal walls surrounding them as they walked. “This is like a submarine,” she let out a light laugh.

“Actually, that’s exactly what it is,” Reesy told her. “A recycled, out of commission military submarine.”

“How were you able to obtain this? Wouldn’t it be difficult, even impossible for you to get this without them noticing and trying to hunt you down?”

“They gave it to us,” Reesy glanced at her. Birdie looked at her with a raised brow. “Who do you think is responsible for this whole thing, in the first place?” she asked, looking back up the hall again. Birdie let that mull over in her mind, remaining silent. “Here’s your room,” Reesy said, grabbing onto the steel handle and pulling it. The door opened with a clinking sound, squeaking as it turned on its hinges.

Birdie looked inside, noting how tiny the space was. Only room for the cot on one wall, a small table with drawers, beside it, garnished with a simple lamp, and on the far wall (which consequently wasn’t very far from the cot), a small chest of drawers she assumed was for clothing.

“This is, um… cozy,” Birdie said, narrowing her eyes as she entered. “Good thing I’m not claustrophobic.” Reesy noted that the statement almost sounded sarcastic.

“Yeah,” Reesy let out a small laugh. “Luckily, we haven’t had that problem come up, so far.”

Birdie turned around to face her, “Am I meant to stay here, now?” she asked, a bit confused. “I mean, underground in this thing… forever? Is this what my life is going to be?”

“No, honey,” Reesy shook her head, with an apologetic look on her face. “This is your rehabilitation. This is where you get your strength back, and learn what you need to do in order to go and live your new life. Think of it like witness protection; a new identity and a new home. But this is the police station where you get your orders.”

“Yeah. I get it. I was a cop, remember?” he smiled a bit.

“Still are,” Reesy tilted her head. “Gotta have something to do when you’re back up top, right?”

“Right,” Birdie seemed a bit confused. But she was tired, and it had been a long day, and in all honesty she didn’t really want to get into another discussion. “Um,” she shook her head as if to clear it, “Do you… go up there when you’re done working down here for the day?”

“Yeah,” she replied, looking away for a moment before meeting her eyes again.

“How many of us are there? I mean, up there?”

“On Pritchard’s Island, there are two hundred and eighty-seven of us. Well, eighty-eight, once you’re top-side,” she gave a small smile.

“That many?” she raised her brows.

“It’ll make more sense once you get your briefing tomorrow.”

“Do you have a family?” she asked quickly, though it seemed Reesy was about to turn and leave. “I mean, I know how it works in witness protection. You don’t get to see your friends and family…”

“More than that,” Reesy sighed, resigning to having to explain, though she didn’t want to be the one to do it. She crossed the small space from threshold to dresser, and hopped up to sit on its top. Birdie instinctively took a seat on the cot across from her. “Your friends and family,” she started, “They think you’re dead. To them, you died on that street; shot by a punk kid named Artie Finkle, whom, by the way, was apprehended.” She stalled for a moment, gauging Birdie’s reaction. “They attended your funeral, Birdie,” she continued, “And they’re moving on. Not only can you not see them, but you can never see them again. You can never contact them; not even subtly. You can’t leave Pritchard’s Island. Not unless you have the highest authority’s permission and have someone to accompany you. It’s not safe for you. It’s not safe for any of us if someone were to find out about us; about this place. Do you understand?”