Бентли Литтл - The Disappearance

How had this happened? Joan could not seem to wrap her mind around it. Had Kara been a plant all along? Was she the one who had reported Joan’s whereabouts to Father? Or had she been recruited because she was Joan’s roommate?

It was possible that she’d been kidnapped at the same time Joan had been, subjected to brainwashing indoctrination once she’d been brought to the Home, and that was the scenario Joan chose to believe.

Anything else was too depressing and demoralizing to contemplate.

His hand on Kara’s shoulder, Father strode between the haphazardly arranged furniture until he was standing directly before her. He was taller than Joan remembered and, as much as she hated to admit it, there was a powerful aura about him, a charisma he exuded that was only intensified by proximity. He smiled at her, but the smile was sharp and dangerous, not warm and welcoming. “It is good to have you back,” he said. He spoke in English. For Kara’s benefit, no doubt. “I am glad you have returned to us.”

Joan wasn’t sure how to respond. She wanted to announce loudly that she hadn’t returned , she’d been kidnapped , but while she was angry enough to confront him with the truth, doing so might make her situation worse. She was all alone here, at their mercy, and perhaps it would be smarter right now to lie low.

So she said nothing.

Father smiled, holding his arms wide as though to give her a hug, though neither he nor she made any effort to move closer to the other. “We have always known you would come back to us, and it is a blessing that you are here again. You have experienced the horrors of life Outside, away from the Home, and your inevitable return has brought a new member to our growing family.” He put an arm around Kara’s shoulder, squeezing.

She couldn’t sit still for this. She wouldn’t.

“I have seen your joyous future and know why you have come back.” He paused. “You are to give me a son.”

Joan shook her head.

“Ruth—”

“My name is Joan now.”

Father’s face hardened. “ Ruth. I forgive you for leaving the Home. It was not your fault and you are back now, so I—”

“Where are my parents?”

There was stunned silence in the room. She was not supposed to interrupt Father while he was speaking. She knew that, and she’d done it on purpose, to show that she would not be intimidated. But Father’s expression was one of rage and hate, and she could tell that he was about to yell at her. Before he could utter a word, she asked the question again: “Where are my parents?” Her eyes met his defiantly.

“You will never see your parents again.”

The words were whispered fiercely, not shouted, were meant to serve as a threat, but her heart leapt with joy as she heard them. Her parents were safe . If they had been captured, Father would have told her so, would have bragged about it. If anything, he would have used them as leverage, would probably have had them here for her to see. But instead he offered only this vague threat, and inwardly she rejoiced. She didn’t have to worry about them being hurt or retaliated against, didn’t have to figure out how to help them escape. They were free. She could concentrate on herself and getting out of here as quickly as possible, in any way she could.

Father must have realized that it made him seem weak to be so upset by something she said. She was a nobody. He was Chosen. He smiled at her with newly regained equilibrium. “The Lord our God has instructed us to be fruitful and multiply, and that is why I have created this haven. So we may follow His wishes and do exactly that. The Home is not the Home unless it is ever filled with the voices of new Children.” He smiled at Joan, but there was a hint of a threat in it. “Wouldn’t you like a child of your own?”

“Not with you.”

“ Only with me!” he roared.

She glared at him. “Don’t you dare touch me,” she spat out. “I wouldn’t have a child with you if you were the last person on earth.”

The stunned silence of a few moments previous was nothing compared to the cessation of sound that suddenly descended upon the room. No one spoke, no one dared breathe, and for several shocked seconds there was utter quiet. No one had ever talked back to Father before, no one had ever addressed him with such disrespect, and the fear among the spectators was palpable. None of them knew what Father would do.

Joan was afraid, too, but she was also angry. Not just angry. Furious . Furious at the way she had been brought here, furious at the way she’d been raised, furious at the way the people here were treated and, perhaps most of all, furious at what had been done to her mother. Boldly, she stared back at him, fists clenched, chin held high.

Father exploded. He lashed out and struck Joan across the face, not with an open palm but with a fist. The force slammed her head sideways, and an eruption of pain engulfed her senses. For several seconds she could neither see nor hear. Then blurred vision returned, along with a dull roaring that came from inside her head and muffled all outside sound. She felt wetness on her cheeks, and for a brief, disorienting moment thought his hand had been covered with water when he hit her. Then she realized that the wetness was blood.

A punch to the stomach dropped her to the floor, where she curled onto her side, gasping for breath. Through her tears, she peered up at Kara, but her roommate studiously avoided looking at her, concentrating her gaze on the far wall.

“You will have my child,” Father snarled, and this time he spoke in the Language so Kara couldn’t understand. “I will take you again and again and again and again until you deliver to me the son that was promised.”

Joan searched the faces above her, the faces of the people Father had gathered to watch, looking for support, looking for sympathy, but she saw only uninterested stares and the vacant equanimity of true believers. She would receive no aid or help here.

“Remove her,” Father ordered, and strong hands grabbed her arms, yanking her up. It was still hard to breathe, though the wild agony of a few moments before had settled into a pulsing throb in her head. She closed her eyes against the pain and felt herself being dragged away, out of the room, though she could not tell by whom. At first she tried passive resistance, letting them pull her, but the pressure of the fingers digging into her arms became too much, and she was forced to support herself, stumbling on rubbery feet in whatever direction they led.

She was shoved into a room, where she fell forward, collapsing onto the hard wooden floor. Not a word was spoken, and the only sounds she heard were the slamming of the door followed by the click of the lock. She lay there, unmoving, grateful for the respite. After Father’s assault and the rough treatment of her escorts, lying unmolested on the floor felt like being in a comfortable bed. She turned her head to the side, closing her eyes. The coolness of the wood felt soothing against her face. Gradually, her tears went away and her breathing returned to normal. The pain subsided, though her left cheek and the area around her left eye felt puffy and swollen.

What was she going to do now? Joan wondered.

What was going to be done to her?

She didn’t even want to think about that.

She sat up slowly, looking around. Where was she? The Home must have changed a lot in her absence, or she had forgotten or blocked out much of what she’d known about the place, or perhaps the life she had lived here had been so proscribed that huge areas had been off-limits, because this was another room that seemed completely unfamiliar to her. The shape of the room was odd, almost circular, though there were still four recognizable corners, blunted as they might be. The curved, windowless walls, entirely free of adornment or decoration, were made of a different material than she had seen in the rest of the Home: not wood, not concrete, but a tan spongy-looking substance that resembled foam rubber. Illumination came from a series of small slitlike skylights overhead.