Бентли Литтл - The Disappearance

The words hung there. Even her parents had never spoken so bluntly, though it was a truth known by everyone in the Home, and Joan felt cold reading the question.

Rebekah reached over, grabbed the paper and tore it in half. She tore those pieces in half, then in half again, continuing to rip the paper until the scraps were so small that they could never be put together again and it was impossible to tell that anything had been written on them. Joan understood her fear—she felt some of it herself—and she nodded her approval of Rebekah’s action in order to acknowledge that, but she smiled confidently. “When do we start cooking?” she asked.

Joan was not sure she’d ever been in the Kitchen. She had definitely never worked in here, and she was surprised both by the size of the prep area and by the number of women involved. One woman’s sole job was to start the fire in the wood-burning stove and keep it lit, and Joan was afraid she would be assigned such a focused and specific duty as well, so she was grateful when Rebekah announced to everyone present that Joan was to be her helper and that she would be teaching Joan the ropes.

Rebekah apparently had high seniority in the kitchen, and no one questioned or even commented upon the assignment. That was good. She was in charge of actually cooking the eggs, of blending together the ingredients prepared by the others, and that gave them a much better opportunity for sneaking the mushrooms into the food than they would have had at a different station.

Food preparation in the Home’s kitchen was like a well-oiled machine. It had been done the same way, using the same recipes, for decades, and ordinarily any deviation from protocol would have been instantly noticed. But Joan and Rebekah had worked out a plan ahead of time and had practiced it in the living room: just before the scrambled eggs were done, the older woman would move into position, blocking her from view, and Joan would sprinkle the finely diced mushrooms into the food. The only question was whether heating the mushrooms would diminish their efficacy, and they would have to wait for the meal to be consumed before they learned the answer.

Mark would be in the Dining Room with the others and, like them, he would not eat anything.

If all went well, the Residents would be knocked out quickly and at approximately the same time, allowing the three of them to make their escape. Or try. After they left the Dining Room, she had no idea what would happen. They might be stopped before they got anywhere near the outside. There were doors that could be locked, Residents who could be patrolling the hallways or guarding the exits, and other variables that could not possibly be predicted.

But they had to attempt it.

Joan could see through the serving window opening onto the Dining Room that Residents were arriving. Meals were always served precisely on the hour and Residents were expected to be seated and ready to eat when the food was taken to the tables. So diners did not trickle in. They all came at the same time, and within two minutes the place was filled.

Tamar and Mary, the two women in charge of juicing the fruits, began pouring beverages into cups, while the Children chosen to serve came up to the window with trays and started taking the drinks out to the waiting Residents.

The Children!

Joan had forgotten about them. The ones who were integrated would be eating here with the other Residents, but those with severe mental and physical handicaps ate separately, in a different room at a different time, so they would not be affected by the eggs with the mushrooms. They would still be awake and conscious.

She saw in her mind the small man with the big head and the horrible dumb grin. The thought of running into him in an otherwise empty hallway made her shiver.

It couldn’t be helped, though. And even if any of the Children were to be wandering around, they would have no clue what was happening. They would not be aware that the three of them were escaping. It would be easy to slip by them.

Rebekah touched her back, getting her attention, and Joan knew that it was time to put her plan into action. Following the older woman’s lead, Joan moved directly in front of the stove, picking up the spatula with which she was supposed to scoop the eggs onto plates. Rebekah had disguised the powdery minced mushrooms by placing them into a glass jar identical to those that housed the herbs used for flavoring various dishes, and she handed Joan the open jar, moving into place behind her so as to block from view the fact that she was dumping the entire contents of the container into the eggs.

Rebekah’s hand was sweaty when she handed off the jar, and when Joan hazarded a look at her face, the woman seemed pale and frightened. But she shot Joan an encouraging smile, and as soon as Joan was hidden from the rest of the women, she poured in the finely chopped mushrooms, stirred and started plating.

They’d been told that sixty-six people were in the Dining Room for breakfast, and though Joan didn’t know how many Residents and Penitents were in the Home altogether, the tables seemed full. The only thing that worried her was the fact that more people ate supper than breakfast, so there were likely to be men and women still out and about. Nevertheless, the majority of the people were here, and of the ones remaining, most were probably in the Chapel. If the plan worked, they should still be able to get out of the Home with little or no problem.

What they would do when they got outside remained to be seen.

Run , she thought, and smiled to herself.

The first tray of plates went out.

Even if the heat of the scrambled eggs had not diluted or negated the effects of the mushrooms, Mark had asssured her that the drug would not kick in for three to five minutes. She ladled quickly, hoping he was right, because if some people started dropping or freaking out before everyone had had a chance to eat, they were screwed.

The food was going out, and she could see through the serving window that the diners were consuming it and liking it. That had been another worry, that the mushrooms would throw off the flavor, but Rebekah had promised that the taste was practically undetectable, and she’d been right. In the center of the room, not eating, was Mark. He was sipping slowly from his cup of juice, looking carefully around, making sure everyone else was eating the way they should be.

Joan finished sending out all sixty-six plates in less than a minute and a half, and though the women working in the kitchen usually started eating only after everyone else had finished with their entire meal, Rebekah had enough clout and had built up enough trust with her fellow cooks that she had convinced them to pause and have some eggs as well before sending out the apple slices and cantaloupe that came after.

Mary swallowed a big forkful, then held up her plate. “Aren’t you going to have any?” she asked Joan.

“I’m not hungry,” Joan said. She had never felt so tense in her life, and she kept looking from face to face among the women in the kitchen, searching for some sign that the mushrooms were having an effect. If this didn’t work—

There was a crash from the dining room, the noise of smashing plates and cups. It was accompanied by voices, but they were muttering, not shouting, and as Joan looked with the other women through the serving window, she saw Mark stand up slowly while all about him diners were falling backward, falling forward, or getting up and staggering about.

Next to her, Tamar let out a short, stifled cry, then stood in place, frozen.

Her pulse racing, Joan’s eyes met Rebekah’s across a chopping table.

It had worked.

As they walked deeper into the Home, Gary was reminded of a hive. Not only were the intersecting corridors mazelike, but the few people they saw were all so focused on their own tasks and duties that they seemed to pay no attention to the fact that the three of them were dressed in street clothes, and that Brian not only had his arm around a Homesteader’s throat but was pressing a knife against his back.