UnWholly

So imagine his surprise when he saw an open door, and cigarette butts strewn on the ground in front of it, like they had no better place to be.

He stepped into the rotting building. The huge space smelled of evolving mold, and paint chips littered the ground like a fall of leaves.

Then he saw it—way at the back of the warehouse was a mattress. It was dirty, shredded, probably the digs of some homeless dude. Nothing was remarkable about it. What was remarkable was the unopened carton of cigarettes sitting on the mattress.

He couldn’t believe his luck! He looked around to make sure there was no one there, then hurried to the mattress, and, stepping onto it, reached for the cigarette carton.

Even before he touched the carton, the mattress fell out beneath his feet and plunged into the pit. Although the mattress had mostly broken his fall, his right ankle hit the ground unprotected. He almost blacked out from the pain, and when his vision cleared he realized what had happened.

He was furious. His initial thought was that this was some sort of practical joke—as if his buddies from school would be looking down at him at any moment, pointing and laughing, calling him an idiot. But he quickly came to understand that this was not a joke at all. This was a trap.

But if this was a trap, why had no one come for five days?

There had been a jug of water and a box of crackers at the bottom of the pit on the day he fell in, along with a ceramic pot to relieve himself in. Whoever set the trap didn’t want him to starve, but he did not do well with the rationing. The food and water was gone in three days, and now there’s nothing left but a lousy carton of cigarettes, which he can’t smoke because there aren’t any matches. At one point he tried to eat the tobacco right out of the wrapper, figuring it might have some nutritional value, but it only made him dry-heave.

Now, with day five coming to an end, he’s convinced no one’s coming for him. No one’s going to find him until it’s too late.

Then, just before dark, he hears footsteps crunching the paint chips on the warehouse floor.

“Hey,” he tries to yell, “over here!” His voice is barely a hiss, but it’s enough. A face appears, looking down at him.

“My God, what are you doing down there? Are you okay?”

“Help . . .”

“Hold tight,” says the man. He goes away and comes back a few moments later with an aluminum ladder, which he lowers into the pit. Although the boy has no strength to even stand, some secret reserve of adrenaline fuels his climb and helps him bear the pain of putting weight on his ruined ankle. In half a minute he’s out of the pit, throwing his arms around the stranger who saved him.

The man sits him down. “Here, have something to drink,” he says and hands the boy a water bottle. The boy guzzles it like it’s the only water in the world. “How long have you been down there?”

“Five days.” He gags as he tries to swallow the water, almost throwing it up, but he manages to keep it down.

The man kneels to him, shaking his head. “AWOL Unwinds are always getting themselves into trouble. You gotta be more careful.”

The boy shakes his head. “I’m not an Unwind.”

The man grins and nods knowingly. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say. Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

Then the boy feels a sudden prick on his arm.

“Ouch!” He sees a drop of blood on his forearm, which the stranger collects with a small electronic device. “What are you doing?”

The man ignores him, looking at the readout of the device. The boy’s aunt is a diabetic, and she checks her blood sugar with something like it, but the boy suspects this device has a different purpose, although he’s not sure what that purpose is.

“Hmm,” says the man, raising an eyebrow, “it looks like you’re telling the truth. Your DNA doesn’t match any of the kids in the AWOL Unwind database.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re a Juvey-cop!” He’s relieved, because a Juvey-cop is safe. A Juvey-cop will take him home to his parents, who must be worried sick.

“Well . . . I was a Juvey-cop,” the man says, “but I’m no longer in that line of work.” Then he holds out his hand to shake. “The name’s Nelson. And you are?”

“Be

“Could you call my parents?” Be

The faint smile never leaves Nelson’s face. “Oh, I don’t think that will be happening today.”

Be

“I can’t let you go now that you’ve seen me.” Then Nelson grabs him roughly, squeezing his arm, poking his side, and putting a dirty hand in Be

“No!” Be

Nelson laughs. “Hurt you? I wouldn’t think of it. The better your condition, the more you’ll be worth to me.”

“My parents have money. They’ll pay you.”

“I don’t do ransoms,” he tells him, “but I’ll tell you what—I like your eyes, they’re very expressive. And because I like your eyes, I’ll give you a fighting chance.” Nelson points to the entrance. “If you can get to the front door before I tranq you, I’ll let you go. Hell, I’ll even give you a ten-second head start.” He hauls Be

Be

“One!”

His ankle throbs, but he ignores it. His lungs ache, but he doesn’t care. He knows this is life and death. The pain is only temporary.

“Two!”

Paint chips crush beneath his feet like eggshells.

“Three!”

Water sloshes in his belly, making it ache even worse, but he doesn’t let it slow him down.

“Four!”

The door to the warehouse is open wide. The twilight spilling through the door is as glorious as the bright light of a midday sun.

“Five!”

A few yards to go—he’s almost there!

“Six-seven-eight-nine-ten!”

Even before he realizes he’s been cheated, the tranq dart hits him right in the back of his neck, delivering a full dose directly into his brain stem. His legs buckle beneath him, and suddenly that door that seemed so close might as well be a million miles away. His eyes cross, his vision blurs, and he smells musty toxicity as the side of his head hits the ground. He fights to keep conscious, while above him looms the shadow of Nelson, a dark ghost in a fading field of vision. . . . And the moment before he loses consciousness, he hears Nelson say:

“I really do like your eyes. I like them much more than the ones I have now.”

12 • Nelson

J. T. Nelson knows he’ll never get rich selling careless kids to black market harvesters. Even back when his catches were legitimate, there was no real money in it—but then it didn’t matter. When he was a Juvey-cop, he was willing to accept a steady salary, health benefits, and the promise of a pension. He had been more than satisfied with his place in life, maintaining order and bringing AWOLs to justice. But all that changed on the day the Akron AWOL took him out with his own tranq gun. Nearly a year later, he still can’t get the image of Co