The Deep

Part 2

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I thought the the first drop was heavy, but this… Well, this you gotta see for yourself. I’m at a loss for words. All I can say is we had our suspicions. The truth is even more terrifying.

-Operator [Redacted]

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Thomas, wringing the water from his shirt, noticed Trey’s change immediately. He followed his gaze—and froze. Shock settled across his face.

With a growing sense of dread, I turned slowly, following the boys’ fixed stares.

That’s when I saw him. Sock-clad feet. An unruly beard. The wild, hollow-eyed look of someone who’d been running for weeks. But it wasn’t until my eyes found the gun in his hand that the full weight of the moment slammed into me.

I shot to my feet. Trey was there in an instant, stepping in front of me, his arm thrown out like a shield. My heart thundered.

He had been wrong. The tent hadn’t been made by someone from town.

The man pressed a filthy finger to his lips, then swept his hand through the air in a sharp warning before glancing over his shoulder.

And then I heard it. A laugh—deep, raspy, unmistakable—echoing from the opposite bank, bouncing off the trees. I knew that laugh. There was only one person in town who sounded like that. Darrius Brannon. The most feared Flock corporal in the district.

​​Brannon had a reputation. He’d made damn sure everyone knew just how much he hated being stationed in our little backwoods town. He called it a punishment post—said it was a waste of his vast “potential.” We’d all heard him during his drunken rants in the square, slurring threats and grievances loud enough to carry down the whole block.

And when his anger needed somewhere to land, he didn’t hesitate. More than a few townsfolk had felt it firsthand. The lucky ones ended up on Bentley’s mother’s table—stitched up with broken ribs or cracked jaws. The unlucky ones? Well, there were whispers. Hunting accidents, they called them. People still talked about the man who was shot in the back a few years ago on Brannon’s watch. Seems the wildlife wasn’t the only thing to be hunted out in the woods. Though the rest of the hunting party had come back unscathed, their complete refusal to say anything once so ever about the incident seemed to say everything.

The Magistrate called it an accident before the blood had even dried. But I’d heard Bentley’s mother say once in a fit of rage that the wound didn’t fit someone shot from a distance. But she had quickly redacted the statement. Saying such things could be dangerous. Even in the privacy of your own home.

My gaze immediately shot to Thomas. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides, shaking with the effort to keep them still. The muscle in his jaw twitched, a tell I knew too well. I didn’t blame him. That man—the one who had been shot in the back—had been Thomas’s father. And ever since, Brannon had made it his personal mission to make Thomas’s life hell.

The faint crunch of footsteps echoed in the distance, followed by muffled voices.

“We’ve got to go,” Trey whispered, his voice barely audible over the rushing water. The urgency in his tone snapped Thomas from his frozen state, and I saw him tense, his body shifting as though ready to act.

It hit me then—the sick realization that in my shock, I had completely forgotten about Bentley and Addison. The silence behind us was deafening. Trey and Thomas must have felt the same because we all glanced at each other before looking behind us.

When I didn’t spot them right away, my stomach dropped. But then I felt Trey’s hand press to the small of my back. He pointed, and my heart jolted. There, several feet downstream, Bentley and Addison were crouched beneath the roots of a tree, trying to remain unseen. Even from here, I could see their trembling forms.

I turned quickly, expecting the man to still be there, but the spot where he had stood was empty. He was gone.

Thomas immediately began signaling with his hands. Over the years, we had developed a silent code for moments like this, when words were too risky. He gestured for them to move further downstream and meet us at the creek near Flickinger Hill. The girls nodded, and, staying close to the edge and in the shadows of the roots, they started making their way down stream.

Trey grabbed his shirt, and we began making our way carefully across the rocks when Brennan’s voice rang out from the opposite bank.

“Water’s been low,” he said in a gruff voice. “Much easier to cross The Deep this time of year. Think they’re more likely to risk it at night though.”

POW!

We all instinctively ducked, the sharp sound of the gunshot striking fear into me. I clasped my hands tightly over my mouth, desperately trying to keep from screaming. A few yards away on the bank above us, the tree’s side splintered where the bullet had struck the bark.

“Damn squirrels,” Brennan muttered.

My breath came in heavy gasps behind my hand. I felt Trey’s hand on the small of my back, steadying me, and Thomas lightly tugged my arm, urging me forward. We began moving again—quietly, carefully.

“You shouldn’t shoot over there,” a tired male voice said. Darrius chuckled darkly in response.

“Why? ‘Fraid of another accident?” There was a brief silence. Whoever Brennan had for company didn’t seem to find him amusing.

“I think it’s…” the voice started again, then trailed off.

That’s when I knew. We’d been caught.

We turned slowly to see Brennan’s companion standing at the edge of the opposite bank, peering down at us. The gold mechanical iris that all Flock members had whirred quietly and I knew it had locked it’s sights on us. His beard framed lips were agape in surprise. Roger Plectus.

He was new—had only been in town a few months. I’d seen him around before. By the way his mouth pressed into a hard line every time Darrius spoke, I could tell he had a deep distaste for the man.

“What? What is it?” Brennan called from across the bank. Roger turned, his mouth floundering for words, but it was too late. A hand shot out, shoving him aside. Brennan came into view, his gaze and his gun now trained on us.

“Go,” Trey whispered, gently pushing us forward.

The shot that rang out through the air felt almost surreal. Despite having heard it once before, it didn’t register at first. This time, I didn’t see where it landed. I spun around so suddenly I almost lost my footing and slipped into the water.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Roger shouted, shoving the gun up and away from us.

“Let’s go,” I hissed under my breath, turning to leave. But no one followed me.

Confused, I spun back around. That’s when I saw it—the horror-stricken look on Thomas’s face.

“I’ve seen that kid before,” Darrius muttered, his voice distant. “Must’ve been on the wanted posters.”

Brennan’s glare was fixed on us, and it was clear from his expression—he knew exactly who Thomas was. Roger, who had still been trying to deflect the gun away from Brennan, looked over his shoulder at us. When his eyes locked on Thomas, he froze, his hands falling limply to his sides.

“He’s the hunter’s boy. The one from a few years ago,” Darrius said, his voice distant now. It was as if he too realized there was no way Brennan didn’t know exactly who Thomas was.

My hands flew to Thomas, searching frantically for a wound, the one I feared might be there. But when I touched him... there was nothing.

I felt Thomas’s hands on my wrists. Gentle. So gentle, even for him. And cold. His hands were ice cold. Slowly, I looked up at him. His blue eyes were fighting back tears.

“He stepped in the way.” Thomas’s voice was a strained rasp, barely a whisper.

“What?” His words didn’t make sense. And that look on his face—was that… guilt? His mouth opened again, but nothing came out as his gaze flickered behind me. I pulled away from him, the realization slowly sinking in.

“No.” The word was a strangled gasp. I whirled around, searching for Trey. My eyes met his just as the blood seeping through the balled-up shirt at his chest began dripping onto the stone below.

“He stepped in the way.” Thomas’s voice was dazed, barely a whisper behind me. “He stepped in the way.”

“Trey!” The cry ripped from my chest as he collapsed into my arms, and we both sank to the ground.

Blood. So much blood. Soaking through the shirt. Staining it red. Sliding down his sides, pooling on the rock beneath us. My hands shook violently.

A horrible, rasping sound came from Trey. With each desperate rise and fall of his chest, blood seemed to pool more. His bloodied hand gripped mine, his fingers trembling, as if trying to hold on.

His lips moved, but the words came out as broken gasps.

“He stepped in the way.”

“I don’t know what to do.” The words spilled out, ragged and desperate. “Help.” The word choked from me, barely audible, but I forced it out again, louder, more frantic: “Help.”

Someone above us cursed, and through my tear-blurred vision, I saw the two men staring down at us. Roger was pacing, but Brennan looked like he couldn’t care less. I glared at them both.

“Help!” It came out as a demand—angry, full of hate. Roger froze. He looked at me, and I wanted to rip that look off his face. Then he turned on Brennan, his brows raising in mild surprise.

“Do you have any idea who that boy is?” Roger shouted.

“Merchant’s kid, so what?” Brennan sniffed, wiping sweat from his temple.

“That’s Bane’s boy. The merchants love him. They all know him by name.”

Brennan shrugged. I glared at them, my teeth bared. How could they talk like this while Trey was dying?! Trey!

Then it hit me—the silence. I couldn’t hear his gasping anymore. Panic seized me, and I looked down at Trey. His chest wasn’t moving. The ragged breaths had stopped. His eyes were vacant in a way I’d never seen before.

“This might be enough for them to revolt. Then where will we be?” Roger kept talking, oblivious to everything.

That was when I knew. Trey was gone. A horrible, guttural scream hollowed out my ears—so raw, so desperate—that it swallowed the world around me. Then some distant part of me registered the sound was coming from me.

“Shut up, girl!” Brennan shouted, his voice dripping with annoyance. He sighed, clearly irritated. “Let’s just waste them all and say it was a Degenerate. Reports have said there was one spotted a few weeks ago not far from here anyways.”

Then the gun fired again.

My heart stopped. My entire body went rigid. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the pain—expecting the sharp, fiery agony of a bullet tearing through flesh. But it never came.

Confusion crept in as I sat there, breathless, realizing the shot hadn’t hit me. I opened my eyes, still trembling, and saw Brennan’s face twisted in a look of confusion—before he collapsed. Dead.

I turned my head slowly, disbelief crashing over me. There, hidden among the foliage a few yards away, stood the degenerate man. His cold gray eyes locked onto mine. And before I could even process what was happening, Roger’s bullet went through his head.

Not even a week had passed before they sent in the Crisis Manager. I’d only ever seen Kingston Pratt on television. There, he was intimidating. But in person—he was terrifying. Gray eyes so smokey they almost glowed. Greased black hair. A tailored black suit. I knew things had to be bad if he showed up. If any of the reports on him were to be believed, Pratt only dealt with crises Global Genesis deemed high priority.

Even with the spin the reports put on it—painting us like poor, unfortunate kids who got caught in a Degenerate shootout—Roger’s fears came true. The merchants revolted. That’s what my friends told me, anyway. The few times I allowed them to see me.

It wasn’t just what happened that pushed people over the edge. It was who it happened to. They’d stayed quiet after the hunting accident. Let it go. But not this time. Not after Trey. The death of a kid just hit differently. Everyone on that side of the tracks knew him. He belonged to them. He was one of theirs.

And me—I was his. Maybe that’s what’s kept me from getting out of that bed. His words wouldn’t stop playing in my head.

“I feel the same. Like I said, nothing’s changed.”

Thomas was right. Trey stepped in front of him. But he’d also stepped in front of me. Even back then, I knew there was some part of me that would never reconcile with that.

Sleep was fleeting. I’d only doze off when my body was completely exhausted and wake no more than an hour later. Sometimes when I slept, I dreamt of absolutely nothing. Other times, I was haunted by nightmares so viscous my mother would come running, hearing my screams from the other room.

Being awake wasn’t much better. I spent most of my time staring at a spot on the wall trying to think my way out of that horrible day. And coming up short. Because Trey was already gone. And any brilliant plan I might have come up with was too late.

When the curfew was enacted, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when my mother woke me to tell me Kingston Pratt had shown up at our door. He’d walked into my room moments later, the only color on him his red alligator shoes. I hadn't let myself look at them too long. They were the color of blood, and all I could think about was the way it had spilled down the sides of Trey’s body.

After the usual protocols—introductions, a scan of my arm, a prick to my finger—he’d sat down in a chair provided by my mother. My parents had wanted to sit in, but one look from Pratt shut that down before they could even finish the sentence. The black-suited agents flanking the door had been overkill. My parents would never have dared interrupt a government official interrogation. I suppose I should have been scared. But honestly, I couldn’t care less.

Pratt spoke calmly, jotting notes on a single pad of paper. He impressed upon me the importance of recounting every detail. So I did. I told him everything. I didn’t bother censoring a thing. Maybe it was reckless. But I was angry. And honestly? I just didn’t care anymore what happened because of it.

To my surprise, when I finished, he thanked me—politely. He asked a few follow-up questions. Then had me recount the entire story three more times. When he was finally done, he gave me a toothy, practiced smile.

“Rest assured, all will be righted,” he said, his voice surprisingly pleasant. Then he stood and left, taking his guards with him, without another word.

That night, an announcement was scheduled for the town square. Mandatory attendance. For the first time all week, I got out of bed on my own. Curiosity dragged me there. I wanted to see how exactly Pratt intended to “right” things.

I should’ve known. That crocodile smile of his was just a mask—hiding something far more terrifying.

After the announcement, I felt… better. Lighter somehow. Though every now and then, a strange longing would creep in. For something. Or someone? Or I got the sneaking suspicion I had forgotten something important.

I didn’t realize anything was wrong until months later—after the dust had settled, after life resumed in that eerie, hollow way it does when no one talks about what really happened. Because no one remembered what happened.

That’s when I found the diary I’d hidden beneath the floorboards of my room. And that’s when I remembered. All the things, the people, that had been erased.

Nobody remembers Trey. Ask anyone in town, and they’ll frown, shake their heads, maybe mutter that you must be confused. I even asked his father. Asked him if he remembered his son.

He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I never had a son.”

From what I can gather, they erased our memories that night in the square—rewrote the story, replaced the truth. My guess? They used the Genesis Cards. Modified the data. Reprogrammed the mind.

I tried for years to get Bailey, Thomas, and Addison to remember. Eventually, I stopped trying. Though sometimes, Thomas looks at me. Not the way he used to—full of longing—but with something heavier.

Then his brows tighten, and he shakes his head like he’s trying to shake off a dream he can't quite remember.

I don’t know why I remember and they don’t. I’ve read the diary pages a hundred times trying to figure it out. Took me a while to figure out that maybe its because they don’t want to remember. Maybe it hurts too much.

But the signs are there. If you know how to see them. A slight tremor in the hand. That too-long pause before answering. The distance in their eyes. Whatever they did to us—it wasn’t flawless.

We never went back into the woods. Never returned to The Deep. Ask anyone why, and they’ll just frown. Shake their heads again. But their hands tremble. Because the body remembers. Even when the mind doesn’t.

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