Whisper (Whisper #1)
Lynette Noni
PROLOGUE
They call me “Jane Doe.”
They say it’s because I won’t tell them my real name, that they were forced to allocate me a generic ID. The name is ironic, since there’s nothing generic about me.
But they don’t know that.
They could have given me any name, but there’s a reason they chose “Jane Doe.” I hear the whispers. They think of me as little more than an unidentifiable, breathing corpse. That’s how they treat me. They prod, they poke, they badger and tweak. All of them want to coax a response from me. But their efforts are in vain.
Two years, six months, fourteen days, eleven hours and sixteen minutes. That’s how long I’ve been locked away from the world. That’s how long I’ve been pried for information, day in, day out. That’s how long I’ve been experimented on, hour after hour, week after week.
They don’t tell me much. It’s all confidential, highly classified. But they did give me the rundown when I first arrived. They prettied it up and wrapped a bow around their words, selling a dream and not the nightmare I’ve been living. They said all the right things, lulling me into a false sense of security. But it was all lies.
“Lengard is a secret government facility for extraordinary people,” they told me. “It’s for people just like you.”
I believed them. That was my mistake.
I was stupid.
Gullible.
Hopeful.
I know now that there isn’t anyone else in the world just like me.
I’m different.
I’m an anomaly.
I’m a monster.
My name is not “Jane Doe.” But that is who I’ve become. And that is who I’ll remain. It’s safest this way.
For everyone.
CHAPTER ONE
“Subject Six-Eight-Four, place your hands above your head and turn to face the wall.”
The crackling voice comes through the intercom speaker beside the door to my cell. I know I have only ten seconds to do as I’m ordered before the guards come storming in here and force me to obey. My body can’t take any more abuse after my session with Vanik today, so I quickly stand and do as I’m told.
“We’re entering the room. If you make any sudden movements, we won’t hesitate to stop you.”
I don’t acknowledge their words. There’s no need. I know the drill by now. I know that even breathing too loudly could scare them into sending a Tasered bolt of electricity into my body. It’s happened before.
The guards take their jobs seriously at Lengard, the secret government facility buried deep underground that constitutes my “home.” I’m classified as a Level Five threat. They don’t know what that means, and that makes them nervous. All they know is that I’m dangerous. They’re wrong.
But they’re also right.
The door glides open and a whoosh of air hits the back of my bare legs. The regulation clothing I wear is little more than a shapeless pillowcase with holes at the neck and shoulders, falling to just above my knees. It offers no protection, no warmth, no comfort. It is durable; it is versatile. It’s a constant reminder that there are no luxuries in life, not anymore. Not for someone like me.
“Subject Six-Eight-Four, you’re coming with us. Remain in place until we have you secured.”
I’m still facing the wall, so they don’t see my forehead crinkle with confusion.
Life at Lengard follows a strict, unchanging routine. Every day is the same. I’m woken first thing in the morning by a bowl of fiber-enriched, protein-infused, tasteless gruel being shoved through the slot at the bottom of my cell door. I have ten minutes to eat before I’m escorted to the bathroom and given five minutes. From there, I’m sent straight to Dr. Manning for my daily psych evaluation. That lasts two hours, and afterward I’m delivered to Enzo, who oversees my physical strength and endurance training for the next three hours. After that, I’m given fifteen minutes to shower and change into a fresh pillowcase uniform before I’m sent back to my cell for an hour, during which time another bland, protein-enhanced meal arrives. Following lunch, I have two hours of hell — officially referred to as “experimental therapy” — with Vanik, and if I make it out of his lab still conscious, I’m then shuffled between visiting practitioners and evaluators until they decree that I’m done for the day. That can take anywhere between two and six hours. I’m then given a nutri-shake — a drink filled with vitamins and nutrients to keep me in optimal health — and have five final minutes in the bathroom before I’m shoved back into my cell for the night.
The routine has never changed. Not once.
Until now.
My day is meant to be over. It’s nighttime; I’ve ingested my nutri-shake and I’ve visited the bathroom for the final time. I’m supposed to be locked away until morning, when it all repeats again. I have no idea why they’re deviating. But I stand still as the guards approach me from behind and reach up to grasp my arms, yanking them down to secure them in metal handcuffs behind my back.
When they turn me around, I see that the two men on either side of me are double my size. The handcuffs are unnecessary. I’m no threat to them physically. And no bindings will keep them safe from the real danger I present. Nothing can keep them safe from that.