Oculi

By Sasha McCallum

Four years after escaping imprisonment as a research subject, Bea lives a hidden life, using a stolen identity. With only a few years to her memory and one remarkable talent, she discovers a girl who escaped similar circumstances. Using their extrasensory abilities and with the help of an actress who does not share their pasts, they search for answers.
This is a sequel to Said the Spider. Written from a different perspective and following Lark and Saffron through the eyes of their new friend, as they change their names and travel, first to New York, and later to a town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, where they face truth and loss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sasha McCallum
• Release date: Apr 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463420904

Sasha McCallum

"Talent and success are perpendicular to each other." Sergei Dovlatov

Book preview

Oculi

By Sasha McCallum

Copyright © 2019 Sasha McCallum

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this ebook, please encourage your friends to download a copy from their favorite authorized dealer. Thank you for your support.

Front Note: This book is a sequel and will make less sense without reading Said the Spider first. Said the Spider can be downloaded free here.

The story is fiction, towns, incidents and characters are the product of the writer's imagination.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Other titles

Sample of The Reader & the Writer

Prologue

I think some people, no matter the sector of life they come from, harbor inside a secret belief they have not lived their lives well, that they could do more to heal the wounds of the world, or cause just a tiny bit more happiness to flourish.

The person I came to know and love as Carmel, held this—a seed of discontent that turned her love story into a journey of loss. When it came to a just cause, and while many people would have walked away, she stood with us and compromised everything she had, everything she was.

Sifting through what remained of their belongings, I discovered a memory card, containing a journal and the story of how she met the spider and they fell in love. A piece of her old life she couldn't bring herself to discard, and I couldn't bring myself to ignore. Carmel saw herself as self-absorbed, indulgent, but I hadn't met many people with as generous a spirit.

I don't have her humor or her humanity, but I take the reins in her absence, and write this in honor of her sacrifice. A continuation of our story, to the best of my recall.

Chapter One

A Hidden Life

Scientific experimentation on human subjects has occurred through all history. A large number of programs were uncovered in the twentieth-century alone, involving surgical, chemical, radiation, infectious and mind-control experiments, performed without consent and directly funded by the US government, military and associated agencies. Often under the pretext of medical treatment, prisoners, pregnant women, babies, elderly, physically-disabled and mentally-ill patients have been used for tests that frequently involved long-term damage or death. Exposure meant public outrage, which led to institutions and policies being inserted into the medical and scientific communities to prevent such atrocities from happening again.

The field of bioethics was born.

The legal implications meant individuals involved in human experimentation went deep underground and could, under no circumstances, be linked to an organization in power. Such individuals will always exist and, given enough time, will attract other, like-minded individuals—people who believe pain for a few is an acceptable price for their version of a greater good.

I was used by a group of these individuals.

In movies and mass media you get bad guys with principles—I don't hurt women or children, I kill painlessly, the people I hurt deserve it—always one thing or another. The boilerplate myth of the sociopath with the heart of gold.

The real bad guys, and there are plenty of them, don't have boundaries.

It is a difficult task for a person who knows so little to introduce themselves. I can say what I was, and part of how it came to be that way.

There were many things I didn't know about myself, facts others took for granted. I didn't know the details of my birth, who my parents were, I remembered no childhood, no puberty, no relationship; no love. A forced judgment placed me in my late twenties, roughly European heritage. My five regular senses were fully functional and no genetic or physical problems had presented themselves yet. By these standards I seemed normal, healthy, more so than I should, given how much of my history was unknown.

It was my extra sense, the one I had no standard to make comparisons with, which put me in the precarious position I was in.

Within my limited memories, I've had visions of occurrences in settings separate from myself. The world has a name for it—remote viewing—which is strange because I've never heard of another living soul who can do it.

Because of this talent, my memories started five years ago when I was being held and experimented on against my will. I wasn't cut up or infected wantonly; the testing done was to learn about my extrasensory ability. The goal was likely to be able to harness, recreate and profit from it.

Perhaps they envisioned a world where everyone could have my sight—if they were able to pay for it. Held prisoner with no illusions about what I was, I knew nothing of my captors and they had carte blanche to do what they wanted. I was never going to have knowledge of the outside world, let alone contact with it.

My detainers never looked at me or spoke to me like I was an equal; they gave me abrupt, expressionless orders. If I broke a rule or disobeyed a task, my punishment involved food or sleep deprivation. I was allowed no life, no warmth. My memories were wiped at intervals and I was medicated to keep me in a functional state.

Prolonged existence in these conditions is unethical, immoral—it effects the body and mind on a level impossible for most people to comprehend. How much of my life I spent with them and how many times they may have wiped my memory was anyone's guess.

This was not my life anymore. Like anyone with a will to live and an opportunity, I broke free and ran.

I entered the world as less than human, as a construct with no place in society and no understanding of it.

It took a while, but my new identity fell into my lap like a gift and I accepted it with gratitude.

I met Bea Redding not long after my escape when I was living on the streets of Boston. We were similar ages, both transient, we even looked alike, though her lifestyle had aged her far beyond her twenty-four years. We shared the same blond hair, blue eyes, and an identical five foot six inch height. Similar bone structure and dimples.

Maybe it was these simple things that drew her to me.

We would sit together occasionally at one of the homeless haunts and she would drivel about her childhood, her heroin-haze making her poetic in her discourse. A gentle spirit, she had been beaten down by life and was destined to die an addict on the streets. She was the closest I had to a friend back then, but in my reduced position, there was little I could do for her. Her problems were not through any fault of her upbringing, all connection to which she kept confined to pleasant memory. She told me about her parents several times, even gave me an address in New York and made me promise to find them. She was too ashamed of the person she'd become to confront her family again.

I listened, practiced my sight on her. With her, I realized my ability stretched beyond what I'd understood during my captivity. I saw her childhood myself, saw the happy girl she'd been, saw the loving parents who had adopted her.

Saw where it started to go wrong with her college boyfriend.

When she overdosed as a Jane Doe, strong emotions surfaced, and keeping my promise to her became very important. I scraped together what money I could and paid for a bus ticket. It led me down the unexpected path to my new life. I think of it as everything falling into place rather than taking advantage of an unfortunate situation. I didn't set out to take her identity, it was just so easy and I needed it so badly.

Her mother hadn't heard from her for five years and wasn't entirely compos mentis when I arrived at her house in St Luke's, NY two months after the overdose, looking and smelling exactly like the street person I was. My intention wasn't to tell her her daughter was dead, it was only to do as Bea had asked and make sure she was okay, perhaps to tell her I knew her lovely daughter.

The widowed Mrs. Amanda Redding was sixty two, and suffering from both cancer and mild dementia. She pulled me into the house and kept her arms around me for a good ten minutes, blubbering uncontrollably. It didn't take long for me to realize I'd been mistaken for Bea herself and make the decision to go with it. It was selfish yes, and also unselfish. She needed a daughter and I needed an identity, and neither let the other down. I nursed her through the worst of her illness and she looked at me with love in her eyes. When she died a year later, I felt I'd lost a mother.

She left me her house, her stocks in CVS Health and what savings she had in her bank.

More importantly, I now had a birth certificate, a history; I had a pathway forward. I used it, I forged ahead.

I was now Bea Redding. I had a high school diploma, two years of college education, and a clean criminal history. I owned a house and paid my taxes. Since I was a common shareholder, I was only required at board meetings occasionally, or to sign papers, but it provided a legitimate, steady, and generous income.

As Bea became secure in her new environment, I built a second, more elusive identity behind her.

My alter ego, Laura Brams, used her sight to make a powerful ally in the underbelly of NYC. With his help, I accumulated a wealth of options should Bea ever be discovered as a fraud. I perched in a tireless position of paranoia, not just that regular authorities might single me out, but much worse—that my original persecutors would recapture and thrust me back into imprisonment as a research subject. I set up hotspots at several locations containing cash, identification, weapons and disguises, if the need to bug-out ever arose. I learned self-defense, became proficient with knives and guns, equipped the house with security best described as overkill, and never let my guard down.

Not a single soul could claim friendship with Bea Redding. She lived in zombie-land, without direction, almost without emotion.

For a while, I tried to find out who my oppressors were, but each time I thought I had something, it dead-ended. I gave up, the disappointment and fear too much.

My escape took place four years ago, but I was never going to belong. What was done to me was never acknowledged; no one was held accountable and I would always pay the toll for something beyond my control.

I lived alongside regular people, but in another world. My helplessness was the price of freedom.

I was alone, with no one to blame and no one who understood. My life was fear first, and later, anger. It didn't matter if I could hide what I was or for how long, these two emotions built the foundation of my personality, always bubbling under the surface, always with the potential to explode should the pressure become too great. For me, that pressure concealed a need for closure, for justice, for the emergence of a real me.

This odious truth didn't fully crystalize until I saw her. The spider. Dormant parts of my brain woke up and, if I drew one conclusion from my first vision of her, it was that everything was about to change.

*

It was a Wednesday. The second day of October. My lunch consisted of a low fat yogurt, an apple and a muesli bar, eaten at twelve on the dot and out of necessity not enjoyment. My days were rigorously scheduled, the routine offering the illusion of security—any diversion could be dangerous for a person always rubbing up against the outside of the box. This Wednesday a deviation was necessary; I was expected in the city to pick something up.

At one pm I checked every security camera, locked the house and made the two hour drive from St Luke's to lower Manhattan. Only one stop along the way was required, a public restroom situated in a busy park where I could safely don my guise as Laura Brams without being noticed.

It was a hot day for October; the heavy make-up, prosthetics and scratchy clothing I wore when meeting contacts like Rhys Morgan, made humidity more uncomfortable. The lobby of 319 Jarvis provided some relief as I stepped through the revolving doors and spotted him slouched in an arm chair. He rose, picked up the shoulder bag beside him, and met me near the south wall with a nod.

Is everything there? I asked, as he placed the bag on the floor between us.

What you asked for. You've got the drives to install the right software?

I nodded without meeting his eyes, instead staring toward the far wall where a painting of a black splotch was placed. The world seemed more ridiculous than usual when I saw pieces of art like this.

What's your connection with Perry?

He had never asked a question like that before. I looked at him. He was a small man, my height with a slight built and casual but expensive, designer clothing. It was his accent that singled him out more than anything; a thick British accent that I, with my lack of worldly experience, could not pin down to any specific location. His face was too whiskery and too inquisitive. He was aware he shouldn't have asked, and in response to my silence, he came close. I didn't back away but held my breath to prevent tasting his.

I don't have any problem with you personally, he said quietly. I'm curious is all. I'm told to get you whatever you need, and no messing. I don't get it. What makes you so—

His voice had taken on an ominous undertone, meaning it was time to shut it down. I'd weighed my options with this guy a long time ago, he was weak and just wanted to test me. Stopping him mid-sentence, I grabbed his arm and twisted it behind him, pressing his chest against the wall. A few short, swift moves with zero resistance. It was unusually satisfying; I didn't get the chance to use my training often. Making a spectacle and showing my true strength was to be avoided.

That day was different, my patience was thin; anger was not being tempered by fear. The boiling point was apt given what was about to happen.

He hissed as I twisted his wrist further out. Not a fighting hiss, a hiss of pain. I hooked my chin over his shoulder and spoke in his ear.

Aren't you being paid enough?

Money isn't the—

I jerked his arm again and he broke off with another grunt.

You shouldn't ask questions.

The revolving door opened and someone entered the lobby. I moved back but kept his arm held tight. He twisted his head toward a middle-aged woman dressed in a power suit clicking stiffly past us and grinned at her; a praiseworthy effort to trivialize the scene.

Foreplay, he said with a wink, and I caught her smirk as she headed toward the elevator doors. You've made your point. I let him go and he straightened, rubbed at his wrist, and gestured toward my feet. Why you need the ankle holster, I don't know.

Mind your business, I said sharply. I'm not a threat to you, but I could be.

We should have dinner, you and me. He grinned again.

The suggestion was highly unusual. As Laura Brams I was about as unattractive as I could get. Rhys was a clever man, if he couldn't get answers one way, he would try another. He also liked his women dominant, never mind what they looked like.

For a moment I considered what dinner with him might be like.

Then it happened, everything changed. Without warning his smiling, stubbly face blotted over with static and I took a step back, tried to blink it away, fight it off, but this one was too strong.

The static went black and… Twisted metal and trees.

A small clearing surrounded by thick pine and grey sky opened in front of me. A crashed helicopter was positioned awkwardly on the edge of a steep incline, smoke still rising from its controls.

I saw her for the first time. A thin girl with a mass of dark curls, dressed in matching trousers and shirt of plain maroon. She rummaged in the machines corpse. Two men, each with a bullet hole in their forehead, lay within the wreckage. She searched their pockets, the cockpit and the cargo bay. Several Kit Kat's and a half-empty bottle of Evian she shoved into a bag with a small stuffed bear, before pushing it inside a larger bag, where I caught a brief glimpse of cash bundles. She didn't linger; she took up a gun, backed away toward the tree line, and fired several shots straight into the fuel-tank.

When it exploded, she held her arm in front of her face protectively. The scene was so powerful I could feel the heat on my own skin. The girl didn't wait to watch the flames, she threw the gun toward them, picked up the backpack, slung it over her shoulders, and disappeared into the trees.

For the past few years I'd had my visions well under control, they rarely struck in an awkward situation, and when they did, I was able to pretend it was something normal, a migraine or vertigo. This one was different, it hit without preempt and floored me.

When I came to, I sat on one of the chairs in the lobby; Rhys must have carried me there. He bent over me, but backed off when I straightened up and glanced around.

Okay, okay, he said, and motioned impatiently at an older couple standing by with concerned expressions, she's fine, nothing to see, just a fainting spell.

I stood up, forced a smile and mumbled apologetically to illustrate his words. They wandered away.

You've been out for four minutes, he said. What just happened?

I'm narcoleptic, so what? He didn't look convinced but that wasn't my problem. I owed him nothing and it irritated me that he'd now spotted a weakness, a truth—however much it could be misconstrued by a regular observer. Next time, hey.

I picked up the bag and pushed through the revolving door, leaving him staring after me.

As I walked away and my aloneness again enveloped me, I kept the vision and what it meant pushed far back in my mind. Not until I was out of the city and safely ensconced in the house could I allow the images and cumulating thoughts and emotions to infuse