The House of Grey- Volume 3 (5 page)

Relief engulfed Monson. Someone was having some fun. Well, he was not going to hang around for it; they couldn’t mess with him if he wasn’t in the room. He gathered himself and walked determinedly towards the door.

The door was locked.

“Very clever,” called Monson. “I get it. I’ve learned my lesson. Come out already.”

No answer came.

Starting to get angry, he looked for some means of escape just then the TVs mysteriously cut off, as if a sudden surge had seared their insides. Snow-like static materialized on the screens. The effect was eerie. Monson raised his eyes to one on the far wall just in time to see words appearing letter by letter.

Listen to me please

OK, now he was officially freaked out.

The screens went black again. The room was silent. Monson had had enough and ran to the door, fully intending to kick it down. 

No…please stop…listen…you need to listen.

The voice stopped him dead in his tracks. It was not coming from the speakers, nor was it coming from the TVs. It sounded like it was coming from…himself.

Wait…that didn’t make any sense…

All the flat screens abruptly flared to life, displaying what looked to be footage from a security camera. Monson saw…himself, standing in the middle of the weight room.

He was right. Someone was messing with him. And that someone was going to get a beating that
-

Unexpectedly, the Monson on the screen looked up, directly into the camera. Something did not seem right.  Was this a recording?  The actual Monson stepped closer to the TV.  All at once he shrank back, tripping over the dropped dumbbell. He sat, staring at the face of the on-screen Monson.  It was completely…normal. Totally devoid of scars. He scrambled off the floor and searched the room for the security camera that his on-screen counterpart was staring at. He glanced at several of the big screens, trying to orient himself to the image.  Based on the camera angle, he determined where the camera should be and scanned the wall for a mounted camera.

Only there was no such camera.
What am I looking at?

He studied the TV next to where the camera should have been.

A camera zoomed in on the face of the on-screen Monson. He smiled as he parted his lips to speak.

Suddenly Monson’s head was filled with raging and screaming, and he shuddered, starting to fall when
-

“Grey! Are you all right?”

An arm caught him and gently lowered him to the ground. Monson felt as if a ten-ton truck had just hit him. He opened a bleary eye and peered at his savior.

The Diamond?

Damion Peterson scrutinized Monson with a concerned expression on his face.  Monson’s face reflected his own confusion.

“What…what are you doing here?” His voice sounded hoarse, like he had never used it before.

“Here. Drink.” Damion offered his water bottle.

Monson drank deeply from the bottle, aware of the crackle of contorting plastic. Trying to consume the water faster than his mouth and throat would let him, he choked and bent over, gasping for air..

“Slow down there, Monson.” Damion patted him on the back. “The bottle isn’t going anywhere.”

“Thanks,” came Monson’s reply. “For some reason I’m really thirsty.” He remained hunched over for another minute and felt better after several deep breaths.

Damion smiled. “You found it. I wondered if you would.”

Monson gestured around him. “What is this place exactly?’

“This is my private weight room.”

It was absolutely amazing to Monson that Damion was able to say this with a straight face.

“Wow,” Monson reached for the water bottle and took another swig. “They sure do treat you right, don’t they? It sure must be nice to be ‘The Diamond.’”

Damion slumped.

“Please don’t call me that. I hate that nickname.”

Damion Peterson doesn’t like his nickname
? Monson thought.  He marveled at the revelation.  

Damion continued. “And to be honest, this room isn’t something that comes with being ‘The Diamond
.’
It’s actually the
Horum Vir
’s. I’ve just been using it because the main one sucks a fat one.”

He gave Monson a guilty look and a sheepish smile. Monson returned the smile.

“So you’ve been using my weight room?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s why you gave me the paper and were so secretive about it?”

“Pretty much. Most people don’t know about it. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Monson studied him for a moment. “You know, I don’t care if you use it, Damion.”

Damion’s smile grew. “I figured you wouldn’t.”

He helped Monson to his feet and they made their way to the juice bar at the far side of the room. The juice mechanism sprang to life at the touch, and just as before, produced glasses of juice from its inner workings. Monson’s was again mango, this time with a hint of lime. Damion’s juice was red with a strong scent of strawberries. They sat down at the counter and drank in silence. Monson’s gaze turned upwards towards the closest plasma screen, which had come back to life.

He suddenly shifted his eyes away from the screen as his own face popped into his mind. Creepy.

Monson searched around for the slightest oddity, but everything seemed totally normal. No disembodied voice or spooky smooth-skinned incarnations of himself. For the briefest of moments Monson thought that maybe Damion was playing a trick on him; perhaps the video and voice were part of some elaborate prank.  He pushed this thought away. If Damion was playing a trick on him, why help afterwards? He would not, of course; there would be no point. 

“You know, you’re not really what I expected.”

Damion answered with surprise. “How do you mean?”

“You’re really…I don’t know…nice.” It was the only word Monson could think of.

Damion sighed. “You told me that once before, you know.”

“I did?” said Monson. “Really?”

“Yes,” replied Damion, “though, you were a lot less…ya know….broken then”

“Ohhh…ouch,” said Monson, waving his hand as if it stung. “That one hurt,
Mr. Diamond
.”

Damion gave an appreciative chuckle, but turned away slightly as his expression turned serious, almost sorrowful.

“Monson?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. You deserved better than the hand you were dealt.”

Monson raised an eyebrow.

Damion laughed as he glanced at Monson out of the corner of his eye. “You and that eyebrow of yours. I can always tell when you’re confused.”

Damion knew him well enough to read his expressions? Yep, it was official. Monson had no idea what was going on.

“Sorry, Damion, but I don’t really understand what’s happening.”

Damion shook his head slowly. “So, you really did lose your memory. I figured you had.”

Monson gaped. “What did you just say?”

“Your memory
-
you lost it right?” Damion asked the question calmly, like it was an everyday thing.

“You know about my memory loss?”

Damion gave him a guilty expression. “I know a lot more than most. A lot more than anyone in my position should.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t expect that you do.” Damion answered. “If you did, we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not important. Let me say this. We were friends. Short-lived, but friends nonetheless.”

“Was this before or after the Bridge?”

“Before, but after the competition.”

“We became friends after I beat you?”

“Well…sort during the time you were beating me.”

“How did we of all people become friends?”

Damion shrugged. “It was either you or Derek Dayton, and I can’t stand that guy.”

Monson chuckled.

“Let me ask you this, Monson. How much can you remember about that day at Baroty Bridge, the past year, the rest of your life? Just between you and me. Has anything come back to you?”

Monson did his best to answer. “Bits and pieces mostly. Though I guess I shouldn’t complain. More and more comes back to me every day.”

“So you truly have no idea what happened to all those people or why you were there that day? Do you remember where you grew up? ”

The truth was that Monson tried not to ask himself any of those questions
-
even the less dangerous ones. His dreams painted a gruesome picture of death and blood, hooded men, stacks of dead bodies, and other sights he could not even begin to understand. But the worst were the screams; they were so close and so real, like they were right on top of him. The screams made Monson question everything he knew
-
most of all, why he survived when no one else did. Not his grandfather, no one. Deep down beneath the layers of sarcasm and faked confidence, he questioned and pondered his own part in the happenings of Baroty Bridge. He did not know what he would find if he dug too much.

Monson stopped his musing as he looked at Damion’s face, Damion’s  expression was hungry and nervous. 

“You know, I knew long before that idiot Dean Dayton told the whole student body about you were the only survivor of the bridge incident.” Damion spoke in the same calm tone, though this time it held a hint of sorrow. “After I heard, I tracked you down to that hospital in Portland. This was about a week after you woke up. I was relieved that you were alive, but then I found out you weren’t allowed to see anyone but family. Monson, I’m sorry about your grandfather. I know how much he meant to you…even if you don’t at this point.”

Monson nodded. Damion continued.

“I didn’t find out about your memory loss until about mid-July. I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything. I was just wondering why they weren’t releasing your name to the public or even saying that you had survived. I figured that they wanted to give you time to recover before the government agencies were on you like lice. This disaster has been the biggest ordeal since that close call with China two years ago. They still don’t know who did it or why. They’re also saying that the weapon that was used is like nothing they’ve ever seen
-
that it’s so advanced, it shouldn’t even exist. The police and FBI are baffled and to make matters worse, the only names that keep popping up are yours and your grandfather’s.”

Monson’s shock gave way to amazement. Answers, someone was finally giving him real answers to his questions. Monson stared at Damion, desperate for more information. Monson didn’t even think to ask how Damion could possibly know all this.
“So, if my grandfather and I are the only connection they currently have to work with, and I’m the only one not buried somewhere in the Pacific, why haven’t I heard anything until now?”

Damion laughed. Monson did not understand why, and tried to keep his already-blooming scowl from becoming more prevalent. .

Damion attempted to regain his composure. “Sorry about that, Monson. It’s just that I keep forgetting that you probably don’t know any of this.”

“Know any of what?”

“The reason why no one has been able to touch you.”

Monson waved a hand as if to tell Damion to proceed.

“Every federal law enforcement agency was
-
and probably still is
-
trying to gain access to you. From what my sources say, they were literally ready to kick in your door when they found out you had woken up in the hospital.”

The questions just kept piling up. First among them, why does Damion Peterson have “sources?”

“So why didn’t they?” asked Monson, baffled. “My only family died on that bridge. There wasn’t anyone to stop them, and if it’s a matter of national security, who could have kept them away?”

“I think you’re forgetting someone.” Damion tapped the side of his head as if to encourage him to think.

Monson wearily propped an elbow on the steel counter. “I have no idea. There isn’t anyone who cares
-
”

He stopped mid-sentence as the smile of a chubby, but unbelievably cute woman entered his mind.

Molly.

Damion, apparently reading his expression, continued his explanation. “A really scary lawyer lady said that you couldn’t remember anything and that if anyone tried to bother you she would personally…oh, what exactly did she say…rewire their undercarriage.”

Damion considered the statement. “I think that’s a direct quote.”

“Molly said what!” exclaimed Monson.

“I know, right?” Damion said in disbelief. “Suffice it to say, she kept everyone away from you.”

Molly’s goofy giggle came to Monson’s mind and he felt the corners of his eyes start to moisten. “Silly woman. She didn’t tell me.”