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He glanced at his watch. “I guess we have time,” Travis said. He was in no hurry to show up at LAHS, and they really didn’t have far to travel. It was a short five-minute drive to the school from where he lived, a hop, skip and jump from one side of the town to the other even on a busy day. His school was just off the corner of Canyon and Diamond roads. He could have walked there if he really wanted to—not that he would have, but he assumed his dad wanted to do the whole bonding thing, probably out of guilt from the previous night’s discussion.

“I’ll have a Jitter Java,” his dad said, pressing a crisp ten-dollar bill into Travis’s hand.

“And if that’s not up there?” Travis asked.

Scott lifted and dropped his hands. “Then get the Latte Bean.”

“Hey, you think you could have parked a bit further away?” Travis mocked him, noting that he could have pulled up in any one of the eight empty spaces right in front of the shop; instead, he chose to come to a halt on the farthest side of the parking lot.

Travis leaped out of the truck and meandered over to the store, passing its A-frame blackboard sign with items scribbled colorfully in white, green and red, showing that day’s pickings.

The Daily Grind had an unusual menu—the names changed monthly—however, it was the same coffee. Mac must have thought it was funny to confuse the locals by pretending to rotate the coffee choices; most just played along with it. Travis would just ask for the same thing, whether it was on the board or not. This always got a rise out of Mac.

The shrill of a bell announced his entrance to the café. As the door closed behind him he caught a waft of the fresh coffee being served up. He had to admit the Daily Grind sold a mean cup of brew, though for his mother’s sake, he kept that to himself.

Mac was busy tending to customers behind the counter, frothing up milk and masterfully twirling bottles of caramel as if he fancied himself as a cocktail bartender. A line of young and old were queuing up and the usual crunching of newspapers could be heard as seniors caught up on daily gossip, only stopping for a second to see who had come in.

Mac had seen him enter. His eyes widened and a grin went from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.

“Ah, Evel Knievel, how did you wrangle your way out of that one?” he inquired, handing a coffee cup to one of the regulars.

“I told them I was running an errand for you,” Travis answered

“Wise ass.”

Travis winked.

As he waited for his order, the local news came on the overhead flat-screen TV; images of a teen boy and girl were displayed. They had reportedly gone missing a few evenings ago. The police had no leads, and were asking for anyone who knew anything to report it. Disappearances had been on the increase. Even Mac had stuck up a few flyers in his front window, something Travis really never imagined him giving two hoots about, though it was probably done to make him look more sympathetic—nothing drew in the crowds like sympathy, Travis thought. Travis recognized the girl. She was a senior from LAHS, and he had seen her a few times with his brother’s friends.

“They’ll probably turn up in some sleazy motel,” Mac remarked, sliding over his order.

“Yeah,” Travis said as he clutched the steaming Styrofoam cups and turned to head out, pausing only briefly to pour some milk into the coffees.

As he stirred the steaming drinks, he squinted his eyes, trying to make out to whom his father was speaking. Scott was out of his vehicle facing a large man who had his back to Travis. A black Shelby GT 500 with two silver stripes over the top was parked beside them, its exhaust filling the air with ash smoke. He could make out the silhouette of two people in the rear through its darkly tinted windows, yet couldn’t recognize them. Sitting in the front seat with the driver’s window rolled fully down was a girl with dark straight hair. Her arm hung out the window, and she tapped her fingers against the side of the door. Her long strands of hair draped across her face, hiding it from view. As Travis finished up and stepped out of the shop, heading in the direction of the vehicles, he noticed her glance over, scanning him from head to toe. As they locked eyes, he noted how unusual her eyes were—they caught him off guard. There was something disarming to them, an intensity, a deep blue, much like that of a husky. They were distracting and yet hypnotic. As he got closer, the girl gave the horn a jab and the man speaking to Scott spun around, shot Travis a glance before squeezing Scotts arm, and then got into the car. Travis noticed the girl steal one last look out the corner of her eye, before the window slid up and the car rolled off.

Travis handed the coffee to his dad and they took off.

“Who was that?” Travis asked, giving a slight nod in the direction of the vehicle that was disappearing into the distance ahead of them.

“Jack Hallman,” Scott replied. “You know, the guy who runs The Black Hole?”

“Yeah, I thought he looked familiar,” Travis answered. Jack Hallman was considered the town eccentric by most. He kept to himself mainly, running a quirky, military surplus store on the west side. It was apparently chock full of nuclear test equipment that has been discarded.

“Trying to sell you a can of plutonium, was he?” Travis chuckled to himself before taking a swig of his coffee.

Scott glanced at him, shook his head and fixed his stare back on the road.

“Who were the others?” he asked curiously, clasping his hands around his cup and watching the steam swirl upwards.

“They’re his sister’s kin … yeah, I think that’s what he said, and they’re visiting from out of state.” Scott cast a sideways glance at Travis. “Why?”

“Ah, nothing really, I just hadn’t seen them around the town, they certainly don’t go to LAHS.” He feigned disinterest, staring out the window, pondering again the intensity he spotted in the eyes of the girl.

He flicked on the radio and leaned back, resting his feet on the dash. “… It’s another beautiful day in Los Alamos. I’m Art Logan, coming to you from the town—where discoveries are made—and this is 105.2 Jolt Radio: your daily jolt of the unexplained,” the voice hollered before music kicked in.

Los Alamos High School stood out like a sore thumb; it was hard to miss from the road with its cream and chocolate high-rise brick. If it wasn’t for the short stone sign on the west side and the dark green letters, LAHS HILLTOPPERS, emblazoned across the other side, a person could easily mistake it for an old crumbling down penitentiary. Travis wasn’t sure what gave him the creeps the most, the look of the place or how it made him feel each time he pulled up in front of it. Maybe it was a bit of both.

“You’d think there would be another high school to go to in this town,” he blurted out.

“Travis, you can’t be serious, LAHS has been …”

Travis tuned out.

He had heard it countless times, enough that he could mouth the words verbatim
… academically recognized, visited by presidents, won
eight-five
state championships and is one of the best high schools in America ….
His father was beginning to sound like an infomercial.

Travis rolled his eyes.

“Wait!” shouted Travis, startling Scott in mid-sentence and nearly causing him to lose control of the car
.
“… And let me guess, if you join today, we’ll even throw in for free a pair of super-duper nail clippers.” Travis yawned.

Scott shook his head. “You kids … don’t know a good thing when it’s staring you in the face.”

Yeah, you forgot the rampant drug use, and constant pressure to perform, yeah,
real good,
Travis told himself.

The truck ground to a halt. Hordes of kids were milling around outside, leaning against walls. Others exited buses, quickly dispersing and forming their groups.

Everyone lived on top of each other in this town and with only one high school it meant kids knew each other well—probably too well. It also meant that it suffered from its fair share of cliques and stereotypical baboons, like the jocks in LAHS were the track and soccer players. Then you had the academic whiz kids, the withdrawn emos, the over-the-top queen bees who thought the sun shone out there backsides. And then there were the in-betweens, the ones who never really quite fit into any crowd.

“You think you can swing by the store this evening? I’ve got to cover Mom’s shift and I could use a ride home,” Travis asked before slipping one leg out the truck.

Scott huffed.

Travis could hear the reluctance in his voice. “Forget it, I’ll walk.”

Scott gave in. “Look, just be ready. I have an important errand to run and I can’t be late,” he answered.

“Maybe we could pick up the bike, too?” He knew he was pushing his luck but it was worth a shot.

“Are you kidding?”

Travis shrugged and strolled off towards the building, dodging the throngs of kids.

Chapter Three

Scott made his way through the routine access stop at the entrance area. Security measures had been increased after a recent leak of classified information. One of the local LANL workers took heat for it after the discovery. The entire plant had been on edge ever since, and it was clear they weren’t taking it lightly, beefing up security with more guards patrolling in black camouflage gear and M-16 machine guns. Whereby you could normally flash your pass and drive in, the protective force officers were now in the habit of doing random vehicle inspections in and out of the Lab, and they must have loved his truck, as they would stop him on the way out without fail and do a search. On any other ordinary day this wouldn’t have been a problem—except today wouldn’t be any ordinary day.

Parking in his assigned spot between an ocean of cars, Scott stepped out of the Ford and glanced at the familiar sight of tired-eyed workers entering the main glass building while others emerged, passing them in almost a zombie state. The Lab operated around the clock, with shift changes occurring every hour. Scott had never dealt with shifts and his job description couldn’t be found in the HR booklet. No, his job carried the highest level of security. He practically lived there, they made sure of that.

Inside, workers fanned out in all directions. Between the entrance and the main security desk was a secondary checkpoint, where you were automatically scanned like at airport terminals. On the surface security looked like any other restricted facility. Bags were checked, badges had to be worn at all times above the hip and everyone had to be authorized to gain access to restricted areas within the facility. The whole place had the feel of a beehive, and it operated just like a hive. Each worker asked no questions, operated only in their segment, and was only privy to information essential to their field of expertise. Everything was on a need-to-know basis. That’s the way the company liked it. Scott often wondered if they all knew what was really going on. Who they were really working for?

He certainly never knew, at least up until the day they spotted his potential, his success and his achievements with the Genome Project.

“Move ahead,” a voice commanded.

Scott stepped through the doorway scanner, pausing for a moment, until the brawny security guard signaled he was clear. Today his destination was different. His time usually was split between the Bioscience division, located in the lab where all the research was done. And then there was the other division—and it was from that other place his presence had been requested. There were days he wished he hadn’t been successful. He scurried down a series of hallways and bends in the corridor, observing at every turn his reflection in the black surveillance domes that monitored his movement. His feet clattered against the ground as he passed through a series of elaborate doors, each heavily guarded by men who were stoic and soulless. He eventually turned a final corner and approached the elevator.

He pressed his hand against the glass palm reader, and a band of blue shimmering light swept back and forth beneath it, causing the steel elevator doors to give way.

As he stepped inside, he mentally cursed the day he ever set foot in this place. The doors sealed together behind him. There were no buttons, locks or swipe devices inside as this had only one option and it chose it for you. As he began to descend, he considered how primitive the security measures were up until that point—how such technology used to impress him, and yet, it was nothing more than child’s play compared to what lay ahead.

* * * * *

The hustle and bustle in the halls was deafening, Travis mused, before jerking his head sideways to avoid the soccer ball hurtling back and forth between a pair of testosterone-fueled jocks. It was like trying to slash your way through dense jungle foliage as students filled up the hallways, retrieving books from open lockers and rehashing the previous weekend’s conquests. They swapped stories as if comparing medals, each seemingly trying to one up each other with adventures of forest parties, getting off with boyfriends, girlfriends and the usual idiotic behavior. It was the same old crap—a real freak show, Travis told himself.

Twisting the combination lock and taking in the same sickening smell of the worst place on earth, he was greeted from behind by a familiar voice.