The Outsiders Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Outsiders

  Book Details

  In Memoriam

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  THE OUTSIDERS

  BOOK ONE OF THE SECOND CHANCES TRILOGY

  L.J. LABARTHE

  Ninety-nine years after going into cryo, Matty wakes up to a world he doesn't know, with no memories of the world—or the man he loves—that he left behind. This new world is full of suspicion and darkness, humanity having moved underground in the aftermath of the mysterious Event.

  And as Matty's memories return, along with his beloved Arkady, instead of his life getting easier, he finds his new reality only getting more complicated—and more dangerous.

  The Outsiders

  Second Chances 1

  By L.J. LaBarthe

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by V.E. Duncan

  Cover designed by Aisha Akeju

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition February 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by L.J. LaBarthe

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781684311781

  Print ISBN 9781684312177

  In Memoriam

  Angie MacRae

  Vale. 1972-1917

  Rest in peace, my dear friend

  As ever, there are people to thank. Cate Ashwood for her brilliant beta'ing, friendship and support; Meredith Shayne, Claire Clarke, Chris Spud, HB, Sue Cavanagh-Lang, Hermann and the guys, Pamela D'Silva, Tracy Bailey, my brother John, my mother, my nieces Shandi and Christie and my cousin Ian for support and friendship. To my LT3 editor, V. E. Duncan; Aisha Akeju for the amazing cover art; Sam, Megan and Sasha at LT3, thank you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Awareness came on him slowly, like a fog lifting. It wasn't all at once; he felt as if he were struggling toward consciousness, floundering in the depths of a soft, comfortable darkness. Part of him wanted to stay in that darkness, but a larger part of him wanted to wake up and see where he was.

  As he became more awake, he realized with growing horror that he couldn't move. He was strapped down to something; worse than that, he couldn't breathe. Fluid filled his nose and lungs, and he opened his mouth to shout, to say something, to gasp—anything! His heart thudded against his rib cage as he fought to free himself and seek out air.

  For a brief moment, he wondered if his heart would pound itself right out of his body. The sensation of panic, of drowning, returned. He struggled, feeling as feeble and weak as a newborn kitten, as he battered helplessly against restraints he couldn't fathom.

  "He's awake!"

  The words were muffled yet still distinct. They distracted him from the rising tide of fear. So he'd been asleep? Or perhaps unconscious? He wasn't sure. He struggled again, trying to no avail to beat his hands and feet against the restraints that held him fast. He was on the verge of screaming into the fluid that covered him when he felt it slide from his head. It was as if a large cork had been removed and some of the liquid had been allowed to trickle out from where he was, draining away swiftly.

  He tried to take in deep, gulping breaths of air, praying to whomever or whatever might hopefully be responsible for the respite in his terror, for the simple yet profound gift of oxygen. A moment later, the fluid left his lungs and he sucked in air, his struggles easing as he became content to breathe, instead of trying to open his eyes.

  His whole body felt weary and limpid. Opening his eyes was a Herculean task. He managed to lift his lids a fraction, enough to squint into the far too bright light that was above him. He squeezed his eyelids closed again as soon as he could since the brightness stabbed at his eyes like incandescent ice picks. He was none the wiser for that brief glimpse of what was beyond him—fuzzy, indistinct shapes—nothing that gave him any real clue.

  "You'll be all right," said the same voice he'd heard earlier. It belonged to a man, and now he heard another, a female voice, this one German, unlike the male who was American. Who was he that he was able to recognize accents so distinctly? He had so many questions.

  "What should we do, doctor?" asked the German woman.

  "We need to drain the cryo unit then start the revival process. He's been under for a long time, so we need to go through all five physical modules."

  What the hell did that all mean?

  "Matty MacDougall, can you hear me? Just nod once. I know you're conscious, we've seen on the monitors that you have eye movement and are breathing. You were managing to fight the restraints quite impressively a few moments ago."

  What else could he do except nod? He did so, the action feeling strange, almost alien. He grunted, realizing that his muscles were as useful as wet paper, probably having atrophied over time. Why was that?

  "We have to administer a program to get you back on your feet. It's going to be painful. I'm sorry about that. Like many things, without pain, there's no gain, so while you may curse us during the process, you'll thank us later. Please be aware that everything we're doing here is for your benefit."

  He gave another nod; after all, there wasn't much he felt he could really do. He knew his name now, thanks to this American man—he was Matty MacDougall. Was he Scottish?

  "I'm just going to tell you a few things before we start. We've found that giving cryo wake-ups some light information to process, especially when they've been under for a long time, helps them have something to focus on that isn't just what they're going through in the procedure of rehabilitation. Your name is Matthew MacDougall, though you prefer to be called Matty; you're Australian; when you went into cryo, you were 36 years old and had suffered a broken bone requiring surgery in your lower left leg. You were severely injured in a deep-sea diving accident in the southern reefs off Tasmania.

  "The year is 2115. You are in the cryo rehab clinic of Dr. Johnson and Partners. I am Dr. Phillips, one of the partners here. You're one of our oldest cryo patients, having been in stasis here since 2016." The doctor stopped and stepped back. "I think that's enough talking for now. We'll begin with the treatment."

  Matty tried to shift a little, feeling uncomfortable about what that treatment might be. It wasn't just the anticipation of something the doctor had said would be painful, it was the additional flood of information about who he was and what had happened to him. Cryo—that was short for cryogenics. When he'd been alive, just under a hundred years ago, it had been an experimental thing, joked about or used as a plot device in science fiction movies and books. How the hell…?

  "Ready for module one, doctor," said the German woman.

  "Good. Commence and activate… now."

  Matty's thoughts fled from wondering about the information he'd been given to the sudden pain shooting through his whole body. The sensation of a million tiny needles stabbing into each muscle in a precise and rapidly repeated sequence gave him the thought of being beaten by a gang of very angry acupuncturists—something else
he remembered. That was good. However, the pain, that wasn't good at all, and soon, despite parched, unused tissue in his throat and mouth, he howled, screaming into the confines of the cryo unit that held him fast, shaking, writhing, trying to get away and always failing.

  As if from a very long distance away, he heard Dr. Phillips say, "Prepare module two, please. Module one has been very successful. His readings are superb." From even farther away, Matty heard the woman reply, "Yes, doctor."

  If he'd thought module one was bad, module two was a whole new level of agony. In short order, he passed out. His last waking thought before gladly surrendering to the blackness of unconsciousness was that hopefully this wouldn't take too long.

  *~*~*

  He awoke with a start, eyes opening wide, and found himself lying on his back. He wasn't in a capsule or tube full of fluid that had seemed, now he thought about it, oddly thick and viscous, like not-quite-set Jell-O. Now he lay on cool, clean sheets, with a light blanket pulled up to his chin. There was a mattress too, firm, comfortable, and he stretched, feeling the delightful sensation of muscles flexing in pleasure rather than pain.

  Taking a deep breath, Matty pushed his hands beneath himself and began to sit up. It wasn't as difficult as he had thought it might be, but it wasn't easy either, and he panted a little from exertion when he sat upright on the bed. Did he dare try walking? Perhaps not just yet, he thought, as he ran his hands down to his knees and felt the slight tremble in his fingers. He would very much like to know where he was, he'd like to know what in the hell had happened 99 years ago, and brought him to be kept alive in a cryogenic tube, suspended until he came to his own awakening. What the hell had happened to him? He wanted more information about himself, too. Beyond what he'd been told, he remembered very little about his life before being woken up that very day.

  He blinked as a dim light came on. The sound of a gentle knock on the door he hadn't noticed startled him. "Yes?" he asked, hating how frail his voice sounded.

  "I just came to check on you. The monitors showed that you'd woken up a few minutes ago." This was another female. She had a French accent.

  "Okay." Matty shuffled back on his bed until he leaned against the wall. A young woman with blonde hair in a thick braid entered, smiling at him. She carried a tray of food and wore scrubs.

  "I am Marie, one of the nurses here in the cryo units. It is very good to see you out and alive, Mr. MacDougall," she said.

  Matty shrugged, feeling self-conscious. "I don't know that I had anything to do with it. I don't really know how it all works."

  "I brought you food," Marie said. "Just simple things for now, as you adjust—soup, crackers, water, some fruit juice."

  "Right now, that sounds like heaven." Matty hadn't realized how hungry he was until he smelled the soup. He grabbed up the spoon greedily when she placed the tray on his lap and started eating without invitation. A little voice at the back of his mind said this wasn't the best of manners, but he ignored it. He was too hungry to care. What was the adage? Hunger's the best sauce. It certainly was, as the soup, a pumpkin soup thick with fresh vegetables and warm on his tongue tasted like the most incredible five star Michelin chef prepared dish in the world. "Where am I?" he asked in between mouthfuls.

  "You are in New York City," Marie said. She sat down on a chair that he hadn't noticed. "I can tell you a little about what is here. This clinic is an international one, we have citizens from all over the world here. We maintain their health and vitals while they are in cryo. Some have their cryo units programmed to awaken them on a certain date; some, like yourself, do not, relying on the patient's own body to determine when it is time to wake. You have been through a lot, Mr. MacDougall; at least you were in cryo during the Event."

  "The Event?" Matty paused eating to stare at her. "What Event?"

  "Forgive me, I spoke out of turn. You will learn about that tomorrow when you see the psychiatrist. Let me say though, that we are very glad you have woken up. I wish I could say that some of your family have survived, although we have examined the citizen files, we haven't found any of them."

  "I'm from Australia," Matty said. "I wouldn't imagine there'd be anything about my family in New York."

  "The files are international," Marie said with another warm smile. "There is a lot for you to learn. I will leave it to those better qualified than I to teach you. Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. MacDougall. Did you enjoy your soup?"

  Realizing that she wasn't going to tell him anything else, Matty nodded. "Thank you, yes, it was delicious."

  "I am glad to hear that. Now, lie down and get some more rest. You need it." Marie lifted the tray from Matty's lap and set it aside, then helped him to lie back down in the bed, pulling up the soft sheet with the blanket. "Sleep well, Mr. MacDougall."

  "Thanks," he said. He felt drowsy again, and wondered if there'd been something in the soup to put him to sleep.

  Marie picked up the tray and gave him another smile. She seemed to be all calm helpfulness and warm smiles. Despite his tiredness, Matty wasn't sure what he thought of her.

  "Goodnight," she said as she discreetly left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Matty stared at the crack of light that shone between the door and doorframe, his mind awhirl despite his desire to sleep. They might be eking out the answers to some of his questions, he thought, but they certainly weren't making those questions any less in number. So far, anytime someone told him something, he came away with new questions, and those questions bore yet further questions

  He didn't like it at all. Foreboding filled him, and he thought about sitting up and trying to stand on his own, maybe attempting to explore. Between one thought and the next, he was asleep, his ideas forgotten for the time being.

  When he woke several hours later, he stretched and wriggled his toes, enjoying being comfortable and warm. For a moment, he thought of nothing, just the pleasure he was feeling, but his worries and questions intruded back into his mind and chased away everything else.

  Matty sat up, this time realizing that it was much easier to do than it had been during the night. He was fascinated to find that he felt no discomfort, no muscle ache or pain, and wondered what exactly had been in those modules he'd had to endure. Whatever they were, whatever had been done to him, he felt as if he'd woken up from a very long sleep—which, he supposed, technically, he had—but not from a cryogenic coma of nearly a hundred years.

  He stood, stretched, raised his arms above his head then lowered them to his side. He felt just fine. He looked around the room he was in, taking in the things he hadn't noticed before. It was simply furnished—the bed, the chair, a small cabinet, a washbasin, shower, toilet, and a change of clothes. He saw the walls were white with skirting boards of rich, dark brown wood. All in all, he thought, it was a pleasant, homey sort of room. What was strange, he realized, was the lack of windows, not even a skylight to let in any kind of natural illumination.

  Matty quickly got dressed in the clothes that had been left for him, a pair of gray sweat pants, a T-shirt, with a pair of socks and runners for his feet. He walked slowly around the room, peering at the walls, looking for anything that might resemble a window. Apart from the door, there was nothing.

  He had one foot on the bed, on the verge of climbing onto it to see if he could feel a trapdoor or something in the ceiling when the door opened and a man walked in. He was dark skinned, his face impassive. The man coughed and Matty froze, his arms outstretched, as he stared at the newcomer.

  "I was wondering if you were ready to go to breakfast. It seems you are," the man said.

  "Ah, yes," Matty said.

  "Don't think you'll find food up in the ceiling," the man said with a laugh. "C'mon down from there and let me take you to get something to eat. I'm Bill, an orderly here at the clinic. After you've eaten, I'll take you to see Dr. Andrews, the psychiatrist."

  "Okay." Matty followed along meekly as Bill led him from the room and down a long corridor,
whitewashed like his room had been. No one else was in sight. The corridor eventually opened up into a large space, like an army mess hall, Matty thought and he wondered where that comparison had come from. Maybe he'd seen a photo of one or something. He couldn't remember if he'd been in a military mess hall of any kind in his life. Matter of fact, the knowledge that he still couldn't remember much about himself felt more than a little frustrating; it was beginning to worry him.

  "Take a seat," Bill said, gesturing towards one of the empty tables. "I'll be right back."

  Matty did as he was told once more, looking around him. Again, no windows. No skylights, nothing. No sign of the outside world or sunlight anywhere. As Bill returned carrying a tray of food, Matty straightened his shoulders and blurted out, "Where are we?"

  "Didn't they tell you?" Bill set the tray down in front of Matty. It was identical to the one that Marie had brought him during the night, only this time it contained breakfast food—oatmeal, toast, coffee, and juice. "You're in the private clinic of Dr. Johnson and Partners, your supervising specialist is Dr. Phillips—"

  "I got that part. What I want to know is, where is this place located? I know we're in New York somewhere, where?"

  "The clinic's in Chinatown. You know New York well, Mr. MacDougall?"

  "I don't remember." Matty hated that his voice betrayed his frustration and anxiety.

  "Well, that happens, I'm told. You'll get your memory back soon enough. Eat up, we'll go on to see the doc, okay?"

  "Sure, fine." Matty ate his food and drank his coffee, then sipped his juice. Breakfast had been good, but he felt unnerved, now not just by the lack of windows but the lack of other patients. He said nothing as Bill led him out of the mess hall and down another long, whitewashed corridor, empty of people, towards a closed door with a nameplate attached to it. The nameplate read, "Dr. Andrews, Psychiatrist."

  "Right in here," Bill said. He opened the door and gestured for Matty to enter.

  The room beyond was just like any medical waiting room Matty might expect to find. Something about it tugged at his memory, though, and he wished that he could pull the information out. The room seemed very familiar, decorated as it was with cream carpet and walls, a plain dark oak desk to one side holding a pile of paperwork. Beyond that was a set of filing cabinets made of charcoal colored steel, and a ring of chairs in front of it, with a water fountain and cups for waiting patients. A Plexiglas coffee table held a small pile of magazines and brochures, their bright colors and glossy covers the only thing to break up the plainness of the room.