The Mystery of Adam Hunter

Their shoes weren't quiet. They squeaked against the spotless floors as the rubber soles slipped slightly against the drab, spotted, white, white ceramic tiles. It's early in the morning. Between the rattling of the medical cart's worn-out wheel and their less-than-quiet approach, nurses Johnson and Howell woke up most of A-Wing.

Even from behind the small window in the door to my room, through two inches of reinforced security glass, I saw the morning faces of the other patients. Patients, we were hardly patients. The ten o'clock lockdowns, forced medications, and horrible food made it feel more like a prison.

None of us were allowed outside recreation. We didn't know if there was an outside. One of the lifers would have episodes. He told stories about building facilities like the one I was in, deep inside mountains across America. It explained why we were never allowed outdoor recreation despite rules for prisoners set forth by the federal government. But we were a bunch of crazies in a mental facility. What did old Sam know?

Nurses Johnson and Howe knocked at my door. Nurse Johnson, a pleasant enough black woman in her 50s, called out my name. When I approached the window, Nurse Howe smiled and nodded at her partner. Nurse Johnson put my meds through the small hatch to the right. It was the only time the plain white surfaces of the room ever changed.

Four pills were my morning dose of meds. I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia and labeled as suffering from psychotic tendencies. The latter was because I tried to escape and fought off security staff a few times during my first three months.

I still don't remember committing a crime. I remember being escorted to court by men in suits and Sheriffs. I remember the judge, a snarky older man with an angry appearance. I remember my parents being in the gallery and my mother crying when the judge cracked his gavel at the end of my sentencing.

My therapist tells me I blocked it out, and it will be healthier for me to recall it through treatment than to be confronted by the memory before my psyche is ready. Therapy here is a goddammed joke! Why wouldn't it be? They relocate the government-assigned therapists so often that none are around enough to complete a therapy plan.

After swallowing the morning meds, the nurses wandered off until they completed their rounds. At seven o'clock, the buzzers sounded. The latches on the doors clicked, and we were free to come out to the common area.

For a prison-styled facility, the common area wasn't so bad. The two dozen members of A-Wing wandered down a hall toward a wide open area. We all dressed in the same uniforms, so there was little difference. A-Wing meant you wore a navy blue jumpsuit and white slip-on shoes. The officers in the common area counted uniforms coming out of the corridor.

Twenty-four navy blue-uniformed men entered the common area from corridor A as twenty-four women in green jumpsuits exited corridor B. Every day, first thing in the morning, that was the scene in the common area.

Tables were off to the west side of the common area. It was the dining area. The wings could eat together and congregate there, but there were rules. We weren't allowed physical contact other than handshakes, brief hugs, or the occasional high-five. But we could sit and visit. We could watch movies and participate in group activities.

Usually, about the time I'd finish breakfast, I would hear my name over the public address system. As one of A-Wing's harmlessly crazy, I could get up and go to my morning therapy session without security having to shadow me. I didn't mind my therapist, and therapy gave me something to do. It helped break up the monotony of the day.

Things all started to change when my newest therapist took over. When I heard the announcement after breakfast, I had no idea how different the coming days would be.

It took about ten minutes before I arrived at Harvey's office door. The nameplate on the door was gone. I looked around the hallway. That was the right place. I knocked, and the door whisked open, sliding into the wall.

To my surprise, a woman approached me. She had long brown hair, beautiful cocoa skin, a pretty smile, and an attractive figure beneath her blazer and skirt combo. I was stunned enough I stuttered a response to her introduction. She told me she was Doctor Ramirez, and I managed to make sounds like a toddler.

"Adam Hunter," I finally managed to reply.

Doctor Ramirez pointed at the chair in front of the desk. There used to be a name plaque that read 'Dr. Harvey Stevens' sitting at the edge of the antique desk. The one there now said, Dr. M. Ramirez.

"So, what happened to Harvey?"

Dr. Ramirez sat across from me with a puzzled look. I couldn't tell why until her eyes widened, and she seemed relieved. She didn't know her predecessor's first name.

"Transferred, or so I'm told," she answered. "I'm taking over therapy duties for both A and B wings as of today."

How long will this last, I wondered. Some people are the type to settle for government salaries. Dr. Ramirez seemed alright, but why was she there? Frankly, the job seemed like the equivalent of being exiled to Siberia.

Looking around the room, I noticed her first mistake. She'd ordered a name plaque without her first name. It told me she wanted to keep things more professional than Harvey, less familiar. But she hung her diploma. M was for Michelle.

"So, Adam. How about we start with why you're here?"

That was a great place to start. The government's case against me was different than what I remembered. They accused me of a lot of things. I still didn't remember, other than being there during the trial.

What I did remember wasn't allowed during the trial. There wasn't any proof to corroborate my story. It wasn't something I wanted to remember. Even my parents didn't believe me.

"You have the file," I sighed.

"Yes," she admitted. "But I'd like to hear the details in your words."

That was a good one. My memories kept me from ever seeing the sunlight again. Why would I tell anyone the story, especially after being locked away like an animal? Wouldn't I be better off making a good impression on the new therapist, forgetting the past, and trying to work through the PTSD that every other therapist told me was keeping me from remembering the truth?

Why did I want to trust her? I didn't know her.

"Give me a reason to believe you," I said, challenging her.

"Like what?"

She had a point. What could she do that would make me trust her? Trust is as much about faith as it is anything else.

"Alright, let's go over the facts of your case," she suggested.

Michelle read from my statement, the day the police found me walking down that old dirt road, confused and freezing. It felt like a lifetime ago. According to authorities, it was nearly a decade after we disappeared.

"We know that you and your brother disappeared after a game. That was in 2025. You told the hospital psychologist you were taken by creatures. You described them as being seven to eight feet tall," she said as she looked at me.

That's right, get it out of your system. I thought it but didn't say it. After three years, even I doubted my story.

"Adam, you were gone for a decade," she told me. "How do you explain that?"

"Time is different up there. Where we went, it took just days to get to. Here, years passed. I'm assuming we jumped through time and space, or it has to do with traveling at light speed. I don't know. I'm not an astrophysicist."

"Fair enough," she nodded. "But what about Jacob?"

"They didn't bring him back," I sighed.

I remember seeing him in the examination room. He was strapped to a table like the one I was on. The blue-tinted devils were examining him like a lab rat.

"So, if you were to ever get out of here, what would you do?"

"I'd try to find my brother," I promised her.

We talked for thirty minutes about how I got locked in that place, my brother, and my behavior. She promised she'd help me and maybe even get me approved for release. All I had to do was stay compliant with my treatment.

"That's fair enough," I told her.

I walked from Dr. Ramirez's office, cautiously feeling optimistic about her. As I walked away from her office, I started to hear her voice. It echoed in my head. What was she saying?

Michelle walked into a large chamber. She had two other people with her. It was Adam's parents, the Hunters. She described his treatment and how the behavioral modifications were going. Adam was their most promising test subject. All of the simulations he participated in before being abducted indicated he could outfly any of their pilots.

"When we're done with Adam's reprogramming, he'll be of great use to our leaders army."

"Does he know?" asked one of the other Andarians.

"No," Michelle told her superior. "The conversion therapy is subtle. In his mind, he's on Earth, locked away by his government to keep the secret of our time on Earth. He believes his own people turned against him, so I implanted myself into his programming as a therapist, using the guise of a pretty and talented young doctor."

When I woke up the Tuesday after Michelle started, I felt a sense of excitement. I was looking forward to my daily therapy session more than ever before. I felt a sense of promise from yesterday's session, despite the dream I had of her talking to my parents.