Hunted

-2-

                "I don't mean to be rude," I interjected, "but why isn't your father the one explaining this to me? I mean, he is the one who broke us out in the first place," I accused.

Nobody would make eye contact with me, and I knew I'd said something wrong. Keith cleared his throat awkwardly. "My father went missing several years ago. It's safe to assume that he was captured by the hunters, and he's most likely dead by now. His life's mission was to protect you and keep you secret. I took up his mission after his disappearance, which is how I found all of you," Keith explained.

"How did you find me? I've never told anyone about my speed, and it's clear to me that you don't have very much reliable information to go off of," I asked in a more sarcastic tone than I'd intended.

"I will answer every question you have, but on one condition," Keith started, "I want to see how fast you can really go."

It turns out that one of the doors upstairs led to a modern looking gym area. There were weights, monitors, treadmills, and lots of other machines that I had no idea about what they did. Andrea had given me a tank top and leggings to run in, which didn't make much difference to me. Jeans or spandex, I was still fast.

"So, let me get this straight? You want me to run as fast as I can?" I clarified. Keith nodded, not even looking up from the monitor he was hooking up to a treadmill.

"That's all. Do you have any idea about how fast it is so I can set a range?" he asked.

"I've never clocked it, but I'd assume about two to three hundred miles per hour," I shrugged. Everybody froze and stared at me. Keith even dropped a few wires he was holding in his hand. "What?" I asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Keith shook his head vigorously. I took a deep breath and planted both feet onto the machine. Keith walked over and stuck a few electrodes to me: two on my forehead, one on each hand, and one on my chest.

"These will give us insight into what's going on inside your body. I should be able to see your heart rate, pulse, and anything that might help us better understand this. Now this," Keith started, tossing a speedometer to Ian, "is the same as any other device the police use to track speed, except I modified it to detect up to 500 miles per hour. This way, we'll have a more accurate sense of how fast you're going instead of just relying on the treadmill."

I nodded, still not one hundred percent sure why I was doing this. It was weird: I've never known anything about where I came from or why I'm so fast, and now I'm getting a flood of information all at once. Ian positioned himself next to me, shaking his head as if he didn't believe I could do it. This arrogance made my legs tingle, as if his doubt had clicked something in my brain. I smirked as I stepped onto the machine.

"Alright, don't start off sprinting. I need you to gradually work yourself up to full speed so the treadmill can keep up. On your marks, get set, go!" Keith cheered.

I started at a fast joj, working my way up to a normal running pace.

"20" Ian shouted, leaning against a wall. For some reason, that irritated me to no end. I pushed myself, escalating my speed. "40" I hadn't even broken a sweat yet. All I could think in my mind was faster, faster, faster!

"80, 100, 120."

I was accelerating faster. For one of the first times, I wasn't running from something. Rather, I was running for something: I was running for answers. The faster I went, the more Keith would tell me about myself. For once, I'd be able to understand myself.