Project Human

by Sean McKenzie

never get to find her. That’s what makes it so frustrating. She just cries in pain and I can’t get to her. When I wake up, I can still feel her pain. It’s so real, doc.”

  Whitmere paused, picking his words carefully. “Your subconscious could be revealing to you some of your locked away memories. Of course, because of your amnesia, you could be the one crying, searching for yourself.” Whitmere smiled. “But then again, a dream is just a dream. I wouldn’t think too much about it, Darryl.”

  Darryl sighed deeply. “I don’t think it’s just a dream.”

  Whitmere turned for the door. “Okay. Your meds will be increased for the pain and I’ll see what can be done about your sleep. Rest is very important, as I said before. I will check in on you later, Darryl. Nice talking to you, and get some rest.”

  “Thanks, doc.”

  Whitmere entered his lab. Barton stood at a table staring at silver liquids in narrow containers. Whitmere hesitated. He could feel the tension right away.

  “Doctor Barton, I am surprised to find you here.” Whitmere walked over to him.

  Barton stayed silent for a moment. “Where would you expect to find me?”

  Whitmere watched Barton inspect his work. “Do you know what that is? I’ve been working on that for a few weeks now.”

  “You keep secrets from me.”

  Whitmere paused. “What are you referring to?”

  “This, of course.” Barton held the vial up.

  Whitmere exhaled sharply, head nodding, smiling in relief. “Well I was hoping you would help me with it.”

  Barton set the vial back into its holder. “I’m here so you can give me what I wish. I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”

  Whitmere sighed. He swirled his solution around in the vial before setting it back into its holder. He turned, looking Barton square in the eyes.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” he began. “I have spoken to the Council, as I promised you I would. I argued your leave with them. They however, want you to work with me on this last project.”

  Barton didn’t blink. Whitmere was taken by his lack of response.

  “They feel that if you and I work together to finish this project, it will result in high success. In return, of course, your release, as you see it, will be granted. I know that’s not what you had planned, but I think it is for the best.”

  Barton slowly walked around the table towards Whitmere. “I’m sure the Council has plans of their own, making mine of lesser importance.”

  “Council’s plans are for the good of us all.” Whitmere stated.

  “Why don’t I speak to them directly?”

  Whitmere stiffened. “You know they won’t listen to you. You know the rules, doctor.”

  “They’re your rules. Not mine.” Barton didn’t budge.

  “You are not looking at the big picture. And until they agree that you are no longer needed here…” Whitmere didn’t have to finish.

  “What if I make myself unnecessary then?” Barton said coldly. “What if I make people die?”

  Whitmere sagged. He could see it in Barton’s eyes. He could sabotage everything out of spite. “Then the formula you need, you will never have. Plain and simple.”

  Barton tried to see the truth in the other’s eyes. There was more than he was being told.

  “I wish there was something I could do,” Whitmere began.

  “Give me the formula.”

  Whitmere proceeded with caution. “I can’t do that, as I’ve stated. Council would not permit that to happen right now.”

  “I think maybe there is no formula. You don’t seem to have a need for one.” Barton’s head cocked to the side. He was studying Whitmere’s every reaction. “Am I correct?”

  “No,” he began with empathy. “And I will prove it when—”

  “Enough.”

  Barton raised a hand, silencing the old man. He had heard it all before. He had come to give Whitmere one last chance to help him. There was a slim chance for hope; but the old man didn’t want to participate. It could’ve been easy, he thought. He stared into the other’s hard eyes with an edge to his own. He was calm, like the eye of a hurricane.

  Both remained silent for a few seconds, measuring the other.

  “I’m afraid I’ve put you under a lot of stress,” Whitmere said finally. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, relax, and clear your thoughts? I wouldn’t want you to make a decision that you would end up regretting.”

  “From here on out, there will be no regrets.” Barton turned and walked out.

  Whitmere stood alone. He walked over to his cabinet and unlocked a drawer. Pulling the drawer open, he saw a folder with Barton’s name on it. He paused, feeling relieved that it was still there, still locked away with all the secrets his patient sought, still safe and sound. Whitmere slammed the drawer shut and locked it.

  Barton did not need to know, he thought. All he had to know was who he was working for. As long as Barton did that, everything would be fine.

  Whitmere looked around his room. Keeping Barton content was going to be a challenge. He reflected then on the past successes with Barton. He reached into his pocket and held a few orange pills. He sighed. It was going to be hard to replace him, he thought wearily.

  It was hours later when nurse Jean knocked on the door, then entered hastily without waiting for Whitmere to allow entrance. Her eyes were wide with worry. She spoke faster than she moved.

  “You need to come with me, doctor!”

  Whitmere was in the middle of jotting down notes on formulas used on patients, sitting at his desk, writing in codes only he could understand. But he bolted out of the chair immediately, following Jean as she sped into the hall.

  “What is it?” Whitmere asked, jogging next to her.

  She didn’t turn to him. “I am hoping you can tell me.”

  “What is it, Jean?” he insisted.

  Her head shook. “I don’t have the words.”

  Whitmere was worried. Jean turned abruptly and entered a room. Several nurses and doctors stood hovering around a bed. There was a patient in it. Whitmere made his way bedside, listening to the others ask him what was happening.

  “When did this happen?” he gasped.

  Whitmere swallowed hard. The patient’s skin was bruised everywhere. It appeared to be female, but her face and neck were so swollen that identity was impossible. The patient was breathing slowly; fingers and eyes were twitching uncontrollably.

  “Muscle spasms,” one doctor said.

  “Complete nervous system failure,” a nurse followed.

  Jean turned to Whitmere, angrily. “What did you do here?”

  “This is not my work,” he spit back.

  Whitmere separated the eyelids to see nothing but red pools. Strange popping sounds came from within her body. The patient screamed terribly, and then blood spilled out of every opening. Breathing stopped immediately.

  The room fell into silence. A doctor threw a sheet over the body. Eyes turned to Whitmere for answers. He had none.

  Whitmere spoke angrily. “Find out what happened here.”

  As he turned to exit, stepping into the hall, another nurse rushed past. Seeing him, she turned around. “Doctor!”

  “What is it?”

  Whitmere’s face flushed with confusion as she told him how two of her patients were missing. She had no answers.

  “What the hell is going on?!”

  F I V E

  Hidden in a dark room that was forgotten by everyone else, Doctor Barton thrust the long needle deep into the ear canal of his patient, watching his body thrust abruptly, his gut-retching scream muffled under the wad of clothing and tape gagging him, the chained cuffs about his ankles and wrists stretching taut to the corners of the bed, his eyes in panic, filled with a terrible pleas to be let go.

  But Barton had other plans.

  Pressing his strong hand down over the patient’s mouth firmly to cover any whimpers escaping, he began to inject his serum into the patien
t’s brain. Barton’s beady, dark eyes were squinting half closed, not the slightest trace of compassion revealed. He watched the eyes of his patient closely, anxious to see results, oblivious to the streams of tears coming from them. As the seconds went by, the screaming lessened; the eyes drifting to see beyond the one light shining overhead.

  Barton removed the needle and placed his other hand against the patient’s heart. It was fluttering hard, pounding rapidly in an irregular rhythm. Then suddenly, it went still.

  Barton quickly looked back to the patient’s eyes. Flat. Empty. A glossy stare, fixed and unwavering. Doctor Barton watched a milky film begin to cover them.

  Again!

  Grunting in dissatisfaction, he walked back a step to his chair and sat, out of reach from the light, sitting comfortably in the darkness, so adept to it now that it was preferred. He could see almost perfectly in nearly the darkest circumstances. Here, he felt as if the dark was his only ally—a warm blanket against the chilly air.

  He began thinking. He was missing something. His calculations were wrong; too much of one thing, not enough of another. But he didn’t know. Maybe it was the patients he chose being so far advanced that he could not change them. But he was not certain.

  Everything and anyone can be changed. In that one sense, we’re alike.

  Almost, he thought. He knew that any similarities between them and himself began after he arrived.

  Barton’s breathing was steady and calm as he relaxed and tried to relinquish his frustrations, trying to open his mind to allow clear thinking. Retracing his steps, rethinking his solution and all the reactions previous, only allowed his anger to slowly seep back into place. Time was running out he knew.