Project Human

by Sean McKenzie

she knew they were all dead. She had made sure of that.

  Even though she was not bleeding, she was hurt. Her left arm had been badly struck and she could do nothing but dangle it limply. But she was alive. The gleam in her eyes matched the fire within.

  She backed away from the dead guards carefully. She needed to hide. She needed time to heal and recover. The rooms in the hall would all be searched, she knew. If she stayed, she would be found. Immediately she thought of Barton. If she could manage to get into the vent shaft again she could wait it out safely.

  She walked back into the room and stood below the ventilation shaft. The grate lay at her feet as she stared up into the black opening. It was ten feet high, she thought. There was no table or chair to stand on either.

  She sighed wearily.

  “Barton!” she whispered.

  No response came back. It was too risky to call him again.

  It dawned on her that when the guards entered the room again and found the grate lying on the floor that the vent would have to be searched.

  Their concealment was in jeopardy. She had to find a way up into it again, and place the grate back. Then she would find Barton.

  She picked up the grate, finding it was heavier than it looked. She grunted in pain from her injured left arm, but kept going. She could cry later, she told herself. Take it to the next room, or the room after, or the one after that, until she found a way up into the vent. Holding it in front of her, Adelle began to leave the room.

  Darryl found the hall to be brighter than the previous, though it was still pretty dim. The reason for the light, he knew, was because work could not be performed in the dark. Barton was here.

  He checked a few rooms, finding them empty, before he saw something in the hall. He stayed close to the wall as he moved towards it. He made out forms—bodies. The closer he came, the more evident it was. Four men lay dead, bleeding from deep wounds. His heart raced with adrenaline. His breathing quickened. His eyes searched frantically.

  Then he heard a noise.

  He pressed himself flat against the wall just inches from the doorway. From inside the room something moved. Someone was working. Barton, he knew.

  Darryl heard steps then, getting closer.

  Do it and do it fast. Don’t give him a chance.

  At his feet, next to a cold, lifeless hand, laid a rod.

  Adelle struggled to carry the grate, hoping that the room next door would offer a table to stand on. She moved as quietly as she could. It was going to be hard, but it was the only way. She needed to get back to Barton. She needed to wake him and get him to help find Darryl. She needed him to get them out of there.

  Please, God. Please.

  She was terrified of failing. The only thought running through her head was finding Darryl. As she stepped into the hall, she heard a grunt.

  Darryl closed his eyes. Barton was stepping through the doorway. The iron rod was already swinging down. He felt it strike hard, heard someone yelp, and then heard the body hit the floor along with a metal object.

  Darryl smiled with relief. He opened his eyes. Looking down, he saw a body underneath a ventilation grate. But he had done it. He had stopped Barton.

  Adelle would be safe now, he thought. They all would be.

  He reached down and took hold of the grate, lifting it up and tossing it aside.

  His life drained out in a painful gasp. He dropped to his knees like a falling tree. His mouth stayed open in shock. He had not a sound to give. He could feel his heart twist and churn while it broke. He was going numb all over.

  His hands swept the stray bands of hair off Adelle’s face. He had not a thought left.

  So lost in disbelief, he missed hearing the eruption in the room, the slamming of wooden doors, the angry hiss of a man set loose.

  “Adelle,” he sobbed softly. “Can you hear me? Adelle? I’m sorry.”

  He was aware then of someone standing in the doorway. A voice said something, but it failed to register. In utter confusion, Darryl looked up. The last thing he saw was a large fist hailing down towards him.

  T W E N T Y - O N E

  His heart beat slow and steady. His chest rose and fell in slight, relaxed motions; his breathing was calm. His body lay motionless, his mind lost in slumber, in a quiet peacefulness that had not existed to him in years.

  His dreams were a mix of memories intertwined with fond happenings. He would have kept the illusion longer than it lasted. His wife was there. His kids were there. The past ten years did not exist.

  Doctor Barton yawned deeply, his body stirring awake. He casually stretched his arms and legs as the dream faded. His eyes slowly opened. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, unable to see anything but the black wash surrounding him. But it was useless. Lying on his back, he turned his head to the side wondering if he was dead. The darkness in the vent blanketed him completely. Confusion turned to panic.

  He abruptly sat upright, wanting light, wanting to see clearly, wanting to know what his surroundings were. But as his body turned, he felt the metal of the vent shaft enclosing him, and reality slowly set in. Then he noticed the thick, stale air. It brought consciousness with it.

  Doctor Barton scrambled around, feeling like he was dangling from a noose, like he was trapped underwater, so far from the surface. He saw the light at the end of the tunnel; the faint rays of hope not yet diminished by the isolation drowning him. He stared through the vent, focused on the dim, blurry light offered far beyond where he sat.

  But he couldn’t move. Instead, he cried. It was uncontrollable, hard, and painful. He curled into a fetal position and sobbed in anguish. His eyes squeezed shut so tight that it made his head throb. His nose bled. His body shivered.

  He prayed hard for it to be a dream, trying to will it to happen.

  Jesus, you can do it. Let it be a dream. Wake me up! Take me home!

  For several long minutes it lasted. When he had no tears left to shed, he quieted, laying still, feeling sick. It was nearly thirty minutes before he moved. He wiped the snot and tears off his face and sat upright. He missed his wife and kids. The last day with them remained in his thoughts, replaying moments and conversations over and over. He began to rethink all of the decisions he made that day. He would have done so many things differently.

  His eyes stung. He stared towards the dim light and thought about what he had missed in the last ten years. They would not be waiting for him to return, he knew. They had given up hope long ago.

  The ache in his heart threatened to prevent him from doing anything but curling back into a ball and waiting for death to claim him. The pain was not physical, but everything else. He struggled for air for a few moments before he gathered himself and calmed. The pain did not leave. And the mountain before him said neither could he.

  You can’t leave. You have no place to go. Whitmere’s voice whispered coldly.

  He shook his head. His mind was made. He was leaving.

  Barton began crawling towards the light. His chest was sore. He felt oddly strange inside. But he knew the transition was complete. The blood infusion overrode what they had done to him. He had succeeded.

  His hand brushed across something. He carefully grasped it, feeling it, knowing it was the injection gun. He put it into his pocket.

  Suddenly he realized that Adelle was not with him. He had no idea how long he had been out. She could have waited for hours before leaving, he thought. Where would she go? Why would she leave? Did they take her? But his questions had no answers. Surely she would know how foolish it was to leave the vent. If she were caught again, there would be no saving her.

  But she wasn’t trying to save herself, he realized. It was him; her husband. She went looking for him. She would risk her life to save his.

  He crawled for a while, until he reached the light source: a hole in the vent floor. The cover was missing. He could see down into the room below clearly. He saw no indication of Adelle. He did not even see the grate covering.

  B
arton frowned. He sighed heavily. He had a bad feeling. He knew he had to exit the vent in order to find Adelle. But roaming around while everyone was looking for him didn’t sit well in his already churning stomach.

  He could leave and save himself. But even before the idea had fully developed he was dismissing it. He would not leave her to that fate.

  He became mad then. Mad at the circumstances that allowed him to be in this situation. He moved closer about the opening, preparing to jump down into the room. He allowed his anger to boil, to fuel him, to push him towards the edge.

  Then he saw two wooden doors fly open and watched a man crawl out of a cabinet. It happened so fast that Barton was stunned and didn’t move. He watched the man rush for the door. A second later, he heard the man yelling. It lasted a few moments, and then all was quiet.

  Barton moved himself back a little from the opening. His eyebrows slanted downwards. He could hear shouts from other guards coming. Something had happened. He could hear some celebration in their voices. They found her, he thought.

  He felt a sinking in his stomach. If the girl had gotten herself captured, then they would be coming for him too.

  Staring down into the room through the opening, he realized that the guards would look in the vent first. He had to move.

  He scrambled away then.

  Good luck, girl.

  The summons came as he expected, though earlier than anticipated. Normally the Council would not call a meeting this early in the morning. Whitmere blinked slowly. It