Seed

by Michael Edelson

  For a moment, Alex couldn’t move as his mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing.

  “Where the hell am I?” he whispered, finding comfort in the sound of his own voice. That, at least, was familiar. He climbed out of the bed and searched the strange plastic floor for his slippers, but they weren’t there. Looking down, he noticed he was not wearing the same clothes he had gone to sleep in. Instead of his army issue underwear, he wore clean white cotton boxers and a beige t-shirt, both of which fit perfectly.

  Feeling dizzy, Alex sat back down, reaching for the desk to steady himself. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, all the while trying to calm his racing mind. How long had he been asleep? He was groggy as hell.

  “Okay,” he said, raising his hands in a calming gesture. “Okay. This isn’t jail. So what is it?” Opening his eyes, he stood up and once more took a good look around the room, picking up several details he had missed the first time around. There was a door with a small handle where the knob should be, with two more semi-opaque windows on either side. Next to the door there was a green pad, rectangular and about the size of a credit card. A small red LED glowed ominously just above it. Walking over to the door, he pushed the pad with his finger. There was a harsh sounding tone, like the sound the computer in Star Trek made when the crew did something they weren’t supposed to.

  “I guess I can’t leave,” Alex said. “Maybe this is jail after all.” Surprisingly, that made him feel better. He had been more scared than he realized, and the idea of being in a military prison was the devil he knew. Responding to an intense need to relieve himself, he crossed into the smaller compartment and used the toilet. The flushing sound was strange—the whirring of a motor followed by suction, like an airplane toilet.

  “Not a bad cell at all,” he said. “I even get a TV.” He started to accept the idea of his incarceration. Once that happened, he began to get angry.

  “Fucking Medlock,” he growled. “What a dick.” It wasn’t fair. His friend was almost killed, he had stayed with him, gone to the hospital. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? And what about Campbell? He said he had taken care of it, hadn’t he?

  “Fuck Campbell too,” Alex said. “Two-faced jerk off.”

  Only he knew none of that could be right. Taken to jail? While he was sleeping?

  He decided to stop trying to figure it out, at least for the moment, and see what else he could find in his strange cell. There was a dresser on the far side of the door just below the window. Opening each of its three drawers in turn, he found an assortment of clothing. There were a lot more t-shirts and boxers, perhaps twenty of each, along with several sets of army combat uniforms in digital pattern camouflage—just like his own, only brand new. Removing one of the shirts, he was surprised to see his name above the right breast pocket. The other pocket had the usual “U.S. ARMY” patch on it, above which were his airborne wings. The patch of velcro on his chest, where his rank insignia should have been, was empty, as was the area on the shoulder were his unit patch belonged. The prison theory was starting to make sense again, despite the bizarre way in which he was brought here. They had obviously stripped him of what little rank he had as part of his punishment.

  Only—wasn’t he entitled to a hearing first?

  Faced with the option to wear clothing, he noticed that the room was a little chilly, so he put on one of the uniforms, which fit him perfectly. He found three pairs of brand new combat boots in the bottom drawer, and these were his size as well. After he was dressed, he noticed a speck of color under the uniform shirts in the second drawer, and rifling through the fatigues he was surprised to find an assortment of civilian clothing underneath. Mostly t-shirts, sweat shirts and jeans.

  He frowned, wishing he had seen those first, but didn’t bother to change now that he was dressed.

  “This is a very strange cell,” he mumbled, closing the drawers. Turning to the bed, he noticed that the frame below the mattress was solid, and that there was another green pad near the top. This one also had a red LED next to it. Walking over to the bed, he knelt down and examined it closely. The pad was identical to the one by the door except for a tiny hole in its center. Alex touched the pad with the tip of his finger and heard a milder version of the negative tone the door had made. Why put a locked compartment under his bed?

  He was about to turn away when he had an idea, and pushed the pad again, this time placing his finger firmly over the tiny hole. There was a brief mechanical sound and a very mild pricking sensation as something pierced his skin. It didn’t hurt at all. He was barely aware of it. Another, more positive tone emanated from the device, and the little LED turned green. A drawer slid out from under the bed. Alex gasped in surprise.

  The drawer was almost as big as the bed frame and contained a trio of M4 carbines resting in form fitting foam. Next to the rifles were a large knife and two handguns, along with several loaded magazines for each. On one side of the drawer was a large square pocket filled with tactical gear: vests, holsters and other load bearing devices. The M4s were similar to his own issue rifle, but they were the M4A1 full auto variety, usually reserved for special forces and civilian DOD contractors. They were brand new, with all the latest bells and whistles. Rail covers, holographic sights, fore-grips, tactical flashlights, single point slings—his mind reeled as he tried to take it all in. What looked like three fully loaded magazines turned out to be three stacks of seven, layered on top of one another.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered, taking out one of the rifles. Before he realized what he was doing, he had the upper receiver separated from the lower and the bolt assembly out and on top of the bed. It left black spots from its lubricant on the white sheets.

  Everything was as it should be, or at least appeared that way. He looked down the barrel and didn’t see any obstructions, then reassembled the weapon and put it on the bed.

  “This is no god damned jail,” he said, then noticed a small white paper in the corner of the large drawer. He picked it up and turned it over. There was something typed neatly in its center:

  peace7102

  Alex stared at the paper for a while, struggling to make sense of it. He thought about the possibility of being in some bizarre reality show, but quickly dismissed it. Too many legal issues. Then another thought occurred to him—what if he were involved in some sort of military psychological experiment? That certainly made a lot more sense. Most people weren’t aware of the extent to which a person signed away his or her civil liberties when joining the military. They could certainly pull off something like this without much risk of repercussions. But why him?

  He sat down, leaning against the wall at the foot of the bed and rubbed his face, surprised to find several days worth of stubble. Looking towards the bathroom compartment, he noticed a mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink. He was willing to bet he would find a razor or electric shaver inside, along with other toiletries. As he shook his head in frustration, his eyes wandered to the pad near the door, and he noticed that the adjacent LED was now green.

  His eyes widened and his heart began to beat faster. The door was unlocked now, there was no question about that, but what would he find on the other side? Would there be others? Why had it only unlocked after he had accessed the weapons?

  Driven by fear, he scrambled to his feet and knelt above the drawer, scooping out a chest rig and holster. The straps on both were perfectly fitted, requiring no adjustment. He filled the rig with six magazines, holstered one of the pistols and sheathed the knife, then slid the drawer closed. The LED turned red again.

  Taking the rifle he had previously examined, he inserted a magazine and chambered a round, then clipped it into a sling and approached the door, weapon ready.

  When he pushed the button, the door clicked and swung open, momentarily blinding him. He waited until his eyes adjusted, then, trembling with fear and anticipation, he stepped outside, prepared for anything.

  Chapter 3

  The first th
ing he noticed were people, lots of people. They were standing around, some talking, some yelling. No one seemed to present an immediate threat. He was the only one armed, at least as far he could see. There were strange little buildings all around him, dozens of them, everywhere he looked. Risking a brief glance back, he saw that the room he had stepped out of was actually a building identical to the others. All seemed to be made of—or covered in—beige plastic.

  The humidity took a bit longer to notice, but when he started to sweat, his eyes wandered beyond the houses and he saw trees, some of them palms, and he heard the sound of waves breaking in the distance. An ocean? With the sun high overhead, he immediately realized it was far too cool to be midday in the Mojave desert, and too wet.

  Some of the people noticed him. A few stood and stared, others backed away. A woman screamed and ran behind one of the buildings. He lowered his weapon, letting it hang in front of his chest, suspended by the sling.

  A young woman was walking towards him, glaring angrily. Despite the overwhelming array of sensory data his mind was struggling with, he noticed how pretty she was and he focused on her face, tuning out all else. Her eyes were best described as feline, set amidst a light spattering of freckles that enhanced her elfin features. Wavy auburn hair with a trace of highlights swayed in a warm breeze as she approached. She wore a dark blue denim skirt and an orange t-shirt, her feet swathed in white tennis shoes and ankle high socks. She appeared to be younger than he was, though it wasn’t always easy to tell with women.

  “What the hell is going on here?” she demanded, stopping just a few feet away, her hands on her hips. The way she glared at him made it clear she wasn’t the least bit afraid.

  He opened his mouth. “I…”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

  “I don’t know, I just…”

  Now her eyes widened in an angry flash as her foot twitched, almost stomping the ground.

  “What the hell do you mean you don’t know? You kidnapped me from my home, my family, and you don’t know? How dare you! When my father’s lawyers—”

  “Miss, I have no idea what—” Alex tried to say, but stopped when she raised a hand to strike him.

  His muscles tensed and he instinctively reached for his rifle, but she lowered her hand and stepped back with an awkward expression, as though she only then became aware of what she was doing. With a final glare that betrayed the slight sheen of moisture in her eyes, she spun around and stormed off defiantly, disappearing around the corner of a nearby building.

  “I see you met Yael the Jewish princess,” someone said. Alex turned in the direction of the speaker and saw a pleasant looking older man with a heavily wrinkled forehead and wispy white hair. “I’m Max.” He held out his hand.

  After a brief hesitation, Alex shook it. “I’m Alex. What did you call her?” His brain hadn’t yet caught up with the rest of him. It was a strange sensation, almost like a waking dream.

  Max smiled. “Oh, nothing. She’s a little more upset than the rest of us. She’s been screaming a lot, demanding things. Not the most popular person here.”

  “Popular?” he said. “What are you talking about? What the hell is going on here?”

  “So you really don’t know what happened?” Max said, raising an arm to lean against the building Alex had come out of. “You’re the only one so far to…well….” He motioned at Alex’s rifle.

  “I just woke up a few minutes ago,” Alex said. “These weapons were under my bunk, in a locked drawer. I didn’t know where I was, I thought maybe…is this an army base?”

  “Locked?” Max asked. “With a DNA pad?”

  Alex frowned. “A what?”

  “A DNA pad, it’s like the other green pads but it has a little hole and it pricks you.”

  “Yeah, that was it.” Sure, that was it, perfectly normal, not at all as though he were stuck in some bizarre alternate reality.

  Max nodded. “A few of us have them, but yours is the only one so far with guns. Come.” He motioned, then started to walk towards a clearing between buildings. “I’ll show you around.”

  “How long have you been here?” Alex asked, following behind him. “What is this place?” He glanced around, noticing many people staring at him nervously. Each person he saw was as different as the next, a seemingly random assortment of men and women of all races, though most of those he saw were Caucasian. Their clothing was as random as the people themselves, an eclectic mix of casual and formal attire of varying styles. Alex was the only one in a uniform, at least so far. If there was any sort of pattern, it was that most were young, in their twenties or less. Though he did notice a few older people besides Max.

  “This is my second day,” Max said. “But I’ve been here as long as you have, I just woke up earlier. It seems we all got here two nights ago. The last thing I remember was falling asleep in my apartment. As for what this place is, none of us have a clue.”

  “Where are you from?” Alex asked. He studied the strange little houses as they walked past, looking for some sort of pattern to their arrangement. He couldn’t find one. It seemed as though they had been dumped haphazardly in the middle of a clearing. There were no foundations. Each building sat right on the grass or the sand, depending on where it had been deposited. They looked like plastic Airstream trailers, except that they weren’t trailers at all. No wheels.

  “Los Angeles. I’m a law professor at UCLA. What about you? You’re a marine?”

  “A soldier,” Alex explained. “Army, paratrooper. Not a marine.” He remembered the five marines in the humvee and grimaced. If they hadn’t come seeking trouble, Haag would never have found that artillery simulator, and then none of this would have happened.

  But then, what did this have to do with Haag? If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that this was no military prison. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that there was a connection to recent events, if not to Haag’s accident, then something else. Or it could just be his mind trying to hold on to his prior notion of reality.

  “Ah,” Max said apologetically. “I’m not versed in the nuances.” They walked across the clearing, and Alex saw a beach past some of the buildings to his right. Clear blue water lapped the orange sand gently, leaving a residue of froth between waves. A massive building, much wider and longer than any of the others, stood by a patch of trees to their left. Looking around, Alex noticed that the surrounding forest—or more accurately a jungle—was dense enough to make passage through it difficult. A range of craggy mountains rose above the trees beyond the beach, their rough surface furred by a thick cover of vegetation.

  “I call this the warehouse,” Max said, motioning towards the long building. “It’s a storage facility. So far we found food and other supplies, but there are many doors we haven’t been able to open yet. I’m hoping you’ll get us past one more.” It wasn’t much taller than the other buildings, which made it hard to gauge its size accurately, but Alex estimated it was at least a hundred feet long.

  “Warehouse?” Alex demanded, losing patience. “Doors? What the hell is going on? Why are we here?”

  Max smiled. “Son, if I knew that, I’d have told you already.”

  “Don’t you have any ideas? You’ve been here over 24 hours!” The man’s casual attitude towards their predicament was starting to get on Alex’s nerves.

  “It’s too early to start hypothesizing with any degree of certainty, but…”

  “Max,” someone said from behind them. “Max, another one’s awake.”

  Alex turned and saw a young man walking towards them. His eyes widened as he noticed Alex’s rifle.

  “What the hell?” the man asked, coming to a stop about ten feet away. He looked a bit older than Alex, pleasant looking in a peculiar Eastern European way, with sandy blond hair and dark stubble with a few specks of premature gray.

  “It’s okay, Reynard,” Max said. “He’s okay. Tell me, who is it? Anyone interesting?”

  “Yes,” Reyna
rd said, moving closer. “A woman in her thirties. Says she’s a doctor. A surgeon.”

  Max brightened. “Excellent. Go talk to her, bring her here, see if one of the pads will pop for her.”

  Reynard frowned. “Don’t you want to do it? I mean you’re better at it, I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Nonsense,” Max said, shaking his head. “What is there to say? Tell her about the warehouse. When she’s ready, show it to her.”

  “Okay,” Reynard said, started to turn away, then stopped, looking at Alex. “You’re a soldier? Don’t you know what’s going on here?”

  Alex shook his head. “Sorry, no. I just woke up.”

  Reynard nodded, but narrowed his eyes slightly, as though he didn’t quite believe him, then walked away, presumably to find the doctor woman.

  “You seem awfully calm about all of this,” Alex said, turning back to Max. “Aren’t you scared? Worried?”

  “I was,” Max admitted. “Scared, that is. I’m still worried, but whoever brought us here seemed to take great pains to make sure our needs were met. I live alone, so it’s not like anyone is going to miss me while I figure this out.”

  “This is crazy,” Alex said, his frustration starting to get the better of him. “I feel like I’m in some ridiculous television show. Doesn’t anyone have a cell phone or a radio? Can’t we find out where the hell we are and get out of here?”

  “No,” Max said. “No radios, at least not yet. There is a computer terminal in my quarters. I mean we all have computers in our cottages, but those are self contained. Mine looks like a communications terminal, webcam and all, but it’s not active, and no one can figure out how to turn it on.”