by RJ Lawrence
Claire took the mask and slipped it on, her breath warm and wet against her face.
"The subject is in the adjoining room," the woman said, as she handed the tray to Claire. Then she turned away and rejoined the other two women.
Claire looked to her left, where she saw a closed steel door. She gave a quick glance around her and nodded. One of the women approached the door and punched a series of codes into a panel positioned beside it. The door made a shushing sound as it released, and the woman pulled it open with much effort. She gestured with a nod and Claire moved forward.
She entered the room and looked around. She lowered her mask.
The old man sat on an exam table, a sad little look on his face, his torso shirtless, old flesh sagging in all the ways old flesh sags.
"Hello, my dear."
She approached him, tears welling in the edges of her eyes.
"Hello, Alfred."
He held out his hand and she accepted it. He smiled.
"I understand," he said. "Know that I understand."
His feet dangled above the floor, his slight body looking old and tired and long without food.
Claire glanced over her shoulder at the soldiers. They stood on either side of the entryway looking very much like replicas of one another, faces stony and without soul, eyes wide and closely watching, guns firmly in hand.
She set the tray to the side and turned to face the old man.
"I want you to know that I care for you. I truly do. I care for you very much."
He put the palm of his hand against her cheek.
"I feel the same."
She raised her hand and cupped it over his. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then she finally let go and took up the gloves. She stretched them over her hands until they were snug. She collected the tourniquet and quickly wrapped it around his arm.
At her request, he gripped his hand into a fist several times, until his thin veins bulged up enough to paint a target.
"What will happen if it works?" He asked.
She raised her eyebrows.
"Your body will replenish itself. You'll begin to heal."
He nodded once.
"I'll grow younger?"
She looked at his face. So old and wrinkled. So beautiful and just right. She swallowed.
"Yes."
He looked at his arm for a moment, and then his eyes shot upward.
"Will it work?"
She started to cry.
"I don't know."
The soldiers gripped their rifles.
"Well," he said, but after that, nothing came.
She soaked a cotton ball with alcohol and ran it over a vein, gray hairs spreading flat against his delicate skin.
"I'm so sorry, Alfred."
He gave her a hard look.
"Never apologize for correct actions."
With that, he gave one last smile before squinting his eyes and turning his head.
She looked down at the metal tray and the syringe, its contents thick and murky and yellowish-green. She took the thing up and tapped it once, the soldiers leaning forward with interest, as if they expected something more than a simple injection. An instant transformation perhaps. Or maybe an attempt at escape.
Instead, they saw her level the needle over the old man's arm for only a moment. And then, before either soldier could move a single boot, she turned the thing upward and plunged it into her flesh.
Alfred whipped around to see the outcome, a heartbroken look upon his face.
"No," he whispered, but before anything more, the two soldiers raced forward, their faces lit up with panic and fear.
Without knowing what else to do, one slammed the butt of his rifle against the back of Claire's head, knocking her to the ground.
Quickly, the other subdued him, as Alfred collapsed to the floor and cradled her bleeding head.
Immediately, the door popped open and Demetri entered, his face stony, a pistol in his hand. He surveyed the room and all its inhabitants. He raised the gun to the soldiers and spoke.
"Move away from him," he said. The soldier let go his associate and backed away.
The man opened his mouth to say something, but before he could say a word, Demetri fired into his face, the cracking pop of the firearm deafening every ear in the room.
He took a step forward and leveled the pistol at Alfred who sat weeping over the girl.
"You are responsible for this."
The old man looked up.
"You are the one who is responsible. Only you."
Demetri held the gun in place, the barrel set square at Alfred’s forehead. He eyed the room, people moving here and about, a mess of blood and disruption, chaos and misrule.
"You will be the one held responsible."
He lowered the gun as more people entered the room and swarmed around Claire.
"Tend to her injury and confine her," Demetri told them.
"What about him?" The remaining soldier asked softly.
Demetri looked Alfred over, a young man's hate bubbling within the old man's eyes.
"Take him to Level Four."
Chapter 19
In the beginning, they gave her water, but it didn't take long to see the error in this. For water provoked something from within. Something remarkable and terrifying and so obviously new to the ordinary world.
In a stupor, she ripped her straps away like tissue and tossed the doctors and nurses like dolls. Screams fired through the room as she moved upon each one, chairs and tables bouncing off walls, chunks of glass splashing against the floor. They rushed into corners and huddled against her encroachment, tranquilizer darts dangling from her flesh, like oddly placed jewelry, each one brushed away with ease.
After six fatalities and two shattered walls, they finally lured her into a reinforced room, comprised of steel walls and bullet-proof ballistic glass. This held her for eight minutes, and then they cleared the entire third level to make room for the weaponized gas. They fired off canisters, effectively clouding the halls, the masked soldiers creeping into the smoggy murk, the whole of them armed with every manner of non-lethal weaponry, loud red sirens blaring from all directions.
As each one passed through the gloom, he was forced to step over his broken associates, their yawning faces pallid, limbs bent in all the wrong ways. Finally, after 12 hours, they found her at the bottom of an elevator shaft, her body pressed against the ground in an awkward sprawl, limbs lying weakly by her side.
For the next 72 hours, she received no water, while they pricked samples from her body, within each, a secret perhaps, though none could find the reason why.
"You're a very special person," Demetri told her, as she sat fastened to a chair. "Not only have you happened upon an amazing discovery, you appear to have a unique genetic architecture that brings forth its gift."
She stared at the floor, her lips cracked, mind thinking only of water. He pulled up a chair and sat before her, their faces only a foot apart.
"Unfortunately, we had to run through multiple subjects to ascertain this."
She stared at the floor.
"Can you guess what happened to them?"
He grasped her chin and raised her head.
"Look at me."
She steadied her eyes.
"Yes," he whispered. "All dead."
He released his hold and her chin bounced against her sternum.
"In most horrible fashions, I'm afraid to say."
He molded his expression into one of false concern.
"Boils on the skin. Bleeding from the eyes. Screaming, writhing. You can imagine it, I'm sure."
He shook his head slowly and ticked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
"And every one begging for death, which we would have gladly given if not for the science. You see, we had to know if the process might pass. To see if they might rejuvenate. Such was the confidence my superiors had in you. But, sadly, they had placed this confidence in the wrong person. An astounding person, to thi
s I will certainly admit. But still a failure all the same."
He stood up and dusted his slacks.
"And now they'll dissect you to determine why you are able to tolerate your failed concoction. Until then, I'm told to keep you breathing. Such is my role with the Xactilias Project. To follow orders, while maintaining order and security against threats. And now, you are no threat. And so, what can I do but follow my orders?"
He stood there a few moments longer, his eyes assessing this tragic figure, incarcerated within her weakened state.
"You have very little time to save yourself," he said.
She used what she had to raise her head, but he had already turned to go.
"What do you mean?" She whispered.
He approached the door without regarding her. He gave it a couple of hard knocks and it opened almost instantly to reveal two hulking guards.
"Watch her closely," he told them. "Even at night."
The door closed and darkness claimed the room.
A day later, she slewed the two guards and made her escape, withdrawing into a sanitized jungle of rooms and hallways, where she drank from gushing water faucets until her belly was too full to stand another drop.
Chapter 20
On the first day, they came with bullets. The soldiers spread among the shadows in practiced formations, fanning the halls. They kicked in doors and infested rooms, their foreheads speckled with beads of sweat, hearts thumping hard against their bony enclosures.
With every step, broken bits of glass crunched beneath their heavy boots, these sounds like thunder within her sucking ears.
They popped off shots at the slightest disturbance. Glass shattered. Electronics sparked. Burning plastics gave rise to white smoke. Through this noxious fog they crept, the pollution filtering up and through their noses and into their burning lungs.
One of the soldiers came across a damaged door and summoned others with his hand. They crowded around it, their weapons raised. A captain fell in behind them. He waited a few seconds before giving the signal. The lead soldier kicked in the door and the rest poured into the room, guns darting about, looking for something at which to fire.
"Clear," one of the men said.
The captain entered, his face old and scarred and very rugged. He stood with his hands on his hips while the men swept the room.
"Sir," a soldier said from behind.
The captain turned. The soldier held in his hand an empty bottle of water.
"It was sitting on the floor," he said.
The captain took it and looked it over.
"Christ," he murmured.
"Target!" Someone shouted from outside. Gun shots followed and the captain ordered the men back out into the hall.
"Move, move, move," he said and the soldiers did move, leaving the captain behind in the room alone.
The old man drew his pistol and watched through the entryway as his men raced by in pursuit of their target. A swell of gunfire bloomed up and then diminished, before giving way to screams and boot clatter. The captain listened as the boot steps grew louder. Then he saw a blur of soldiers race by the entryway. He opened his mouth to gain order, but before he could speak, a very large vending machine flew past the entryway on the heels of the fleeing men.
A thunderous explosion of broken metal stung the old man's ears. He swallowed hard and crept forward, his pistol grip wet within his trembling hand. He approached the entryway and peered around the corner. The men lay scattered throughout the hallway, each one broken in a uniquely awful way. Some lay face down, others face up. Some lay inexplicably, with their legs above their heads. Still others lay crushed beneath the vending machine, their arms and legs poking out the sides, as if they wore an intricate costume, their bodies, safe and whole inside.
The captain turned his head the other direction and saw her standing at the end of the hall. He raised his pistol and aimed, his back pressed firmly against the jamb of the door.
"Surrender," he said, but his words did not carry.
She eyed him from afar, and he did his best not to cower.
"Leave," she said.
He looked her over. A slight thing, so small on the outside.
"I can't," he said.
She waited while he moved out into the hall.
"Where are you going to go?" He asked. "They'll never let you out of here."
She shook her head slowly.
"I have no intention of leaving."
He swallowed the void in his mouth and raised his pistol.
"Be quick," he said, and he fired toward her. His eyes open out of habit only, and in spite of the terror closing upon on him.
On the second day, they killed all the lighting and the facility went black. Once again, the soldiers permeated the halls and rooms, night-vision goggles painting everything in a bright green hue. This time, they kept no radio communication, the evidence pointing toward enhanced hearing on the part of the target. In retrospect, this realization should have been married to another. That other senses might too have been augmented, one particularly relevant considering the circumstances. But this notion crystallized much too late for those involved. And soon, the lights illuminated once more to reveal a fresh tapestry of death, but not the artist behind the work.
On the third day, they pondered extreme tactics once considered off the table. Within the compound existed a broad spectrum of radical weaponry, including an extensive collection of weaponized chemical agents. There were vesicants that blistered away skin, blood agents, skin necrotizers, choking agents, nerve agents and numerous other appalling concoctions dreamt up by past residents of the compound. Ultimately, they kept these locked away for fear of rendering the facility useless. There was also no way to know if chemical agents would even make a difference on this creature. Most, in fact, agreed they wouldn't. So on the orders of Demetri, they opted for a passive approach, clearing the facility of any trace of moisture and waiting for her body to run dry.
In groups of two, the soldiers filtered through each room like a scavenging army of cat burglars, gathering up everything from water bottles and soda cans to dairy creamer and saline solution. Once they'd carefully swept the entire third level, they turned the heaters up to coax the sweat from her pores. They then holed up together in a fourth-level bunker behind two 25-ton doors, sizable enough to withstand a 30-megaton nuclear blast.
Three days later, it was time to hunt. Demetri released a scout team, which dispersed throughout the third level in search of what, exactly, they could not know. At this point, she'd gone days without drinking and would certainly be diminished. The soldiers cherished this notion, for it improved moral, at least until they began stumbling over the many bodies which littered the hallway floors.
"Focus," someone whispered, as they crept over at least a dozen broken men.
As they neared a corner, they caught the scent of melted rubber. The men exchanged hand signals and scattered into strategic positions along the walls. A captain urged a soldier forward. He peered around the edge of a wall and scanned the area. He gave an all clear sign and the other soldiers spilled around the corner.
They stood still for a moment evaluating the scene before them. The hall had been charred black by a flamethrower. The incendiary weapon now lay on the floor amid gummy blobs of melted paint that had drained down the walls and gathered, like big pools of noxious molasses. Nearby, they saw the weapon's former handler, his crisped body looking up at each passerby with big black eye sockets and a broad skeleton smile. The stench of petrol mingled indelicately with the aroma of smoldering meat, causing some of the soldiers to fold over and void their stomachs.
They gathered themselves and moved on in an automated sort of way, their stony faces ever stony, despite these grim discoveries and others like them. Every several steps, the group would stop and send a good, reliable man into a room, where he would probe every dark corner, while the others gathered into a knot amid the entryway. This they repeated for hours, pausing occasionally
to suck from their canteens and urinate in dry toilet bowls.
After a while, their focus softened somewhat, perhaps from repetition, perhaps from fatigue. Now they entered rooms in a hurry and exited just as fast.
"Focus," said the party's captain, as he snatched the two-way radio from his belt. He held it to his ear and started to speak, but before he could, they all heard something jangle in one of the rooms ahead. The men scattered apart and pressed their bodies against the walls. They glanced back at the captain, who gestured them ahead.
The soldiers moved forward, each taking a strategic position behind another. Now the good, reliable man approached the door. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure everyone had their positions. Then, he nodded once and steadied himself. With one, sudden strike, he drove his boot into the door. It flung open and he raced forward a few steps, panning his gun from left to right.
"Clear," he said.
The men filtered into the room one by one, their weapons up despite his claim. The captain entered and put his hands on his hips, while the others made damn well sure the room was clear.
"This is a fool's errand," the captain said, but before anyone could agree, one of the soldiers shrieked gibberish.
They turned toward him, his eyes bright and wild and looking above them. They turned their heads upward, where she clutched the ceiling like a great spider.
"Shoot!" The captain yelled, but his words were lost in a bedlam of gunfire.
She dropped among them and spun like a top, her legs and arms whipping frantically, until every last man lie busted and bleeding on the floor.
As the soldiers lie moaning, she scampered out the door and down the hallway, her bare feet tapping lightly against the cold tile as she rounded corner after corner. Finally, she stopped and bent over, her breath somewhat labored, muscles cramping beneath the skin. She heard the faint sound of boot clicks in the distance and stood straight. She saw a door and approached it. She raised her leg to kick it open, but her foot punched a hole through the metal. She pulled it back through and wrapped her hand around the knob. She gave it a twist and the thing crumbled apart in her hand. She took a deep breath and gave the door a gentle tap with an open palm. It separated from the hinges and sailed across the room.
