The Xactilias Project

by RJ Lawrence

  She stepped inside and looked around, her eyes cataloging every item in a single glance. She moved forward and opened all the drawers with a delicate touch. Inside, she found little to work with, papers, staplers and other office junk. She felt the pains of thirst and stumbled backward, her knees erupting in pain as she reclaimed her footing.

  A soft cry leaked from her mouth and a young soldier entered the room. He aimed his rifle and popped off a few shots, the bullets tapping her flesh and flattening like coins. She looked at her stomach to inspect the damage, but everything looked just right. She raised her head and met him at the eye. He took a step back and lifted his rifle for another try. But before he could draw the trigger, she had a stapler in her hand.

  Seconds later, a group of soldiers saw him stagger before them in the hallway, a stapler-sized void in the middle of his stomach. He looked at them with his hands held upward, his mouth open, eyes wide and white. He opened his mouth to speak, but there was nothing left to say. So he closed his eyes and let his body splatter forward, his face bouncing audibly against the cold, hard tile.

  The soldiers stood frozen, their faces advertising fear. As they surveyed the body from afar, she stepped out into the hall. She watched them, her hands clutching, hair looking wild atop her slight feminine frame. They raised their rifles, the five of them, and when they did, she turned to run. The sound of gunfire claimed the hallway, and then the pattering pings of bullets deflecting from her body. She raced away from them and turned a corner, but they kept firing anyway, the wall before them growing dark with little black holes.

  She fled the noise, her quick strides eating up considerable ground. Soon, she was alone again, weaving her way through room after room and corridor after corridor until she stumbled into one of the facility's many laboratories and shut the door behind her.

  She took a knee and sucked the air, her breathing labored, mouth impossibly dry. She stood up and staggered toward one of the sinks. She turned both handles and waited, but nothing came. There were four other sinks and she tried them all in turn, but none would yield a single drop, and so she sat on the floor and wept dryly, until fatigue overtook her and everything went black.

  Now, she entered a world of her own making. A wet, lush world with a watercolor sky of orange and pink and blue. There were old trees in this world, with woody shafts that soared up into that watercolor sky, where they erupted into great leafy awnings, which flowed and flittered in a breeze that was soft and warm and kind. Far below these awnings, little streams hurried along, tumbling around the natural rubble on their way to a vast fresh-water ocean, where the fauna lapped hungrily and danced in the rushing tides.

  Claire moved about this world quietly, her bare feet crushing a lavish salad of grass and flowers. She saw skinny little waterfalls that started in high away places and trickled noisily down shelves of clean, white rock. She hurried upon one and plunged her cupped hands into the falling liquid, feeding her mouth with gulp after gulp of clear, cold water, until her belly was too full to stand another drop. Then she followed the noisy little brook to the ocean, where all the little animals romped about like very young things.

  She approached them with a sense of belonging. But when they saw her, the creatures shrieked and scattered and ran back up into the wood, leaving her alone and wanting and plagued by returning thirst.

  She awoke with her face against the floor, a viscous pain against her cheek. Something was jerking her arms backward. It was a soldier trying to work a zip tie around her wrists. For a moment, it all seemed like part of the dream, and she let it continue, like some impartial onlooker without any stake. Then a cold clarity seized her mind, and she ripped her hands free and spun around.

  The soldier stumbled backward and raised his hands, as if to proclaim his innocence from this and all else. He had placed his gun on the floor, and when his eyes flicked toward it, hers followed. They both lunged toward the weapon with great panicked gestures that left them grappling with one another on the ground. They tumbled across the floor, each one gouging at the other with fists and fingernails and elbows and teeth.

  The soldier had training, and he used it to his advantage. Soon, he was behind her with his arm around her neck and his legs viced around her waist. She battled for freedom, but her strength had mostly passed. As she struggled, he clamped down harder, choking the blood from her brain. Things grew foggy almost at once. She writhed about, without making much difference. Then she finally went still and closed her eyes.

  As he strengthened his hold, she summoned the last remaining energy from all over her ruined body. From her hips, her legs, her ears, her toes. With a sudden movement, she seized his arm and pulled with all she had left.

  The bone snapped and he gave a soft whimper, as she freed herself and moved away. While she regained her breath, the soldier held his arm like a cracked vase, his mouth slobbering down over an unseemly bend. Finally, he looked up at her and she at him. Then they both looked to the gun once more and began a second attempt.

  He scrambled forward and collected the gun with his working hand. He turned and aimed, but she'd already closed the space between them. With an upward thrust she knocked the barrel off its mark, and bullets sprayed into the ceiling tile. He turned the gun sideways and used it to push her backward until she was flat against the wall. His eyes grew dark and wide as he pushed the weapon against her throat.

  "Die," he whispered, as he pressed against her softened flesh.

  She dug her fingernails into his cheeks, but this only seemed to harden his resolve.

  "Die you bitch," he said louder. "Just die."

  Her body grew limp beneath his hands, and a brief look of satisfaction claimed his face. But before he could finish her, he felt a hard strike between his legs. He did not let go, even as she withdrew her knee for another blow. Flecks of white light infested her vision, but she conjured the strength for one more effort. She brought her knee upward once more, and his face turned purple as he struggled against the pain.

  Finally, the agony spread throughout his abdomen and took away his breath. His grip softened and she tore away, as he crumpled into a heap before her.

  She coughed and spat, the blood returning to her head, and with it, her mind. She looked down at the gun, harmless in its quiet. Asleep. She stepped forward, the soldier's impotent fingers clutching at her leg and then slipping away. She approached the weapon and bent down. She lifted it and looked it over, evaluated it.

  "Please," he whispered, and nothing more.

  She turned and aimed. She fired.

  Now boot steps came thumping down the hall.

  She limped toward the soldier, his arms sprawled out, eyes studying vacantly the ceiling above. She fondled his belt and found something. It was a canteen. She unsnapped it from its holster and took its weight. A group of soldiers appeared in the doorway, their eyes bright, guns up.

  She flipped the canteen open and brought it to her lips.

  "Fire!" Someone shouted. "Shoot her now!"

  The soldiers opened fire and her body twitched like it had touched something electric. Holes appeared in the canteen and water oozed out. She fell backward against the ground, but the soldiers kept firing nonetheless, until their guns ran empty and her clothes were tattered to bits.

  They watched and waited, some of the soldiers reloading, others still pulling the triggers on their empty weapons. One of the soldiers ordered a subordinate to approach the woman. The young man swallowed and gave a nod. He injected a new clip into his gun and put a bullet in the chamber.

  He entered the room, his eyes bouncing between the woman and the dead soldier to her left. The woman lay sprawled with one leg crossed over the other, her delicate arms splayed out to her sides. Her face was concealed by her hair, the strands wet and stringy and matted in blood.

  Blood, he thought. There's blood.

  "There's blood." he said to the others, and this brought him comfort for a moment.

  "Confirm the kill," his superi
or said. This man held a toothpick in one side of his mouth, and he shifted it to the other side every time he spoke.

  The young soldier nodded without looking back. He poked the woman in the stomach with the barrel of his rifle. He waited.

  "She's not moving.”

  "For Christ's sake," the superior said, and he stormed into the room and raised his weapon. He fired into her chest, a bright spark painting the wall with short-lived human shadows. A shrill ping stung their ears, as the bullet reflected off her skin and struck the young soldier in the face. The young man stood there for a moment, eyes wild, mouth agape. Then he splattered to the floor in an awkward heap, his superior watching all this with a sort of mute, paralytic wonder that persisted even as the young woman rose to her feet.

  She stood before him, her body heaving with every breath. He looked into her eyes, the pupils large and piercing, a scorching rage within. He tried to raise his weapon, but she'd already plucked it from his hands. She turned it around and fired into his belly, the bullets going in and through and out the other side. Blood boiled out from his wounds and rained onto the floor below. He looked down and touched the hole in his stomach. Then he fell backward onto the floor, the toothpick standing erect from between his gritting teeth.

  When he fell, his absence revealed to her the rest of the soldiers still lingering in the entryway. They had their guns up, but none had fired. She looked at them and they looked back, their winking eyes peering through the sights of their weapons, collectively focused on all the usual kill points. She looked down at the gun in her hands as if she'd noticed it for the first time. Then she tossed it aside and watched it skip across the floor.

  "Put your hands behind your back and kneel," one of the soldiers said, his voice coming out all broken and wrong.

  She turned her head to regard him.

  "You should leave," she whispered.

  The men gripped their rifles.

  "It's your last chance," said the same soldier.

  She inhaled the air, a taste of gunpowder on the back of her throat.

  "Please," she said. "Just leave."

  They all stood as before, their weapons fixed on her.

  "Stop," a voice called out from down the hall. "Fall back."

  The soldiers withdrew from the entryway, their faces showing obvious hints of relief. She waited for a moment as the sound of their boot clicks grew faint. Then she approached the doorway and peered around the corner.

  At the far end of the hall, Romero stood alone and unarmed.

  "Please," he said. "It's time to talk."

  She remained as before, her body needlessly concealed behind a wall.

  "Alright," she said.

  He nodded once.

  "We need to get you out of here. It's best for everyone."

  She looked him over, her brain assessing everything from his expression to his posture to the way he breathed the air.

  "How?" She asked.

  He took a step forward and clasped his hands behind his back.

  "I'm ordered to escort you to the top level and off the premises. If you'll allow it."

  She looked him over. He'd shed his fatigues for oversized business slacks and a white button down shirt. These fit his thick, muscled body poorly, making him look somewhat meek and nonthreatening. All of it window dressing that failed its purpose, for he still harbored the same virulent look in his eyes.

  He took another step forward.

  "We will provide a vehicle and rations," he continued. "There will be no interference from topside personnel. We only ask that you go without further incident. Once you do, you will be responsible for yourself and will receive neither assistance nor obstruction. Do you agree?"

  She stepped out into the hall.

  "Yes."

  He paused for a moment, as if he still had more to say, some practiced script perhaps, with agile responses for every conceivable reaction.

  She entered the hallway.

  "Now?"

  Romero nodded and approached her.

  "Follow me."

  He passed by her without making eye contact, his shoulder brushing the sleeve of her blood-soaked shirt. She watched him without moving, her eyes evaluating every action. He stopped.

  "Are you coming?" He asked without looking back.

  "Yes."

  He continued down the hall, his stride even and unhurried, as if he strolled without company on the most ordinary of days. When they reached the end of the hallway, he unlocked a door. The lights bloomed to life automatically as they entered the room. Then they gently failed to nothing as the two exited through yet another door. They repeated this sequence a half dozen more times before finally arriving at another hallway, which featured a pair of large stainless steel elevator doors at one far end. He glanced back at her without really looking.

  "We'll take the elevator to the top level."

  She gave a nod and the two continued forward. When they reached the end of the hall, Romero tapped a series of codes into a wall panel and the doors separated to reveal a very small man. Claire Took Romero in her arms and held him between herself and the stranger.

  "Please," the old man said. "I'm here to help."

  Claire looked him over. He was about five feet tall and Asian. He wore a white short-sleeved shirt and a wide striped tie better suited for another decade.

  "Here," he said, as he held out a pair of clean hospital scrubs in her size. "Please take these."

  She waited a moment and then tossed Romero aside, his shoulder crashing hard against the wall.

  "Who are you?" She asked.

  "Me?" He said. "No one. I'm not anyone."

  He pushed the clothing at her.

  "Please," he said, his small eyes like black dots behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  "Take them," Romero said, as he rubbed his shoulder.

  She collected the articles from the little man and held them against her chest. Romero approached a door and unlocked it.

  "Please take a moment to freshen up and change your clothing," he said.

  She approached the doorway and peered inside to see an empty broom closet with a box of wet wipes centered on the floor.

  "You'll have to make do," said Romero, who sheltered a tinge of contempt within his softened eyes.

  Claire went inside without closing the door. The two men turned away to afford privacy, while she stripped off her clothing and scrubbed her body. Minutes later she returned looking fresh and new, save for the clots of gore interlacing the tangles in her hair.

  "Shall we?" Romero asked.

  She nodded and the three entered the elevator in turn. The little Asian man took the space between the two others, his face camouflaging poorly the terror infesting his soul. Romero tapped the wall panel and the elevator doors sealed. They soared upward, the three of them, Claire's face looking pretty and serene, as if she were gifted with a madness that left her ignorant of worry.

  When they reached the top level, the doors opened to reveal Gretchen, her giant body looking larger than ever.

  "Hello, Ms. Foley," she said, her face bright and sunny, as if she were back in the lobby greeting newcomers on their very first day. "Romero and I will escort you to the exterior of the facility now."

  Claire stepped out from the elevator and looked up at the feminine monstrosity.

  "Shall we?" Gretchen asked, her voice bright and crisp as ever. But her face did not correspond.

  "No," Claire said. "We shall not."

  The great woman's smile faltered.

  "I'm sorry?"

  Claire moved suddenly, collecting Gretchen's arm and spinning her around.

  "What are you doing?" Romero shouted, as the little Asian man receded against the elevator wall.

  Gretchen screamed as Claire wrenched her arm upward.

  "Stop!" Said Romero.

  Claire eyed him from behind Gretchen's gigantic frame.

  "Get back into the elevator," she said calmly.

  Romero's fa
ce hardened.

  "Go to hell."

  She narrowed her eyes and forced Gretchen into him, the two tumbling awkwardly into the elevator and onto the floor. She stepped inside and pulled them apart. She laid her palm over Romero's face and clamped her fingers around his cheeks. She lifted him into the air until his toes dangled from the ground.

  "Take me to Level Four," she said.

  He wrapped both hands around her arm and writhed about, like a rodent caught in a predator's jaws.

  "Never," he said hoarsely.

  She stepped forward and pinned him against the elevator wall.

  "Take me to Level Four," she said louder.

  "I'll do it," said the Asian man.

  She looked at him and released Romero.

  "Then do it."

  Gretchen had gathered herself into a sitting position against a wall, and the little man stepped over her legs on his way to the keypad.

  "Don't," she said. "Please God don't."

  "They'll kill you," Romero told him. "They'll kill us all."

  Claire kicked Romero in the face and he fell unconscious. She looked at Gretchen, who cowered like an enormous child.

  "Go ahead," she told the Asian man.

  He nodded once and raised his quivering hand to the panel.

  "Will you let me go?" He asked, as he began typing.

  "No," she said. "I suspect not."

  The doors closed.

  Chapter 21

  Seconds raced away as the elevator sunk low into the facility's understructure. Claire's eyes darted nervously as she counted the floors.

  "This isn't right."

  She took the Asian up by his collar.

  "I said Level Four."

  The little man winced his eyes.

  "Yes, Level Four," he said. "It's deep. There are layers of concrete and steel."

  She dropped him and faced the doors.

  "You're a fool," Gretchen told the little man, but he gave her no attention.

  "Shut up," said Claire.

  The elevator hummed, while its contents waited. Romero began stirring, a low animal groan escaping his mouth. He rubbed his head and looked around, his mind working hard to make sense of what his eyes gave it. He blinked over and over while the others watched him.