by Ben Horton
‘Hmm. Light filter has failed to engage.’
The words meant nothing to Cameron, but the speaker sounded disappointed.
‘Pupils not equal, of course,’ observed the voice, with a humourless chuckle. ‘But reactive nonetheless.’ The light vanished and the voice hardened. ‘What do you remember?’
Cameron frowned. Was the doctor talking to him? He tried to force the blurred outline into a sharper image. With a superhuman effort, he focused his eyes on the speaker.
Wispy white hair atop a high-domed head. A pale face, broad and bony at the cheeks, that narrowed to a pointed chin. Shrewd eyes magnified by thick lenses, fenced in with gleaming silver frames. He did know this man.
‘Dr Fry?’ said Cameron, his voice still rough.
Dr Lazarus Fry was something of a local celebrity. Massively rich, he lived in a gleaming modern house on the north side of Broad Harbour. The Fry Foundation, his personal charity, was always involved in some generous new project for the community – repairing a run-down school or building an orphanage. Cameron knew he should be in safe hands. But he didn’t feel safe.
‘Facial recognition,’ remarked the doctor. ‘And some evidence of intact memory.’ He leaned closer, treating Cameron to an overly clear view of flaring nostrils. ‘But what do you remember?’ he repeated.
Cameron frowned again, thinking back. His memory was foggy, but faint images jostled together in his mind: a large building filled with children; a thick-set boy with his fists raised; bright, blossoming orange light.
‘An explosion. We were … We were on a school trip.’
But where am I now?
Cameron tried to turn his head to get a better view of the room he was in, but it wouldn’t budge a centimetre. They must have strapped his head in place. Had he broken his neck? Concentrating, Cameron tried to flex his arms and legs, but his limbs didn’t respond. It was as if his brain had been disconnected from the rest of his body. Panic flooded him.
‘Am I hurt?’ he croaked.
As Cameron spoke, another jolt of pain shot through him. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but it left his nerves tingling and jittery, like a mega-bad case of pins and needles.
‘Hmm,’ said Dr Fry, standing up. To Cameron’s hazy senses it seemed as if the man’s face was floating away from him into the air.
Fry raised an instrument over Cameron’s body – something that looked like a mobile phone or Nintendo DS – and inspected the screen. He pursed his bloodless lips and shook his head.
‘W-w-what is it?’ stammered Cameron. ‘Am I going to die?’
The doctor ignored him, turning instead to address someone out of Cameron’s field of vision. ‘Barely acceptable. This will do for our first objective, but I think we can do much, much better. Store it and bring me the next subject.’
‘Yes, Dr Fry,’ said a gruff voice.
Cameron heard footsteps shuffle closer, felt a jab in his left shoulder. Cold poured into his arm, and the static started to buzz across his vision again, like a TV that had lost its signal.
Then the screen went dead.
Cameron woke again.
His head was still pounding and he was freezing – as though he’d woken up in a fridge. And instead of the fuzzy vision there was only darkness. He shivered.
A shadow flitted past him in the gloom.
Cameron jumped, his whole body jerking. But at the same instant that one part of his mind registered the shock, another part registered over whelming relief. Whatever was wrong with him, he wasn’t paralysed!
The shadow flicked by again, brushing softly against his shoulder. He flinched, trying to pull away. There was a rapid series of clicks, and suddenly Cameron found he could move his right arm.
That was when he twigged: he had been strapped down, his arms and legs securely fastened with metal restraints. The shadow was unfastening them.
‘What … what’s going on?’
‘Shhhh,’ hissed someone. ‘Stay still.’
A girl’s voice, soft and throaty. She hurried down towards his right leg and began to work on the strap there.
Whoever she was, Cameron wished that she had started with the one securing his head. The only view he had was of a darkened ceiling. But with his right hand free, he ought to be able to release his head himself.
Cameron lifted his arm. It felt heavy and clumsy, as though he’d been sleeping on it all night. His hand fumbled uselessly at the strap across his forehead, fingers searching for the buckle or clasp.
‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘What’s happened to me? Am I hurt? Am I in hospital or what?’
The shadow threw aside the strap on his right leg and was around to his left in a flash. ‘Sorry, but we’re going to have to save the questions for later. My name’s Rora and I’m here to help you, and that’s all you’re going to get for now.’ She tugged the leg restraint loose, then moved to the one on his left arm. ‘We have to get out of here.’
Whoever this girl was, she didn’t sound much like a nurse. But then this place didn’t feel much like a hospital. Cameron swallowed hard. He didn’t really want to consider the other possibilities.
He was getting nowhere with the strap at his head. His fingers might as well have been a bunch of sausages, they were so numb and useless. What was wrong with him? Why was nobody willing to tell him what was going on? Neither the doctor nor this strange girl. And where were his mum and dad?
Cameron tried clenching and unclenching his fingers to get some feeling back into them, but they weren’t co-operating. At last Rora undid the last of his straps and his head was free. Impatiently he sat up straight and looked around.
Dizziness swamped him. His head reeled as his vision snapped into crystal-clear focus. It was as if someone had switched on a bright light inside his head. The sudden sharpness was overwhelming. No matter how much he shook his head to try to get rid of it, it stayed stubbornly with him. What did it mean?
Cameron scanned the room, fighting the giddiness. The lights were out, but despite the darkness he could make out rows of beds and tables, all shrouded with white sheets. This, combined with the freezing temperature, reminded Cameron uncomfortably of a morgue. And all he had on was a loose-fitting hospital gown. Terrific.
‘Come on,’ said Rora, helping him – practically dragging him – to his feet.
Cameron staggered, his legs wobbling. He bumped against whatever it was he had been lying on, and turned round to look at it. The metal medical trolley trundled a short distance before coming to rest against one of the beds.
‘This isn’t right,’ he insisted. ‘They don’t keep patients on trolleys. They don’t keep them in the freezer unless they’re …’ He scrubbed that thought right away: clearly he wasn’t dead. ‘Well, unless they’re not patients any more.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Rora. ‘Can you walk?’
‘Of course I can,’ hissed Cameron, gritting his teeth as an agonizing flash of pins and needles raced up his legs. He took a tottering step, his whole body feeling wobbly. He tried to take another, but as he threw his left leg forward, he overbalanced, almost falling. Rora leaped forward to steady him. Cameron stiffened, pushing her away far less gently than he’d intended.
‘Give me a minute,’ he snapped.
With a low growl, Rora backed off. Regaining his balance, Cameron stared at her. Even with his strange, super-clear vision, he couldn’t get a good view of the girl’s face; it was shrouded under a hood, but he could see that her skin was dark. Although she didn’t look hostile, there was something odd about her that he couldn’t quite pin down. For the moment, though, he had bigger things to worry about.
Like walking.
Aiming for one of the nearer beds, Cameron took another step. His movements were leaden and awkward, but his legs didn’t feel as if they were about to give out. They felt firm enough, just … different. As if he was learning to walk on a pair of iron stilts. The dizziness didn’t make it any easier.
‘May
be this is what it’s like to be drunk,’ he muttered.
‘Get used to it. Quickly. I’m going to check the coast is clear.’
Rora raced to the door, so light on her feet that Cameron barely heard her footsteps. It made him envious and even more impatient.
Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward. He was just out of practice, that was all. He’d probably been lying still for too long, and his legs had gone to sleep. Or maybe the doctor had given him a sedative and he just had to wait for the effects to wear off. If he could get the blood pumping, he would be as right as rain. At least as athletic as this Rora girl. Sports Day Champion again.
Stumbling a bit, but feeling more confident with every stride, Cameron covered the distance – step by step – to the bed. As he arrived, though, a fresh dizzy spell ambushed him. He thrust out an arm to steady himself on the edge of the bed.
His hand touched something soft through the sheet. Reaching down, Cameron took hold of the sheet and lifted it gingerly aside.
There, burned and tattered, lay a human arm – with no body attached.
Cameron let out a yell and staggered backwards. He threw out a hand, flailing for something to hold onto, but instead his knuckles crashed into a nearby machine, sending a tray of equipment clattering to the floor.
But there was no time to worry about what he’d knocked over.
After a split-second of silence, alarms rang out loud enough to wake the dead.
chapter three
the hunt
Sirens blared in Cameron’s ears as he ran. It was as if a noise had drilled its way into his head and now it was stuck, screaming for a way out. Rora raced down the corridor just ahead of him. She seemed to know where she was going. All Cameron could do was follow at a sort of stumbling sprint.
His head reeled. Wherever he was, he was seeing it for the first time – and it was all shooting by in fast-forward: white-tiled floors, coloured numbers on the walls, closed doors with windows offering glimpses into different laboratories. And no time to stop for a look.
Letters jumped out at him from a sign mounted on the wall: DIVINITY PROJECT – NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY.
What about unauthorized exits?
Cameron fired a glance over his shoulder, but couldn’t hear any sounds of pursuit. Then again, he couldn’t hear Rora’s footfalls or even his own above the constant din. He barely heard her yell as she skidded to a stop at a corner, nearly crashing into her.
Two white-suited technicians barred their path, one of them wielding some sort of needle-gun.
‘Back up!’ Rora shouted, tugging him in the other direction. Now they were running again, back the way they’d come.
And something strange was happening. Somehow Cameron knew the alarms were screaming out as loud as ever, but they seemed to be getting quieter. As if his ears were filtering out the blare and tuning in to the more important sounds. Like the rapid beat of footsteps behind them – the technicians giving chase.
Rora sped on, leading them back towards the very room where they’d started. She ducked inside and pulled Cameron in after her.
‘What are you doing?’ he protested. ‘This is a dead end. If they find us—’
Rora clapped a hand over his mouth as a pair of white suits flashed past the door way and on down the corridor.
‘Right,’ whispered Rora breathlessly. ‘Let’s try that again.’
With a quick glance to ensure the technicians were continuing in the other direction, she led Cameron back out into the corridor and raced along, following their original escape route. ‘Figured they’d never look in the lab we broke out of!’ she explained.
Cameron nodded. That was smart, but it had been one heck of a gamble. If the technicians had seen them, they would both have been cornered in there.
But this wasn’t the time to be thinking of ‘ifs’. Too many of those lay ahead. And although Cameron was grateful for whatever was dimming the alarms and allowing him to pick out other sounds, it wasn’t doing anything for his dizziness. Nor were the hundreds of questions reeling around inside his head.
There was only time to ask one as Rora skidded to a halt to heave open a heavy door.
‘Where are we going?’
Before Rora could answer, a bloodcurdling howl – like the cry of some mad, starved animal – echoed through the building. Suddenly Cameron wished he could go back to hearing nothing but alarms.
Rora stared, terrified. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘He’s set the Bloodhounds on us.’
‘Bloodhounds? What?’
‘No time! Just run!’
She was through the door. Cameron had to grab it to stop it from swinging closed, then he was slipping after her and half charging, half tripping down a staircase. Rora had summoned an extra burst of speed from somewhere and was already way ahead of him. There was no catching up with her. Cameron ground his teeth with frustration. What was wrong with him? He’d never been outrun by a girl …
Three flights below, Rora crashed through another pair of doors – and straight into trouble.
Cameron heard the girl cry out but, more than that, he just knew. It was as though every one of his instincts had kicked up a gear. Before he could even think, something inside him took over, and he was vaulting over the banister and out into space.
He’d never done that on Sports Day.
Dropping down half the height of the stair well, watching the floor rushing up at him – Cameron braced himself for the landing, fully expecting to break his legs. Then he hit the ground.
He felt the shock of the impact vibrating up his calves, but there was no pain. What was more, he was poised in a sort of judo stance, ready for action. Cameron shook his head – he didn’t even know judo. Something really had taken over.
He powered through the doors. What stood beyond was like nothing he’d ever seen.
The three figures seemed to be some hideous hybrid of man, machine and animal. Canine muzzles snarled out of human faces, fleshy lips peeling back from metallic jaws that dripped crimson-flecked drool.
Bloodhounds.
One of the growling beasts had pinned a choking Rora to the wall by the throat; her feet kicked uselessly a metre off the ground. The other pair eyed Cameron, snarling hungrily, their gleaming fangs bared and ready, like cybernetic werewolves defying him to make any kind of move.
Cameron sprang forward. It should have been hopeless – suicidal. He should have been scared out of his wits by the mere sight of these impossible creatures. And maybe, somewhere at the back of his mind, part of him was. But most of him just saw red. A furious, frenzied red in which his arms lashed out with a will of their own. Where he whirled to face one attacker and sent it reeling with a power-driven kick; flattened another with a tooth-crunching punch to the chin.
It was as if someone had stepped into Cameron’s head and taken control of his body; as if he was a character in a computer game. Everything was in razor-sharp focus: the snarling, snapping jaws; the claws slashing in at him; his own arms shooting out to block the attacks. And yet somehow it all rushed by in a blur of continuous motion. It wasn’t even like fighting by instinct; it was like fighting in a dream – or a nightmare.
Two of the Bloodhounds were already slumped unconscious on the floor, shaggy piles of fur and metal. The final one had dropped Rora and was now being driven relentlessly backwards by Cameron’s swinging fists. Desperately he fought to regain control of them, but it was like swimming against the tide. His limbs seemed to have a mind of their own.
Sweeping the Bloodhound’s feet from under it with a low, raking kick, Cameron felt his arm swing back to unleash a final punch. Mustering every ounce of concentration, he tried to hold the blow back. For an instant his arm wavered, hesitant.
And in that moment the Bloodhound struck.
Horrified, Cameron saw the monster leap forward. Saw it sink its steel teeth into his right forearm and the fangs tear his skin. He waited for the dream to end. For the burning pain, the gush of blood. But instead,
he felt something revolving inside his arm, clicking into place like a key in a lock. Then there was a sharp bang – and suddenly Cameron was wide awake. Brought right back down to earth by the acrid smoke drifting up past his eyes.
The Bloodhound staggered away, whining and clutching at its belly, its doggy eyes screwed up in pain. Then it keeled over and collapsed in a heap.
Cameron looked down at his arm. He could see metal. Mechanical components exposed through tears in his skin. The emotionless O of the mouth of a gun barrel.
There was no pain.
There was no blood.
His head swam as he watched strange mechanisms snick neatly back into place like the blades on a Swiss Army knife. He felt sick. Maybe it was the smell of gunsmoke, but he didn’t think so.
What had been done to him?
Then, like the precise components revolving in his arm, Cameron’s memories fell neatly into place: the severed arm in the lab; his strange, disorienting night vision; the alarms he’d filtered out; that insane leap down the stair well. And now this.
Suddenly he was aware of Rora watching him, massaging her throat.
‘What’s happened to me, Rora?’
She opened her mouth, but she appeared lost for words, or breath.
Cameron glanced around, his gaze falling on the reflective window of a nearby laboratory. Slowly he started walking towards it.
‘Cameron, don’t. Not yet.’
Rora’s voice seemed to come from a long way behind him. Maybe he had filtered it out, like the alarms. She reached for him, but he shook her off.
Cameron fixed his eyes on the window. He stepped forward. And there, in the glass, he found his reflection waiting for him.
chapter four
monster
The face that stared back at Cameron was not his own.
He had thought the Bloodhounds gruesome enough. This face possessed no canine jaws, but that was the smallest of mercies. Scars, scabs and livid bruises stained the skin an ugly mess of colours – red, brown, blue, black, purple. The whole top right quarter of the face had no skin at all, just an expanse of dull, grey steel. The eye that gazed out from this metal plating looked more like a camera. Its cold, glassy lens stared back at him from alongside a living, human eye, daring Cameron to keep looking. Sending him the clear and brutal truth: This is you.
