by Stuart Keane
Heather nodded. “I didn’t like those crashes.”
“Don’t worry about those. Wherever there is noise, normally there’s a human presence. Or in this case, a clone presence. Let’s hope it’s the former.”
Heather stood up. She sipped from the bottle of water again and handed it back to Kieran. He finished the bottle and put it in his bag. They stood up silently, without saying anything more. Together, they moved to the door. Kieran took the lead and opened it silently. They edged out into the corridor and moved towards the double doors. As they stood outside them, they listened intently. They waited for a sound, anything to indicate presence in the next room.
Nothing.
Silence.
Kieran opened the door. He checked behind him and made sure Heather stayed close. Heather nodded as they moved forward. They slid through the door and closed it behind them.
The room appeared to curve round to the left, around a steep corner. Ahead of them lay an alcove that was shrouded in shadow. They went straight into it and waited there. After a few moments, Kieran peered out and surveyed his surroundings.
They were in a huge white room. Once again, the décor was the same as everywhere else. This ceiling, however, was about thirty feet high, pure white, and had two huge skylights. Sunlight streamed downwards through these, letting them know that it was daylight outside. Their whereabouts remained unknown. Sunlight glare bounced from the white walls, and Kieran was aware of reflected heat coming from the wall closest to him. Heather looked up, realisation hitting her in a flash.
“You realise that we haven’t seen daylight in days?” she asked. “Isn’t that strange?”
Kieran looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s true. Well it’s good to know that all is normal outside these walls. If we get out, I will never take daylight for granted again. I just hope the sunlight is real.”
Around them were hundreds of wooden boxes. They varied from parcel size to some as big as coffins, and a few were as big as storage containers. From their position, the pair’s view of anything beyond was blocked by them. Kieran whistled.
“Someone has a lot of possessions.”
Kieran left the security of the alcove and started to walk into the room. He couldn’t hear anything. He’d expected the hum of a generator, or even the familiar buzz of electronic appliances. Yet he heard nothing, and this room was totally silent, as if separate from the entire facility.
Heather emerged from cover behind him, and Kieran slowly edged to the closest wooden box. It was long and narrow, about the size of a sofa. Once he was close enough, Kieran put his hand on it and bent down. He checked for a shipping label, but found none. Piled next to this box were a series of smaller ones, approximately shoebox size, or suitable for storing personal photographs. He turned around and noticed several more of these smaller-sized boxes, as if they’d been abandoned. Kieran ran his finger along the top of one of them. There was no dust: meaning they’d been moved or cleaned recently, so maybe they hadn’t been abandoned after all. Kieran looked around. Still, he heard nothing.
Heather started to count the boxes. She gave up after thirty, noting their different shapes and sizes. They were stacked in such a way as to hide more, meaning that it would be impossible to accurately gauge how many of them there were. She followed Kieran’s lead. She began to wonder what was inside them, or indeed if they were empty. She saw Kieran run his finger along the top of one. Was he checking for dust again? Heather unwound the next length of string behind her and stopped a few feet short of Kieran. He looked at her and smiled, placing a finger to his lips, gesturing her to remain silent. Heather nodded.
Kieran knocked on one of the boxes, using just a light tap. Then again, using two raps of his knuckles.
The tapping sounded horrendously loud in the silent room. Heather realised that the contrasting silence exacerbated the stark sound. A dubious look crossed Kieran’s face. Heather moved closer. He was looking at the boxes, frowning with concern.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“These boxes have been used recently. There isn’t any dust on them and they’re empty. They sound hollow. Which is weird because there are so many.”
Heather placed the ball of string on top of the nearest box. “Maybe these contained components for all those glass canisters. We’ve seen an awful lot of electronic gadgetry on our travels. Maybe these boxes originally contained that hardware?”
Kieran turned to Heather. “That’s just it. If they contained components they’ve assembled and are using, why keep the boxes? Presumably they aren’t sending anything back. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe they haven’t had a chance to get rid of them?”
Kieran shook his head. “You’ve seen this place, Heather, it’s spick and span, tidy as a nut, clean as a baby’s bum. Whoever runs this place wouldn’t leave these boxes around if they weren’t needed for something. Which is another thing. If they aren’t needed, and haven’t been disposed of yet, that means that all this set-up is a fairly recent endeavour. You know what that means?”
Heather’s eyes grew wide. “Don’t tell me this place was built specifically for us? That can’t be true.”
Kieran rubbed his face. “If it is true, that’s only one mystery. If this place was only recently built, how quickly can one of those clone things be created? There were hundreds of them earlier on. A small army. Dust settles in a couple of days, and these boxes are dust-free. Which means that this is quite an extreme operation.”
“Remember the room earlier with hundreds of glass tubes? Setting those up in position couldn’t be done in a few days, unless they had a huge number of workers. Even with plenty of manpower, it’s still a massive undertaking.”
“This might be bigger then we first thought,” Kieran concluded. “Heather, I think we could be in serious trouble here. Now, there’s no point panicking just because we’ve found a few hundred boxes, but if we continue, we need to find some weapons and fast.”
Heather sighed. “Where do we start?”
Kieran pulled one of the boxes open, finding that its lid came off effortlessly. It was empty. He pushed it aside and opened another. Also empty. Heather realised she had to help, and moved to another pile of boxes and started looking, removing box lids and searching inside them.
“Who’s there?” a voice called out.
The voice stunned Kieran into inactivity, and Heather did the same. Unsure of what to do, they both crouched down.
“Who’s out there? I can hear you.”
Whoever the voice belonged to, they were not afraid to shout. Kieran winced at every syllable. Heather felt the onset of a rising tide of fear. Knowing they could be in trouble, Kieran took the knives from his rucksack, handing one of them to Heather. Once again, he gestured for her to stay silent. “Stay here,” he whispered.
Heather grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t you fucking dare! You said we shouldn’t split up.”
Kieran pushed her hand away. “I know. But if this guy keeps shouting, our cover’s blown anyway, so we might as well alert everyone to our presence. Stay close, but stay hidden, okay?”
Heather knew Kieran was right. She gripped her knife tightly.
Kieran stood up. He moved around the boxes. Heather stayed behind him, crouched and alert, knife in hand.
“I can hear you. Come out!” came the loud announcement
Kieran swallowed. “I’m over here. Will you stop shouting?”
“What?”
“Stop shouting! I’m over here.”
Heather heard shuffling footsteps. Was someone coming closer? Searching for Kieran?
“I hear you. I’m coming over!”
Kieran could see a man coming towards them. He placed the knife in his waistband and pulled his shirt down to conceal it.
The man was wearing white overalls. He had a bald head, and his face and the front of his clothes were covered in blood. Kieran noticed that, beyond the nearest stack of boxes, was a clearing. The room’s wi
de white floor spread out before him. A pile of upended boxes was at the far side: their recent disturbance explained the crashes. The boxes were open, and white packaging material had spewed across the floor, peanut-shaped pieces of polystyrene were moving in the slight breeze. Kieran was keen to investigate these boxes as soon as possible.
The couple noticed that a trail of red dotted the floor behind the man in front of them, indicating where he’d come from. This information could be useful to them, but possibly dangerous to know. The man neared Kieran. He was staggering, as if he was drunk.
Kieran was taken aback.
The man had no eyes. It looked as if they’d been gouged from their sockets. The muscle and bone behind his eyes was visible, and streaks of blood stained his cheeks. The skin around his eyes was chaffed and blistered, as if the eyes’ removal had been done by hacking rather than slicing. The remainder of his features appeared unharmed, but the blood had spilt everywhere. Dried gore caked his face, and his hands were covered in blood-stained grime. He was waving these in front of his face, feeling his way forward.
Kieran was too shocked to react when the man reached out and grabbed his shoulder.
“Easy now, easy,” Kieran tried to reassure him. “Listen. First, you have to keep quiet. You got that?”
Kieran gripped the sightless man’s arm gently: a gesture of friendly reassurance. He didn’t want to alarm him.
The stranger nodded, relieved to have found his bearings. “Thank you, my friend, thank you. I didn’t think I would find anyone else here. I must’ve been wandering around for hours. It seems more like days!”
“That’s fine, you’re safe now, but please keep quiet. We aren’t going to leave you, okay? What’s your name?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. He moved his head, doing his best to locate his saviour by sound alone. Kieran immediately felt a rush of sympathy and respect for this blind man, and others who were similarly afflicted. He couldn’t imagine losing his own sight. This man had obviously not been born blind, he’d been deliberately blinded and, judging by the blood, the brutal surgery had been performed recently.
“Abel,” he said. “My name is Abel Jones.”
Abel gripped Kieran’s arm, and the younger man guided him to one of the boxes. He helped Abel to sit down on it. The newcomer sank down wearily. Heather moved closer to Kieran, and Abel seemed to sense her presence.
“Abel, my name is Kieran. I’m with a woman named Heather, okay? It’s just the two of us. We mean you no harm. Can you tell us how you got here?”
Abel scratched his head. Kieran noticed that Abel had wrinkles and creases in his skin. He was bald, and the greyness of his face stubble and the few wrinkles suggested that he was in his early fifties. Heather was unsure of how to react to this newcomer.
“Nice to meet you, Heather,” Abel said, holding out his hand in Kieran’s direction. Ignoring the state of Abel’s blood-covered hand, Heather reached across and shook it gently. She smiled, realising that even in the horrific situation they had found themselves in, this apparently innocent casualty was acting as if everything was normal.
“Hi, Abel, my name is Heather. Nice to meet you too.”
Abel smiled. “Such smooth skin. And what a lovely voice.”
Heather blushed slightly, as Kieran looked on.
“Abel, where did you come from?” she asked. “Do you know where you are?”
Abel thought about it for a few moments, face furrowing with concentration. Kieran stepped close and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, you can tell us.”
Abel shook his head. “I don’t think I should. You don’t understand.”
Heather looked at Kieran. She moved to the opening and, for the first time, she noticed how wide the floor was. She saw the upended boxes, noticing the crimson trail that Abel had left behind. The room remained silent.
“What do you mean?” Kieran asked. “Do you know where you are, Abel?” Heather shrugged at Kieran, then he turned his attention back to the older man.
“They did things to me. Horrible things. They took my eyes… ” Abel lowered his head. “They took my brother. They stuck needles into me, hundreds of needles. Those bastards!”
Kieran gulped. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask the next question.
“Who did this to you? Who are they?”
Abel swallowed. “I don’t know who they are. But they aren’t exactly a friendly bunch of guys. They ripped my eyes out. I couldn’t even feel the pain at first, because they’d drugged me. I just remember being able to see, and then waking up and everything I know was darkness. Becoming blind in an instant. I thought you were them. I thank the Lord that you’re not.”
Kieran flinched. “Why did you think we were them?”
Abel stood up. “Well, I suppose because they followed me. I heard them not half an hour ago. One of them whispered in my ear. They said: ‘your brother will never forgive you for this’.”
Kieran and Heather looked at one another.
“I am afraid I was followed and I have put you both in terrible danger. I do apologise.”
***
Delta hadn’t expected this turn of events. When Abel had turned up, it’d caught him by surprise. Up until this point, Delta had been controlling everything that happened in The Game, at least from his own point of view. He knew that somewhere, he’d organised a troop of the clones to be made. These were to be used to keep his Choices occupied for several minutes whilst he put the next piece of his plan into action. He’d selected five random people from the available database based on merit, picking two brothers, Abel and Adam. They were the finest genetic scientists in their field.
James, Luke and Matthew were next. Their connection was that they were all in their physical prime. All of them were professional English football players. Their calibre of physical fitness had meant he had been forced to fork out nearly a million pounds to secure them. But he knew it was worth it.
Geneticists and footballers. Perfect fodder.
When creating clones, Delta knew that the fitter the human original was, the more successful their DNA for recreating them as super soldiers. Athletes, soldiers or indeed anyone who had a faultless physical form, was a near-perfect clone candidate. Brains also worked, and combining both fitness and intelligence was the best way to create the perfect clone.
The only flaw being that they could think for themselves.
From looking at his screen, it appeared that Abel had either escaped or the drugs had worn off. Until he contacted his Interjection Team, he wouldn’t know which it was. Maybe Abel’s age was responsible for what had happened.
Delta was angry, but he could still turn the situation around. He was still leading The Game.
He tapped his keyboard. The cameras changed. He could see Abel with the Choices. They were nurturing him like a couple of pansy pricks. Suckers.
Delta dialled a number on his phone: he needed to speak with his Interjection Team. And fast.
The phone rang on and on, but there was no answer.
He tapped his keyboard again, and studied the images on his screen carefully. He noticed marks on the floor: Abel was leaving a trail of blood. Was he injured? He observed the images closely. Even from this distance, Delta could see the blood smeared all over the man.
Some years ago, Delta had synthesised a drug that facilitated the cloning process. Cloning was no longer a new topic in science. Still controversial, of course, but not new. Delta had developed a medication that not only enabled the cloning to be a lot simpler, but also served to enhance the clones: it gave them a physical edge over their human counterparts.
For years, the remuneration from various military contracts had been his bread and butter. Delta was a proud scientist and this was his greatest achievement. Governments had been paying for his services for a decade now. It was completely hush, hush of course, no one outside their own tight circle knew what was happening, and everything was cloaked in red tape and secrecy. And people thought
Area 51 was for aliens. They were wrong.
But not far off the truth. The clones were something much more special than aliens. Clones were the future of the world. The knowledge of such a topic could sow absolute havoc everywhere and ultimately destroy everything. Delta smiled.
He decided to let this situation play itself out. He sat back in his chair and sipped his drink.
On the monitor to his left, just out of his vision, he failed to notice his Interjection Team signalling to the camera for help. In the background, a bald figure was attacking them. Then the camera went dead.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Kathryn hadn’t spoken for several minutes. The seriousness of her situation was running through her mind, rewinding and then running all over again repeatedly.
She couldn’t accept that this whole setup was a game. This sort of thing just didn’t happen in normal life. Such scenarios were played out in movies where studios provided big budgets and employed well-known actors to make profits at the box office. People didn’t go to all this expense and effort just for fun. There wasn’t enough personal cashflow in the world to permit something like this. It just wasn’t feasible to create replicas of buildings and entire streets overnight. You would need planning permission and contracts and workers and health and safety restrictions. Kathryn hadn’t been unconscious for more than two days.
What was happening was impossible.
Unless all these preparations had been done in advance. Like Iain had mentioned, the players of The Game do it every five years. Five years was enough time to build anything, given a suitable workforce and materials. More than enough time for someone to set up a situation like this. Five years was enough to stalk you, build up a profile, learn your habits, establish your regular haunts and favourite shops. Given the correct funding, someone could easily replicate someone’s life in that time. It would be a massive invasion of privacy, but in this day and age, it would hardly be a shock. And Iain had said that she was on his radar all those years ago. Anything was possible.
Kathryn felt sick, nausea overtaking her. She leaned against the wall. Once she regained her balance, she felt better. The thought of her being watched constantly over the past few years made her angry. She vowed to make the person responsible for this pay. She looked at Iain, realising that he would have some idea of how to find the players of The Game. Iain was still sitting on his desk, watching her. He stood up.
