by Matt Stark
“I said you enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
Craig’s shoulder’s jiggled slightly – then started heaving. Sam watched him, confused for a moment, then realized he was laughing. Sam launched himself forward at exactly the same moment Craig turned. He was at full pelt running toward Craig when Jean snapped her head up, alerted by his movement, and began to reach for her Glock. But Sam knew he’d get to Craig before she got the gun – and that was all that mattered.
Craig was facing Sam now. He was still laughing, although his face was grey and glistened with sweat. At least Sam could wipe the smile off his face. One quick punch in the throat was all he’d have time for before Jean got the Glock, but it was all Sam would need. Craig seemed to realize the danger he was in right at the last second. The laughter stopped, and he held up his hand, palm facing Sam. Something in his expression made Sam stop.
Craig’s chest was still heaving, but Sam realized it wasn’t from laughter. He was out of breath, like he’d just run a marathon. His face was a sickly white-grey like the skin of a salamander.
“She’s alive,” said Craig, suppressing a cough.
Sam did a double take. “What?”
Craig bent over coughing, waving his hand at Sam. Sam looked over at the woman, but Jean was kneeling in front of her, blocking his view.
Craig straightened up – his colour a little better.
“She’s alive, you dumbass. I cured her.”
***
Sam frowned. What new bullshit was this? He reached Craig in a few strides, pushed him then Jean aside, then stopped dead. The woman lay on her back: her eyes open, clear and pain-free. Sam looked at her injured left leg. Her trousers were ripped from Craig’s knife. But her thigh, which Sam knew had taken a 9mm Glock round, was… Sam shook his head, not able to believe his eyes. Between the ripped, bloodied edges of her trousers her skin was pink and undamaged.
What the fuck happened to the hole in her thigh?
Sam stared at the woman’s leg for a very long moment then got up woodenly, and faced Craig.
Craig was smiling, and a little less grey, although there were dark rings under his eyes now. Jean stood by his side, her arm through his, supporting him. Her features had softened as well and arranged themselves in what Sam thought might be an expression of pride and relief.
Sam’s mind was all over the place. Had he just seen Craig Glaser heal a gunshot wound with his bare hands? Peter had told him Craig had an ability. He could heal more quickly than others. Even after getting some of his memories back Sam couldn’t remember seeing Craig use it. Peter had said Craig’s ability was weak, nothing special. But whatever Sam had just seen, it wasn’t weak.
“What was that?” he said staring at Craig.
“You know what that was, Sam. It was my ability.”
Sam shook his head. This was on another level. It seemed too much to believe. Craig must have seen the doubt in his eyes.
“Still don’t believe me?”
He held up his hand, pulled out his knife, and drew the blade along it, cutting deeply into his palm. The edges of the wound gaped open for a moment. Then they drew together as if someone was pulling on an invisible drawstring. The joined edges swelled briefly, then scabbed over. Finally the scab fell off. Craig held his palm up in front of Sam’s eyes for inspection. The skin was smooth – unblemished – as if it had never been cut.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Sam. What Craig had done was straight out of an H.G. Wells novel.
“I can heal myself and others,” said Craig. “Although I can’t say it doesn’t take something out of me.”
Sam was still staring at Craig’s hand.
“But Peter told me your ability was weak.”
“I’ve come a long way since then. Our abilities aren’t static, you know.”
Sam stared from Craig’s hand to the woman and back again, still struggling to understand what he’d seen.
“I don’t understand how…”
“I did it because I’m a post-human. Just like you, Sam. Our abilities are what set us apart from the norms, and what makes them want to kill us.”
He gestured to a chair by the PM’s desk.
“Sit, Sam. I need to show you something. It’s about time you understood where you came from, and what you are.”
Sam hesitated. After Craig had just cured that woman, he knew he wasn’t going to get any more concessions right now. Anyway, he needed to hear what Craig had to say, especially after what he’d just seen.
“Can you at least get the Prime Minister off his knees?”
Craig nodded to Jean, who went over to the PM and guided him to a chair behind his desk.
“Now will you sit?” said Craig, gesturing to another chair in front of the desk, facing the PM.
Sam sat down. Craig took a seat next to him. Jean stood behind him, one hand on his shoulder. Then Craig dragged a laptop from the far side of the desk, and tapped on the keyboard.
“This,” he said, turning the screen to face Sam, “was recorded several months ago in the JIS post-human lab in Vauxhall Cross. Jean got a job as a porter. We managed to get a camera and a mic embedded into her ID badge.”
Sam looked at the screen. Suddenly he didn’t want to wait.
“Can’t you just tell me? Do we really need all this cloak and dagger stuff?”
Craig grunted, and clicked play. “Just watch. Then you’ll understand why.”
Chapter 24
The date stamp on the bottom of the screen said 4/1/2026, about a month ago. Next to that were the words: JIS Medical Vauxhall Cross. The camera was moving along a corridor with white-washed walls. At intervals doors led off it. It went through one of the doors into a room, lined either side with beds, like one of those old Victorian hospitals. Only this was more like a scene from One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Sam almost expected to see R.P. McMurphy come screaming around the corner. He didn’t, but what Sam saw was worse. About thirty men, women and children filled the beds. Some were strapped down with leather restraints, others sat up rocking back and forth – all of them in a shit state.
Sam turned to Craig. “What is this?”
The muscles in Craig’s jaw bunched. “I told you to watch,” he said in a tight voice.
The video jumped. Now the time stamp said 11/1/2025. They were in another room. A kid with glazed eyes sat on a high stool. Alongside him, with his hand on the kid’s shoulder, stood a man in a white coat. And behind them both – in the shadows – was a figure Sam couldn’t make out.
“I’ve come to take Karl back to his room.” Sam recognized Jean’s voice from out of shot.
Mr. White Coat jerked his head up.
“We’re not finished yet. You can wait over there. Just make sure you keep out of our way.”
Karl and White Coat seemed to get a little smaller as Jean backed off.
White Coat turned back to the kid.
“Okay, Karl, go ahead.”
The kid swallowed.
“Do I have to? It hurts my head.” His voice slurred as he spoke.
“We’ve discussed this, Karl.”
Karl made a whimpering noise.
“Now,” barked Mr. White Coat, the tips of his fingers blanching white as they dug into Karl’s shoulder.
Karl looked down at five cricket balls lying on the floor, the rock-hard type covered in red leather. He stared at them for thirty seconds, his face getting redder and Mr. White Coat’s fingers whiter with each passing moment. Suddenly all five balls flew up off the floor.
“Pattern Alpha,” said White Coat.
The balls arranged themselves in a perfect circle and rotated.
Back in the Prime Minister’s office Sam clenched his hand on the edge of the mahogany table. The kid was moving those balls with his fucking mind. That was another level up from telepathy and even clairvoyance. But it didn’t look like it came easy. And there was something off about the kid, a kind of vacant look in his eyes that was giving Sam the heebie-jeebies.
<
br /> “That’s better, Karl. Now, Gamma,” said White Coat, his tone softer.
The balls kept rotating, but turned 180 degrees to make a vertical wheel. Karl’s face was beetroot red now. White Coat grinned and rubbed his hand over Karl’s black lank hair.
“See, you can do it if you try. Well done, Karl.”
But Karl didn’t answer. He didn’t look like he’d heard him. His eyes were fixed on the rotating balls like his life depended on it. His bottom lip quivered. Then he let out a whimper. One of the balls crashed into the ceiling like a bullet, showering the man and Karl in pieces of plaster, before falling back to the floor.
Chapter 25
Karl giggled nervously, still beet red. Four balls hovered level with his glazed eyes. The other lay at his feet surrounded by chunks of ceiling. White Coat brushed a piece of plaster off his shoulder.
“Shit.” His voice had a quaver to it that sounded more like fear than anger.
No one moved for a long moment, then footsteps approached from the back of the room. White Coat visibly tensed as the mystery man emerged from the shadows. He was about fifty, dressed in a badly fitting dark suit and tie. As he moved into the light Sam saw his upper lip was deformed, from a harelip surgery gone wrong. It made him lisp badly when he spoke.
“That’s not nearly good enough,” said Harelip.
“Of course,” replied White Coat, not meeting Harelip’s eye. “I’m sure Karl can do better.”
One of the four cricket balls in front of Karl wavered for a second before returning to formation. Maybe Karl wasn’t so sure.
“Are you kidding? He’s had his chance.” Harelip’s voice was harsh.
Neither White Coat nor Karl replied, but one of the balls dipped again. Harelip moved round White Coat to face Karl – squeezing in between him and the cricket balls. He stared at Karl for a moment like he was examining his morning bowel movement, then grabbed Karl’s chin, yanked it up and looked into his eyes. Karl’s lip quivered, but his glazed eyes didn’t shift from the cricket balls.
Harelip’s nose crinkled, distorting his scar. “I give you superhumans and you give me back fucking zombies.”
“We’ve had some technical problems controlling the subject’s abilities without disturbing their higher functions, sir.”
“Fucking technical difficulties. Have you seen the state he’s in?”
Harelip began to turn Karl’s head around. Back in the Prime Minister’s office Craig leaned forward and tapped the laptop’s mouse pad – the recording froze with Harelip’s fingers gripped on Karl’s chin.
Sam glared at Craig. “Why did you stop it?”
“This is where you find out why we bomb those bastards. Do you want to see? You might not like it.”
It was way too late to turn back now.
“Show me,” said Sam.
Craig pressed on the mouse pad and Harelip sprung back into action, turning Karl’s head around to expose the right side, which had previously been hidden from view. Sam’s jaw went slack. A livid purple scar ran from Karl’s shaved temple to his ear.
“Is this what you call a technical difficulty?” said Harelip.
“We’re working on a pharmacological solution,” replied White Coat, speaking rapidly. “But for the time being a partial lobotomy has been the only way to get the degree of control you want… sir.”
Harelip grunted, as if he had no patience for excuses. Then without saying another word he headed for the door. When he reached it White Coat spoke again.
“Sir, what shall we do with Karl?”
“Who?”
“Subject A19.”
Harelip looked confused for a second – as if he didn’t understand the question. Then he frowned.
“He’s too unstable to use in an operational capacity.”
“So what shall we do with him, sir?”
“Kill him.”
Craig paused the video with a shaky hand.
“You wanted to know why we bomb them. This is why.” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “Because they lock us up, and butcher us. They don’t even spare our children.”
Sam wiped his hand over his face feeling nauseous. He couldn’t get the image of Karl’s scarred temple out of his mind.
“Why would anyone want to do this?”
“Why do you think? Post-humans are the next evolutionary step. The norms are terrified of us. They know their time is nearly over, but can’t accept it. So they want to control us. You and I were subjected to months of hypnosis and mental conditioning, but it didn’t work, so JIS medical started the surgical program. We just missed out on it. We’re lucky, Sam, we didn’t end up with our brains cut open, like Karl.”
Sam ducked his head and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. The government were performing lobotomies on post-humans, his people. Could that really be true? It sounded like something the Third Reich would do, not the British government. But then again how would he feel if he were a norm? Wouldn’t he feel threatened by this new, apparently superior race? Wouldn’t he do everything he could to survive? Looked at like that he supposed it was possible.
Up until a few minutes ago Sam had a clear objective. Save the PM and the hostages. Sure, he’d had a shedload of questions, but he’d shoved them in a mental box labelled Deal with Later. But now his mind was all over the place. Was he still trying to save the PM? If the PM was ultimately responsible for the mess that was Karl’s head, then maybe not.
Then it hit him. Assuming this wasn’t a hoax, and the video was accurate, the surgery was performed in Vauxhall Cross. Nothing happened there without Peter’s approval, nothing. So he must have known. And if Peter knew, did Suzie? The phone rang interrupting his thoughts. Craig answered it, putting it on speakerphone.
“Glaser?” Peter’s voice buzzed through the small speakers.
Sam knew Peter would be confused and pissed off. He’d removed his comms device, and hadn’t called Peter as arranged. Peter would think either Craig had found the device, or Sam had swapped sides.
“Do you have Sam?”
Craig looked at him. “He’s here. You should have told me you were sending an old friend, Peter.”
Peter didn’t answer straightaway. He was probably working out whether Sam was still onside.
“I thought you might listen to him.”
If Peter thought Sam was working with Craig he wasn’t saying anything.
Craig sighed. “Peter, I hope you have good news for me.”
“We heard a shot. Has anyone been harmed?”
Sam was surprised Peter hadn’t sent in JIS Special Forces. He must have been close to it. Maybe he’d banked on Craig’s not being stupid enough to kill the PM, and give up his leverage. But it had been a hell of a risk to take.
“Accidental discharge, everyone’s fine,” replied Craig, glancing at Pink Perm. She was sitting up against the wall, looking shit scared, but perfectly healthy.
The connection crackled. “We need more time.”
Craig cursed, went over to the Prime Minister on the far side of the desk, and shoved his Glock against his head. “There’s no more time, Peter.”
“You can’t expect…”
“I have a gun to the Prime Minister’s head right now.”
Peter’s voice blared out of the speakerphone.
“Craig, don’t.”
Sam had already jumped up. He’d decided – even if the PM was responsible for what happened to Karl, he couldn’t just let Craig execute him. At least not until he knew for sure what the hell had happened.
“Craig, we can talk. That’s why I’m here. It doesn’t have to be like this,” he said, trying to make his voice as persuasive and non-threatening as possible.
Craig shot him a dark look, like he was something he’d found on the bottom of his boot, and pushed the barrel of his Glock into the Prime Minister’s temple. When the PM grunted Craig pulled off his gag.
“Maybe you can make Peter see sense,” he said, pushing the phone towa
rd the PM.
The PM spat out a piece of soggy shirt. “Peter, my government does not negotiate with terrorists.”
Craig snorted. “I’m going to count to ten, Peter. Give me something concrete, or your Prime Minister’s brains will be all over the carpet.”
Sam was having trouble believing Craig would kill the PM. In his mind he was still the ultra-loyal Craig Glaser of ten years ago. But his eyes told a different story. Above his scraggly beard Craig’s face was red with anger, his eyes blazing. And there had been an absolute certainty in his voice when he’d said he’d blow the PM’s brains out. It wasn’t bravado. He meant it.
Craig pulled the phone closer with his free hand and spoke into it.
“One, two...”
“Craig, I need more time, four or five hours at least,” said Peter’s tinny voice.
Sam saw Craig’s finger squeeze against the trigger. He’d taken up first pressure. It would only take the tiniest movement to fire the weapon now.
“Three, four…”
Sam’s brow furrowed. What the fuck was Peter playing at? Did he think Craig was bluffing? Or was he really prepared to let Buller die?
Sweat glistened on the Prime Minister’s forehead. He caught Sam’s eye. Then suddenly he jerked forward and shouted into the phone. “Peter, I’m giving you a direct order. Do not release the post-human terrorists.”
Snarling, Craig yanked him back and wrapped the gag around his mouth. As he was pulling it tight, Jean ran to Craig, grabbed his arm, and spoke into his ear. Sam watched Jean’s thumb move back and forth over Craig’s wrist, and prayed he would listen to her. He certainly would have. Her mouth was almost touching Craig’s ear as she spoke. Craig’s cheek twitched, then abruptly he leaned over the desk, snapped up the phone and spoke directly into the handset.
“Okay, Peter, another thirty minutes. But if you don’t tell me you’re releasing post-humans when we next talk, I’ll kill the hostages – starting with the Prime Minister.”
