by Paul Kane
Not my great escape, although I will get to that in a second, but everything afterwards. I’ll try and keep this… what, journal?… try and keep it up to date. I figure if nothing else, it might just stop me from going stark, staring mad. Hold on, let me just see if—
Stop. Playback.
Resume recording:
God, what a complete and utter wanker I sound. Samuel Pepys I am not, but I’m all there is, so tough shit.
Too easily distracted, too random. I’ll try to keep it on track now and get through what happened at the facility first of all. Try not to bore anyone with my reminiscences about my folks, about life before all this. It’s just that I can’t help thinking back. Can’t help wishing that—
The facility. Okay, picture this: I’m taken there in the middle of the night, only allowed to pack a few essential items, I’m told – won’t need them anyway. Ain’t that the truth? Thankfully, I’m not really a sentimental kind of guy – my small flat’s quite bare. I’m also a ‘travel light’ type of person, always have been. Goes back not only to my time in the armed services, but also the travelling I did in my late teens. Backpacking mainly, staying in hostels or just camping out. Saw most of the world that way, and what I didn’t I saw when I joined up. Not going off topic again, it’s relevant I promise… Right, right. The facility. I was picked up by a dark 4x4, all very Men in Black, and we drove for a good few hours. After the first hour I began to notice fewer and fewer buildings, as we wound our way up and down country lanes.
So there we were, out in the middle of nowhere and away from prying eyes, and as dawn broke over the horizon we came up on our destination. Well, we came up on the fencing surrounding it – electrified I was guessing, and patrolled by guards in navy jumpsuits with guns and Alsatians. At the gate, IDs were checked and I was even palm-printed. Then we drove through the grounds and I got my first clear view of the facility itself. There were maybe a dozen storeys to it, and I thought I saw the edge of a rotor on the roof; some kind of landing pad? Then we parked up outside, slotting in beside the other cars that presumably belonged to staff. The same level of security continued inside here, as several armed men greeted us. You’d be forgiven for thinking that Blofeld was inside, cooking up his diabolical schemes, but there was only Weeks – who was the head of this particular programme. I got the impression it was his baby and he was very proud of it; had every right to be, as it turned out.
After saying our hellos, I was whisked up in a lift to a mid-level floor – judging from the numbers – the one where the SKIN was being developed and would be put through its paces. Wasn’t a large floor, just a few rooms and corridors, including a place where I could eat and a room to billet in until they were ready to begin the tests. Not the tests on the suit, oh no – first came round after round of medical examinations, a lot of them conducted by Weeks and a nurse. I never did catch her name, but I caught the way she looked at me when she didn’t think I was taking any notice. She was pretty, that woman – long tawny hair tied up in a bun, kind eyes behind her glasses. The kind of girl I could have seen myself with; no attachments – just something fun, y’know?
I’ve never been great with relationships; comes from not being great with people full stop. So the women I’d been with in the past, once I’d gotten over that awkward first hurdle, didn’t tend to be anything more than casual flings. And when I say ‘casual’, I don’t mean I took any risks in that department. I was careful.
This is probably not something I should be talking about in a historical document, is it? Like I said, no Sammy Pepys.
Didn’t know her name, but then who was to say Weeks was the doctor’s real name? It’s all cloak and dagger with these guys, but I could respect that. I don’t tend to shove my nose into business that doesn’t concern me, and I know when to keep my mouth shut, which is probably what got me most of these gigs in the first place. This one I figured I could do standing on my head, once I’d been given the option of whether to go through with it or back out. Sitting on my arse reading or watching TV, playing vid-games in a sealed off room to see whether this new suit they were talking about worked in different environments? Piece of cake, I said to myself. Then they told me about the other stuff.
First there was the fact they were going to shave me completely, they’d left that off the job description – something to do with conductivity. SKIN on skin. Wouldn’t grow back either, as long as I was wearing it. I swallowed that. After all, it wouldn’t be forever and I was getting paid enough. Then there was the big one.
“It’s going to do what?” I asked.
“In layman’s terms,” Weeks said to me, “it’ll take your waste and reprocess it on a loop, to sustain your body.”
“I’m going to be eating my own shit, is that what you’re telling me? Drinking my own—”
Weeks held up his hand and shook his head at the same time. “I wouldn’t have put it so crudely myself, and it will be more like you are absorbing the processed nutrients than eating – once the SKIN is covering you completely, you won’t be able to eat or drink anything in the way that you normally do. Look, you really don’t have to worry about all that.”
“Oh, don’t I?” I replied.
“It’s not harmful in any way, I assure you,” Weeks insisted. “Please, Lieutenant Keller…”
If I’d pushed the point I think the tears would have come and Weeks would’ve started scratching at the top of his head. But I sighed, shook my head, and signed the releases, thinking it probably sounded worse than it was. In all honesty, it does – you don’t even really notice what’s happening mostly; like any other ‘natural’ function, only it’s being taken care of by the SKIN rather than you. And, like I say, it was only going to be for a little while at a time; a week for starters. It’d go quickly enough with stuff to entertain me – I’m a slow reader, so one e-book would probably see me right, though there were thousands on the tablet they gave me. I could catch up on some of those classics I’d never got around to checking out, like Moby Dick; you know, the one where that sailor was chasing the whale. War and Peace, stuff like that. Stuff that… well, I don’t think is going to be around now in years to come. Maybe not even in months to come.
Wish I’d got around to them, but sadly I started in on the vid-games and movies first and never got to the books. Three days I was in there, just three days – I knew because of the calendar-clock on the wall. Something quite appropriate about that. Made it to the halfway mark, sitting there in the SKIN – though they had allowed me some dignity, a pair of shorts over the top of it so I wouldn’t be completely in the altogether; that and a pair of boots. Weeks and his team, especially the nurse, had seen everything I’d got anyway doing their prodding and poking. Just a shred of human decency; something to make me more comfortable, I suppose. Wasn’t to keep me warm either, as they reduced the heat in there; the SKIN would maintain a neutral body temperature at all times. They’d told me that in all the briefings about the suit, gone through everything until my eyes had started to glaze over. Including the digital recorder… but that went out of my head altogether until a few hours ago, as I said. Wasn’t expected to make comments about how the trial was going, that was their job – they were checking and recording, even observing in person through that huge window. Felt a bit like I was in an interrogation room from some cheesy cop show at times – only it wasn’t a two-way mirror – or like a rat in a lab being scrutinised… yeah, more like that.
I was a lab rat; had been for a long while.
Occasionally I played a few hands of cards with one of the sentries that had been posted on that level – he’d be sitting on one side of the glass, me on the other. Not only helped pass the time, but made it all feel less… peculiar. I also slept – a lot. I was asleep when it all hit the fan, actually; curled up on that camp bed when the sirens started. I have no idea who hit them, especially knowing what I do now; maybe they were automated? Anyway, took me a minute or so to remember exactly where I was. Thought for a momen
t there I was back on my travels as a teenager, in a tent in some foreign land.
Then I heard the gunfire.
That roused me, got me on my feet pretty fucking quickly I can tell you. Because it was close, and getting closer. It was machine-gun fire, machine guns like the ones I’d seen the guards carrying. My first thought was that somebody was trying to break in, perhaps to steal the SKIN? They’d caught wind of it and wanted to either copy the thing or make a fortune selling the tech on the black market. Didn’t matter that it hadn’t been properly tested yet – that I was in the process of doing that right now – it would still have gone for several million to the right buyer. People like that would probably rip it off me, and they wouldn’t want to leave any witnesses.
Then he was there, walking backwards holding the rifle: a modified Heckler & Koch MP5 with scope, to be exact. Not the guard I’d played poker with, but another one wearing the same navy jumpsuit and beret they all had on. The only way I could tell them apart was the colour of their hair; this one blond, a bit lighter than my own shade. He was backing into the stretch of corridor facing my room, then he suddenly began firing his weapon again. Short bursts, his teeth gritted.
“What? What is it?” I shouted through the glass. “What…”
I stepped away sharply when he turned, facing me with a look I’ll never forget as long as I live. The clenched teeth – what I’d taken for panic, fear, something I’d seen all too often in combat – was accompanied by a wide-eyed expression that told me he was anything but frightened. It was manic, wild, and more than a little terrifying to actually look at – like the Joker, but less controlled. A faint line of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth as he cocked his head and stared at me. I’d never felt more like a lab rat than in that moment, or maybe some sort of larger animal that was this man’s prey. He raised the gun, and I wondered then if the glass was bullet-proof. Why would it be? There was no reason for it to be, so probably not. In any event, I was about to find out one way or another.
I’d also assumed, wrongly, that the gunfire had been two way – the guard defending himself against an enemy – but I saw now, as one of the white-coated technicians entered the frame, that he was shooting at unarmed people. His attention diverted by the young man making a grab for his weapon, the blond sentry turned and pressed the trigger. The techie danced about for a moment or two, the bullets being pumped into him keeping the guy in the air, before he was thrown back against the far wall – leaving a smear of bright redness in his wake as he slumped down it. It stood out more than it probably should have, that trail of crimson, because of the starkness of the wall; the clothes he’d been wearing were no longer white, but saturated with the colour. The whole thing looked like some sort of horrific modern art exhibit.
But the guard wasn’t finished yet.
It was clear the man was dead, sitting there in a pool of his own blood; one leg bent underneath him; both hands turned upwards like a beggar waiting for a handout; head lolling on his chest. Or at least it was before the guard took hold of it by the hair, gripping and yanking it back until it rested there against the wall.
I saw what was about to happen, screamed, “No, don’t!” I’m not entirely sure why, because the techie was already dead. Maybe it was that humanity thing again, that gut reaction telling you this shouldn’t be happening – that nobody should be doing the things he was doing.
He then proceeded to shoot into that head, more bullets striking it at point blank range. The effect was like a melon being hit repeatedly with a bat, until there was nothing you could really call a head anymore – just the tattered stump of a neck. His rifle clicked on empty, and for that I was grateful. Only he ejected the mag and reloaded, slamming in another full one from his pocket – an automatic action he must have done a thousand times.
“Christ,” I said under my breath. I knew I had to get out of there, but when I went to the door and tried it, nothing happened. “Christ!” I said again, louder this time, perhaps thinking that he was the only one who might be able to help me now. It was clear what had happened, a lone nutter had gone apeshit for whatever reason – you see it on the news all the time; pressures of work, his home life, addiction to something… – usually gambling, which affected all the others – and was shooting up the place. Shooting up the folk who worked there, too. Didn’t know when to stop shooting, in fact. Couldn’t even see when his bullets were no longer hitting flesh.
Case in point, he was already pressing the trigger as he turned back in my direction; suddenly remembering what he’d been about to do before the techie interrupted him. The fish in a certain barrel – or bowl might be more accurate – he needed to put down. Luckily, this time – because I’d moved towards the door – I was able to duck, spread myself across the floor as the bullets hit the glass. I covered my head with my hands, though what protection that would give me I had no idea – they’d just end up like that poor sod’s bonce. As it turned out, I didn’t need protection anyway. When I risked a glance up, I saw that the glass was scratched, but holding. Looks like it is toughened after all, I thought.
The guard cocked his head again and opened his mouth – this time a cascade of drool poured out. It was foaming, like he’d been bitten by a dog with rabies. Could that be the explanation? Had one of those Alsatians I’d seen done this? Right at that moment, did it even matter? I had more pressing things to worry about… The glass was being weakened by the hail of bullets still bombarding it – not even the reinforced stuff would hold out forever. Then the noise stopped; sorry, the firing stopped… because the alarms were still going.
The guard dropped his gun on the ground next to the window, suddenly reaching up, reaching around, clawing at his back. He spun, chasing whatever was behind him that I couldn’t see…and then suddenly I could. The man had a fire-axe planted squarely in the middle of his back, the wood dangling uselessly down from its head. His fingers continued to reach for the thing with little success. Someone had done it, stopped this prick in his tracks – stopped his rampage before he could get to me. And I thought then about the poor techie who hadn’t been so fortunate. Then I thought, how many more are out there in that same condition? A few? Dozens? Might have murdered everyone in the entire fucking building for all I knew. Hadn’t got us all, though. Hadn’t got me, and hadn’t got whoever had done the number on him with the axe.
As he fell, the guard dropped to his knees and revealed my saviour. Imagine my surprise when I saw that it was Dr Weeks, who always looked like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Well, he’d do more than say boo it seemed; would lop the thing in two as soon as look at it. Weeks was gaping down at the guard, admiring his handiwork as the man toppled over sideways, still unable to dislodge the weapon. Except Weeks was crying, looking more like Stan Laurel than ever with his face crumpled up like that. I wanted to go to him then, tell him he’d done the right thing – the only thing, given the circumstances. Lord knows how many more lives he’d saved by taking down that maniac.
But there was something about the tears, something about the way his face was contorting. There was no sadness there, not really. And as he began to laugh, I saw that same look of insanity wash over his features… just before he retrieved the axe and set to work on the rest of the guard, swinging it like he was a lumberjack chopping up a pine. At one point it got stuck in the guy’s side, so Weeks put his foot on the body – holding it in place so he could wrench out the axe. I watched all this slack-jawed, unable to look away. It was almost as shocking as what I’d seen the guard do, and even more unexpected.
Then suddenly he was done. Weeks met my gaze, the tears still streaming down his face, and he howled. I swear to God he actually howled… like it was the full moon or something and he was about to go native. Was that it? Had the dog that infected the guard bitten Weeks as well?
But the howl turned into a laugh, then wracking sobs – before he ran at the glass, head-butting it over and over again. Head-butting it until there were more red smears, thi
s time on the glass, and he’d joined the guard on the floor. It was only then that I rose to a crouching position, before standing upright. I walked towards the glass, but still couldn’t take my eyes off the scene in front of me. My vision was flitting between the bodies of the guard, the techie, then back to Weeks and his damaged head.
What the fuck… just what the actual fuck?
Eventually, I tried the door again, but still couldn’t get it to open. It was electronic, so maybe when the alarms kicked in everything shut down, I reasoned. That just left one way out…
I went back to the window, pressed on the glass with my fingertips. Then I banged on it, testing again – this time for weak spots in the surface. And let me tell you, it was still pretty solid, even after everything. I stood there banging on it with my fist, even kicked it a few times – not even thinking back then that I might damage the SKIN, might make a tear in it that could… Fortunately, it’s a tough son of a bitch too, this stuff I’m cocooned in. It’s had to be over these past few months.
I tried with chairs and my camp bed next, kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner. I swung them at the glass, but still nothing happened; maybe if I’d had Weeks’ axe, which was just out of reach… I gave up a few times, sat down and waited for someone else to come along – someone sane. At some point during this, the alarms had ceased their wailing as well, for which I was thankful. Finally, I got up and tried again, one last attempt – feeling it give around the spot where Weeks had been throwing himself at the pane. It splintered, spider-webbing from the centre outwards, weakening it more and more.
One last swing with the chair did it, and the glass shattered, then fell like rain onto the floor – both inside and outside the room. I stepped out cautiously, mainly because I had no idea what might be waiting for me around the corner, but also due to the fact there was so much blood everywhere. As I peered around the bend, I saw more of it leading up the corridor. Could have just been from the guard’s exploits, but I stooped to pick up his MP5 anyway… and took his pistol from the holster as well – just for good measure – tucking that into the back of my shorts.
