Jack in the Box

by Shaw, Michael

  I lifted the gun. Kept it aimed low. "Just give up!"

  He ran for me, still yelling. "I can't!"

  "Brian, why?"

  "Because I'm saving your life!"

  I closed my eyes. My finger tightened on the trigger.

  He knocked my hand to the side. The gun fired; the bullet went into the wall.

  He squeezed my wrist and yanked the pistol from my hand.

  I reached for the gun, but he twisted my wrist and knocked me with the hand cuffs.

  I staggered back. In front of me was a man with one foot shot, one wrist cuffed, and one hand holding a gun aimed at my face. I put my hands up slowly "How are you. . ."

  "Jack, I wanted you to stop. I hoped you would just give up. But I can't trust that you'll leave me alone with my foot like this."

  Sweat dripped from both of our faces. True agony was on his.

  "You can't kill me, Brian. The rules. . ." I kept my hands up.

  "Not killing you. Quite the opposite. But if my foot's out, the only way I can keep you from passing. . ." He aimed the gun down, "is if yours is, too."

  My hands slowly came back down to my sides.

  His hand shook. "Five bullets. First bullet, you shot a door. Second bullet, you shot a bulb. Third one, my foot. Fourth, the wall. And this one. . ." He cocked the pistol.

  I stared at him.

  He stared at my foot.

  I exhaled. "Go on, I won't stop you."

  His eyes quickly looked into mine. Then they went back to my foot.

  "Kinda' weird, right?" I said. "All this time, you wondered if I had the guts to shoot. So, what about you?"

  He bit his lip. "I can't let you pass, Jack." He closed his eyes. "He'll kill you if I let you pass." He pulled the trigger. The barrel rocked forward.

  Click.

  He opened his eyes. No round had fired. The gun hadn't shot.

  His legs collapsed. "No. . ."

  I took a step toward him.

  His eyes widened and he fidgeted with the gun. Cocked it again.

  Another step toward Brian.

  He pulled the trigger again. No gunshot.

  I reached into my pocket.

  His eyes followed my hand.

  I pulled out a bullet. It shone under the light.

  He pulled out the magazine. "But. . ."

  I dropped the bullet. It bounced twice, then rolled into the corner of the room. "I knew my body wouldn't beat you, Brian."

  His head hung. He had lost a lot of blood. A small pool sat beside him.

  "So, I had to beat you with my mind."

  nineteen

  His eyes fluttered.

  "It's okay Brian. You didn'tletme win. You didn't."

  His skin was pale. He looked around with his eyes. Let out a sigh.

  I walked over to Brian. "I'm sorry." I squatted next to him and put my hand on his shoulder.

  Sorry for passing? No. Sorry for fighting my way out? No. Sorry for hurting him. Yes. I was sorry.

  He breathed in and out shakily. And that was the moment. The moment I thought would never happen. The thing I thought he'd never do

  Brian gave up.

  "Don't be sorry." He smiled sadly. His entire demeanor had changed. It was almost odd. But he'd realized it was over now. There was nothing he could do. He was helpless. But that didn't frustrate him. No. In fact, I think it relieved him.

  I exhaled. "Hang in there, gravity won't take its toll yet."

  He let out a small laugh. But his face fell. "I've done you so much wrong."

  I shook my head. "It wasn't you. It was the authority over you."

  His lips quivered. "I. . . I'm sorry, Jack. All the things I said. All the times I hurt you-"

  "You were trying to save my life. I didn't understand those things then, but I do understand this: now we can both live."

  Brian bit his lip. "I don't know if I'll ever meet another person like you, Jack." He squinted. His eyes started to water. He put his head back.

  I got down on my knees and put my hand under his head. "What are you saying? No one's leaving. We're getting out of this together."

  He shook his head. "That's not how it's going to work." His breaths were getting shorter.

  I looked down at his foot. He was still losing blood.

  "Don't worry," he groaned. "I'm not going to die. They will heal it."

  "Then what?"

  He reached up and grabbed my wrist. He lifted the watch in front of my face. "I'll never forget you, Jack."

  The watch reflected light onto him.

  I held his arm. Felt myself breathing heavily. What was happening? I would never see him again? "No, see, we're getting out of here together. No more testing. We can be free together."

  He slowly took his arm back. "I won't forget." He nodded at the watch.

  I shook my head. "I. . . I won't forget you." Things grew blurry. I wiped my eyes. Tried to hold back tears. For everything Brian had done, he had only been trying to save me.

  His eyes rolled up.

  "Hey. . ."

  He became limp. He had passed out.

  I gently let his head down on the floor.

  The lights flickered. A deep bass sound resounded from outside the room.

  "Well," the referee became visible, "I'll admit, you surprised me."

  I looked up at him. "What's going to happen?"

  He sniffed. "Sweet dreams."

  →

  The dream was vivid. Still unreal, still not one-to-one with reality, but it was the clearest I'd had thus far. I was at the head of a long table. Several individuals sat on both sides of this table, with folders and laptops and pens sitting in front of them. They all paid close attention to me.

  "I wanted to tell you all at once," I tapped the folder in front of me with a pen, "since you are all my top investors. I need your support in this. To implement these other two projects, OTB can no longer just rely on the government's financing. To make it work, I need all of you in."

  "Why?" an older lady, sitting a few seats down, leaned in.

  "Because we need the money."

  "No, I mean. . ." she took off her glasses, "Why implement these projects now? Project Box is tomorrow. I thought that was the end of it."

  "And," a man sitting across from her cut in, "you haven't exactly explained what these other projects are." He opened his folder. "Maybe we should start there."

  I stood. "Don't worry, I was just getting to that."

  They all focused their attention on me.

  "With Project B, we are essentially creating a perfect race," I looked across the room at the wall. "Based on physical characteristics, as well as philosophical ones."

  A pin-drop silence filled the room.

  "But what happens after that?" I scanned their eyes. "Will we have children? Will we risk an imperfection to weed its way back into the human population?"

  They gave me puzzled expressions.

  "Project C," I reached into my pocket.

  A few chuckles.

  I pulled out an ear swab which rested inside a capped tube. "This is all we need," I displayed it in front of me, "for Project Copy."

  "What - exactly - are you talking about?" that same lady inquired.

  "The C would have been for 'clone,' but it's not quite the same thing you see in science-fiction movies. There's no machine that I can just walk into and come out with a replica of myself." I uncapped the tube.

  They watched me closely.

  "The 'copy' - as we are calling it - is taken from cells. Just a few are all we need. We place the cells in an upright chamber, and after ten days, a copy is birthed. Fully grown, with the same characteristics of the original."

  Someone laughed. "I thought you said thiswasn'tscience-fiction."

  I ran the swab across inside of my cheek. "No surrogate needs to birth the copy." I placed the swab back in the tube. "Instead, there is this," I took a picture from my folder. It displayed a metal container, looking to be a few feet higher than a person
. On the front side was a door. Honestly, it looked like a metal out-house. "This will be the copy's mother." I displayed the picture to those present. "The copy will grow at a rapid pace inside this chamber, and then he will come out an adult. This covers the problem of physical imperfections that children could inherit."

  They stared in disbelief.

  The man who had previously spoken laughed again. "And this has worked? With just that?" he pointed at the tube which I held in my hand.

  I walked to my left towards the door.

  The group's eyes stuck to me.

  I opened the door. A man who looked just like me stood in the hallway. Two large men held his arms securely.

  "I'd like to introduce you to Jack number two."

  His eyes widened. "You. . ."

  The men dragged him into the room.

  Everyone had to do a double-take. A few people in the back rose to see better. They all were intrigued, to say the least.

  "I would say, the likeness is uncanny." I examined the copy. "Except for the eyes. For some reason the eyes are a different color. Either way, though, a Jack Colson who isn't actually Jack Colson."

  "You," he struggled to free himself from the large arms that held him. "Why do you look just like me?"

  "You can go now."

  They pulled him toward the doorway.

  "Hey! Who are you?" he turned his head to the group. "What is this?I'm Jack Colson!" he broke one arm free.

  The left guard grabbed the arm with both hands.

  He thrashed around furiously. "He's lying!" he shouted. "I'm Jack Colson! I'm Jack-"

  I shut the door behind them as they left.

  And the room returned to pin-drop silence.

  "My parents never had twins," I went back to the head of the table. "That right there was the world's first copy."

  The lady put her glasses back on. "He thought. . . He thought that he was you?"

  "Yes, well, that was the next part I was going to bring up. The first part is physical continuity," I held up one finger, "The second," I held up another finger, "is mental continuity."

  The people in the back slowly lowered back into their seats.

  "The mind-set that the test promotes is the mindset we want to continue through future generations. Not only that, but it is also easier to prevent rebellion if everyone has the same understanding of things. We implant them with the originals' memories during the ten-day growth. "Of course, as we found with Jack number two, these memories were not immediately in his conscious thought. He had to regain them through sleeping. Through dreams."

  "So. . . The world will just be filled with copies of one person?" another man at the table asked.

  "No," I placed the tube in my pocket, "Whoever passes the test will be copied. Then the copy will test. And the process will continue."

  I received a mixture of expressions. At the same time, though, they all seemed as if they wanted to believe me, but the plan was too odd for them to jump on board so quickly.

  "So, what's the other project?" someone spoke up.

  I smiled. Bent over.

  They all watched me. Much more closely than before.

  I came up with a small case. As I opened the case it made a small click. I pulled out the single item it contained. A glass syringe. Inside was a clear liquid. "What's next is the most important part. Project B. Project C. They are only a means to this end." I held out my hand. "Do you ever wonder what it'd be like to live forever?"

  →

  The dream changed. This was it. No fuzziness. Not even the slightest lack of color. It was the realest dream I'd ever had. And I felt as though it would be the last. At least, it would be the last dream I'd have of Jack Colson.

  I sat in my office. Working on some diagram.

  A light on my desk phone turned on. Someone spoke onto the line, "Mr. Colson?"

  "Yes," I said, more focused on my work than the phone.

  "We just let your father in, he'll be up to see you shortly."

  I stopped. Dropped my pen. "What?"

  The man on the line cleared his throat. "Your. . . your father. Brian Col-"

  "Do you think I'd appreciate jokes the day before Project Box?"

  "No, sir, I just thought since he was your-"

  "That man is going to kill me, Daniel, and you just let him in." I stood up and put on my coat.

  "Sir, I-"

  "That is all, Mr. Fulde." I folded up the paper and put it in my coat pocket.

  He hung up.

  I started for the door.

  My father opened it.

  I stopped.

  A solemn look on his face. With sad eyes, he said, "Hello, Jack."

  twenty

  "Sit down."

  I did.

  My father dragged a chair from the wall over to the front of my desk. He sat down.

  The hollowness of the room created an acoustic effect. It was almost as though the ocean was creating waves in my ears.

  My father looked into my eyes.

  I stared at the desk.

  He took a deep breath.

  I bounced one leg compulsively.

  "They let me in," he said.

  "They didn't tell me," I kept my gaze on the desk.

  He leaned back.

  I felt his eyes on me.

  About ten more painful seconds passed.

  "It's my birthday tomorrow," I said softly.

  My father leaned back.

  "Tomorrow's. . . Tomorrow I turn twenty-nine."

  He looked over to the clock on the wall. "You're right."

  I folded my hands, stared at a knot in the wood.

  "In fact, your birthday is in ten minutes. It's eleven-fifty."

  I twirled my thumbs around. Every sentence. Every word we spoke was slow. We knew something was coming up. A conversation neither of us wanted to have. So we talked in slow motion. We moved in slow motion. Everything happened steadily. I scratched the back of my hand.

  He leaned forward. "I never forgot."

  I looked up.

  He took out a very small box from inside his coat.

  I looked at him.

  He smiled sadly. "Happy birthday."

  I tried to curve my lips upward. Tried to smile.

  He put the box on the desk.

  I picked it up. Removed the lid. A watch. A very nice watch. I smiled and took it out. Looked at the back. Engraved on the metal were my initials.J.C."I love it."

  "I'm glad. Your mother and I picked it out."

  My hands fell onto the desk. Still holding the watch. They trembled.

  "And we'd like to be able to see you for your thirtieth, too."

  I slowly put the watch onto my wrist. "You still can."

  He exhaled. "In a world with Project Box?"

  I lifted my eyes. "It's the only way. . ."

  His eyes shook. "But it'snot the only way," he said.

  "You will convince me of nothing. Too much time, too many resources, and too many people were invested in this to just stop it. There's an army of the world ready to enforce this. You can't stop it."

  "Yet with all that power behind it, here I am, the father of its leader. Sitting with him face-to-face."

  My chest rose and fell overtly with each deep breath.

  "You started this. You can still end it."

  I put my palms flat on the table. "No. Even if you kill me, it will go on. The entire world is in this."

  He shook his head. "It's not about killing you. It's about you picking up that phone and contacting everyone you need to contact in order to stop Project Box."

  I clenched my jaws together.

  "But I came here ready to do what needs to be done. If it comes to that.”

  He and I gazed directly at each other. We both shook, as if the temperature of the room were below freezing.

  I quickly reached underneath my desk.

  My father beat me to it. He reached under and came back with a gun.

  We both stood simultaneously.
<
br />   My father pointed the gun at me. "Neodymium magnets underneath the desk. Keeps the pistol attached, but doesn't disrupt the mechanics of it." He raised his eyebrows. "I taught you this, Jack."

  I raised my hands slowly.

  "Pick up the phone."

  I shook my head.

  "Don't make me do this, Jack." He tightened his grip on the gun.

  "Why? Why can't you let me pursue this goal?"

  "Because it will ruin the lives of the entire world! In pursuing your goal, you'll take away the chance for people to evenhave a goal to pursue."

  I tilted my head. "Then pull the trigger."

  His chest rose and fell quickly.

  I kept my hands raised.

  "There's nothing you can do, Jack. Don't think I won't do this. I know you're my son, but I can't let you-"

  "I amnot your son."

  He closed his mouth. His jaw bones came tightly together.

  Now I was breathing quickly. "You stopped being my father the second you walked out that door last time."

  He shook his head, "Son, I-"

  "No!" I reached behind my head and pulled out a gun.

  My father jumped a little. Kept the pistol aimed at me.

  We held the firearms with both hands. Kept them pointed at each other's heads.

  Shaking. Breathing quickly. Breathing heavily. The room was cold. But sweat rolled down our faces. My father's eyes were red. Not just sweat. Tears. I blinked. I had them, too. I sneered and wiped my face with my sleeve. "A pocket sown into the upper back of the coat. Holds a gun just where you can reach it even with your hands up." I pulled back the hammer. "There are some things you didn’t teach me."

  My father cocked his gun. "Please, son. Please."

  "You can't stop me. . ." My hands shook. I held the gun more tightly.

  "Son, please. Your mother. . ."

  "No. Stop. Stop talking."

  "She can't sleep." The tears rolled down more. "She cries every night because her son. . ."

  "Shut up!" I screamed. "I told you neither of you will take it!"

  "Then we will die everyday knowing that you're doing this!" He came back with just as much volume. "Please, Jack, we miss you. We love-"