by A J Rushby
Thinking quickly, I turn my head away and hold my dad’s phone up, pointing to it. That done, I wrestle the glasses off my face and place them on the desk beside me, pinching the bridge of my nose like Thing One had done in my lab. It’s a move I’ve seen her do many times before, and I honestly believe it’s all that can save me at this point.
‘Oh, Amanda. Sorry, I thought you’d gone to bed.’ It’s Thing Two.
I wave with one hand as Emily continues to freak out on the other end of the line.
I begin to hear the door close and when it clicks shut, I breathe a sigh of relief, bringing both phones back to my ears. Emily is still carrying on.
‘Did either of you understand any of that?’ I whisper. ‘They need to be stopped before …’ Again I pause, because I realise that while the door had clicked shut, it still feels like someone’s watching me.
I turn slowly in my seat.
And see Thing Two standing in front of the closed door.
We lock eyes.
Both phones still emitting garbled speech, I search blindly for the end buttons on both of them.
And then I push the chair back from under me and stand.
ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINE AND A HALF HOURS AWAKE
We stare at each other for some time, neither of us knowing what to do.
If this was a movie, it would be so simple. I’d run on over, stab him with something, stick the body under the desk, call Emily and my dad again, mobilise the media, then saunter on back to my lab and pretend nothing’s happened. But I couldn’t do that.
Could I?
I glance over at the phone and spot a pair of scissors lying on the desk. I lunge for them, and bring them around to hold them out in front of me. They shake thanks to both my tremor and sheer terror. I might not be going to hurt him, but he doesn’t know that. I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy.
‘Miri.’ He sticks his hands up. ‘Slow down. I’ll get Marcus.’
The last person on earth I want to see right now is Marcus.
I shake my head. ‘No.’
He exhales. ‘Look, you don’t understand.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ I cut in. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘No, it’s …’ he begins. ‘The drugs and the lack of sleep. They’re affecting you. They’re making you paranoid.’
This makes me pause. I know they are. I know I’m acting jumpy and weird. But I also know it’s not just me that thinks something terrible is going on here. Steen was the one who first said something needed to be done to stop the Society’s experimentation on Ryan. I might be paranoid, but I’m still lucid enough to remember the offer the Society made to us all.
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ I tell him. ‘Now, move over there.’ I gesture to the far corner with my scissors. ‘Keep your hands on the wall and make your way around to the other side of the room.’
‘Okay, okay, just … stay calm …’ He moves over to the wall and places his hands on it, then shuffles along, his back to me.
‘Good. Right into the corner,’ I tell him.
He keeps moving.
‘Now, down. And get under the shelf.’
‘Look, you’re tired. Your last test results were way down. Your medication needs adjusting …’
‘Under the shelf!’ I bark. I have no idea why I’m making him get under the wide shelf that holds the printer and so on, but I am. To give me a precious few seconds to get out of here, I suppose.
I watch as Thing Two gets under the shelf, tucking himself into a ball.
‘Now, count to … five hundred,’ I say. I can’t believe what’s coming out of my mouth. I’ve always hated it when people give instructions like this. If I’m not careful I’ll start some ridiculous monologue about my grand plan and how everything might have worked out if it wasn’t for him snooping around in the middle of the night. Anyway, the moment I’m out the door he’ll quit counting and get out from under the shelf. I know I would in his position.
‘One, two, three …’ he starts.
And me? I do the only thing I can do now.
I run.
I have no idea what I’m doing. No idea where I’m going. All I know is I have to get out of here. My brain isn’t built for this sort of thing. It likes facts and figures and information and plans, not running and making snap decisions. I pinch myself hard on the arm hoping that the pain might wake me up a little.
Think. Think.
Out in the corridor, I look to both my left and right.
And then I remember the fire safety talk.
The stairs.
I have to get to the stairs. The stairs that are situated on each corner of the building.
I turn right then and run as fast as I can for the swinging doors at the end of the corridor. I push through and find myself in a different sort of corridor entirely—plain grey concrete. A service corridor. It’s got to lead to the stairs. It’s got to. There are a few other doors on my right as I run along it, but they all need an ID card to be swiped in order to enter. They must be storage rooms, I figure. I need an unlocked door—the fire exits can’t be locked.
At the end of the corridor, on the left, there’s another door with a handle. I run over and listen against it for a moment and when I can’t hear any movement on the other side, I open it tentatively and stick my head out. It leads directly out to the gallery—the gallery with the ever-changing medical art. At first I don’t understand, but then I see it has no handle on the outside—only ID card access that will see it click open from the other side.
My eyes move to look along to the left. All is quiet. Then I turn to look along the gallery to the elevator. No, I’m not going to risk taking the elevator. Instead, I step out and close the door behind me. Then I take a few steps over and open the door that’s further down on the right—the one the fire safety person had shown us.
Pushing it open, I lose no time in starting up the metal stairs. I mistime one step and stumble, but recover my footing before I fall. I’m more careful after that and, as I go, I listen out for the sound of the door opening again and for someone to start up the stairs after me. Thing Two can’t really be counting to five hundred, can he? I run up the first flight of stairs, the second and then the third, feeling more and more exhausted as I go. I’ve just reached the very top of the fourth flight of stairs, and the exit door, when I hear something below. I’m not sure what. The door? The elevator whirring into operation? I don’t know.
I don’t stop to think about it.
But I do stop when I remember the security guard who might be on the other side of the door. And now I wonder if he’s really here to keep people out, or to keep us in.
I guess I’m about to find out.
Another pinch of my arm reminds me to focus.
I pull the door open and burst through to the outside world. ‘Hey!’ I yell out. ‘Hey, is there still a security guard here?’
When in doubt, act like you know what you’re doing.
I hear footsteps running towards me. And finally a security guard appears from around the corner. ‘Oh, great,’ I blurt out. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. We need all the help we can get. There’s a broken water pipe. Can you give us a hand? They sent me up to fetch you.’
The guy looks surprised by my request, but nods. I can see his eyes checking out my blue scrubs. And my scissors. Ugh, I can’t believe I’m still carrying the scissors. ‘I’m … cutting up sheets,’ I stutter.
He stares at me for a moment longer, but it seems my blue scrubs seal the deal. ‘Where do I need to go?’
‘Down to the lab area,’ I tell him decisively. I hold the door open for him. ‘I’m just going to grab some extra tools out of one of the cars. Can you tell everyone I’ll be back down in a minute?’
‘Will do.’ He heads inside and I close the door behind him as quickly as possible.
I can’t believe that worked.
With the door closed, it’s dark outside, only a dim light illuminating the bunker. I w
ait for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, it’s not that much brighter. I take a step forward, then another.
I have to keep moving.
Have to hide.
I can see the basic outline of the cars, not too far away, but there’s no way they’ll have left the keys in them. And over there, beside them—that’s the dirt road. But I can’t start along that. It would probably take me ten to fifteen minutes of solid running to get to the end of it and I’m slow. They’d find me without any effort at all.
With a flick of my head, I try to wake my brain into recalling what I saw when I first arrived here—in the time between exiting the car and entering the elevator and descending to our subterranean world. I’d been facing the front of the bunker and there had been trees to my right. I remember that. And I also remember I thought the sea might be that way as well. There will be houses there, surely. Near the sea. And phones. But there’s also a wide stretch of plain to cross before I get there. A wide, flat stretch that they’ll cross easily in a car, spotting me instantly with their headlights.
I look up then at the top of the bunker—the part of the building that houses the elevator and the entrance to the stairs. And I get an idea.
Keeping my hand on the concrete wall, I run around to the back and see if I can spot a way to climb on top.
At first I can’t see anything—the walls are all f lat, plain concrete surfaces. But then I spot two pipes running along the outside, further along the back wall, one above the other. They’re high up, but I might be able to make it.
No, I have to make it.
There’s no choice now.
No time left.
I run on over and fling my leg up onto the lower pipe, then try to push myself up, scrabbling unsuccessfully at the top pipe, my nails scratching along it. My body’s too tired. Too weak.
Come on.
Come on.
I try again, pushing harder this time, pulling a muscle in my leg, my arms stretching, my fingers grasping at anything, then closing, amazingly, around the top pipe.
I heave myself up then, my foot balanced precariously, the pipe creaking with my weight upon it. I have no time to lose. I stretch up again to catch the edge of the roof and push up, somehow managing to get my stomach flat on top of it. Then I drag my legs up.
As I do so, I catch my knee on something sharp—I’m not sure what. It rips through my pants and my knee as well and I very nearly cry out in pain.
But I don’t allow myself that luxury, because, at the same moment, I hear voices from the stairs.
So I don’t cry out.
Instead I curl up into a ball and stuff my knuckles into my mouth and pray that everyone thinks I’ve simply made a run for it.
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY HOURS AWAKE
I bite down hard on my knuckles, my head spinning, and listen to the people moving about down below. It sounds like there’s a few of them. Maybe three or four?
‘There’s a flashlight in each car, isn’t there?’ Marcus says. ‘Let’s start by grabbing those. I really don’t understand what’s going on here. My access restricted, a student concealed from me. And now one of our experimenters has run off.’
I stay quite still for a moment, realising I’ve just got my answer about Marcus. So, he truly didn’t know what was going on any more than we did. Ryan had been concealed from him as well as us. He must have been told he was part of the support staff, because he would have seen him up the front of the plane. And then, when we got to the bunker, he honestly must have believed renovations were going on in that lab, just like he told us.
Ugh, none of this makes any sense.
‘Marcus …’ a man says.
‘That girl needs to be stopped,’ Marcus continues. ‘I don’t care how. I still can’t believe she didn’t agree to the Society’s offer.’
I knew it. I knew that’s what he really thought.
‘Marcus,’ another man replies—I recognise the voice as the gravelly one I’d heard on the phone inside—‘we need to talk.’
‘Well, now isn’t really the best time, as you can see,’ Marcus huffs.
A phone rings and the older man answers it. ‘It’s the President,’ he says. ‘I’m changing to speaker phone.’
‘Marcus,’ a woman’s voice says after a moment or two. ‘You are being immediately removed from your duties. Return now to the secure staff area where you will be debriefed.’
‘But …’ Marcus pauses. ‘I can do this. I can find her …’
‘Return there directly.’
‘Yes, Madam President.’
I hear footsteps. A closing door. I think Marcus is gone.
‘Now,’ the woman’s voice continues. ‘You know what to do.’
‘Yes, Madam President.’
The call ends.
You know what to do.
I stop breathing as the voices that are left start talking among themselves.
‘Grab the f lashlights from the cars. Both of them.’ The gravelly voice takes charge. ‘She can’t have got far. She’s only had a few minutes. And, hey, get that guy up here. The one with the infrared camera. He could be useful.’
I hear a phone call, footsteps on dirt, and a car boot opening. And another one. Then they both close again. More footsteps and then the beam of a flashlight swings in a wide arc along the ground, moving up to illuminate the dirt road that we drove in on. It travels up along the road until it disappears into some trees.
‘I can’t see her on the road. You think that’s where she went?’
‘It’s the obvious choice,’ the older man replies. ‘So probably not. She’s smarter than that. Here, give me the other flashlight.’
Slowly, carefully, I uncurl from my ball and lie flat on the rooftop. My knee throbs, but I try to ignore it. I can’t risk being seen up here.
The beam of the second flashlight shines out into the darkness and criss-crosses the grassy fields surrounding us, covering both the left and right sides. After a while, it comes to rest on the trees that I’d been looking at before. Where I’d wanted to go.
‘I think that way.’
I have to force myself not to shiver. The Society knows me better than I’d like.
The beam moves from side to side across the field and along the tree line.
‘Let’s drive over there and take a look,’ gravelly voice continues. ‘Where’s that guy? Is he coming or not?’
There are some muttered words as someone talks into a phone. ‘He’s almost here.’
The lift doors. More footsteps, talking, opening and shutting of car doors and then a car takes off across the field towards the trees.
Slowly I lift my head and watch the headlights moving around in the distance. At first they follow the tree line, then they scout along the boundaries of the fields in a square shape, crossing back to the other side. The car works its way up the opposite side to where they started, then finally crosses back to the dirt road. It sits for a while, maybe while they discuss what to do next, then takes off up the dirt road itself.
And, all the while, I listen hard, trying to establish if anyone is still down below, keeping watch.
I don’t think so.
Still, I’m not sure. So, carefully, quietly, I get up on my hands and knees. Despite my knee now throbbing painfully, I crawl forward towards the edge of the bunker, my hands feeling the way as I go. When I feel the side of the concrete formation, I slowly edge my head over until I can see below.
There’s no one there. The door that leads inside to the elevator is closed once more.
Pulling my head back, I attempt to centre myself. I take off my blue scrub top, then my white T-shirt as well. I tug at all my wires, pulling the electrodes off my chest and the sensor on my finger and dump them on the roof beside me. Then I put only the white T-shirt back on. I’ve got no choice but to keep the blue scrub pants on, considering I’m wearing super-short bike pants underneath. In the dim light, I feel the torn knee of the pants and try to get a look at how badly I
’ve hurt myself. From what I can gather, it’s not good. It looks like it will need quite a few stitches.
There’s one upside—the pain has woken me up. For how long, though, I’m not sure. Should I have had my next dose of drugs by now? Maybe. I think so. I’ve lost track of time.
I take a deep breath and try to work out what to do next. I need a phone, but I also need to avoid people. Not just the men from the Society, but the police and members of the public. No one would trust me anyway—I probably look as if I’ve escaped from either a prison or a psychiatric hospital with my blue scrubs, injured knee and white shirt that’s undoubtedly filthy from being on top of the roof.
I need to do this quietly and on my own. I need to find out where I am, locate a phone, call Emily and my dad back and then hide out until help comes—either my dad, or maybe my dad and Emily and the media if they’re able to piece together what I told them. And, the whole time, I need to keep down low. Keep hidden, so I can’t be picked up by Andrew.
I feel my way back again to the edge of the roof, reaching out with my hands and checking for whatever the sharp thing was that I cut myself on getting up here. I find the edge again and pat along it, finally locating a sharp piece of metal that I now know to avoid. I glance over the edge and locate the two pipes, then get onto my stomach and slowly put my good leg over the side until it’s resting on the top pipe. Then, keeping a firm grip on the edge of the building, I bring my other leg over. I still can’t reach the bottom pipe, so I take one hand down onto the top pipe. Then I find myself stuck, too scared to move either forward or back.
But I have to.
Quickly, I bring my second hand down onto the top pipe and both legs onto the bottom pipe, which shakes and then pulls away from the wall. With no other choice, I drop, trying to take most of my weight on my good knee. It still hurts. A lot. But I keep quiet as I drop to the ground.
I sit for a moment, listening for the car. For people.
