Rebirth (The Praegressus Project Book 1)

by Aaron Hodges

  Chris’s heart lurched and a sense of urgency gripped him. Careful to protect his broken hand, he rolled from the bed and crawled across to the other set of bunks. Pulling himself up beside Liz, he reached for her as she started to thrash. A wild arm swung out, catching him in the face, and a foot struck a pole, making the bunk shake. Another awful gurgle came from her chest.

  “Liz, Liz, stop,” Chris breathed, struggling to calm her.

  But with growing fear, he realised what was happening. Liz was choking, drowning in the fluid filling her lungs.

  Ignoring the agony in his hand now, Chris reached out and caught Liz as another convulsion took her. He pulled her close, fighting to hold her, to turn her on her side. Desperate fists beat against him, and pain rippled up his arm as she struck his hand. Gasping, he twisted, narrowly avoiding a wild swing of her knee.

  Fighting back his pain, Chris heaved, pulling Liz onto her side. As she rolled, he saw her eyes were wide now and staring, though it was clear she still lay in the grips of unconsciousness. Bloodshot veins threaded the whites of her eyes, and a trickle of blood ran from her nose, staining the white of her pillow red.

  As she settled onto her side, a ragged gasp tore from her lips. Her chest rose, the gurgle fading to a whispered cough. She gulped again, wheezing in the cool air, as though still unable to get enough oxygen. Reaching out, Chris tilted her head forward slightly, memories of high school first aid returning.

  Moving her upper arm, he placed her hand beneath her head, then pulled up her knees. Liz’s breathing gradually eased, the gurgle slowly fading as her airways cleared.

  Finally, Chris let out a long sigh, satisfied for the moment she was safe. Holding her in place, he sent out a silent thanks that Liz was so small.

  Weariness swept through Chris like a wave. He looked across at Liz and smiled. Her eyes had closed again, her lips parted just a fraction, while a wisp of hair fluttered on her face with each exhalation. The sharp throb of his hand was quickly returning though, cutting through the last dredges of adrenaline. He stifled a groan of his own, eager not to disturb Liz now she had settled.

  He saw her again in the padded room, thrashing on the floor, felt again the awful helplessness. He shuddered and pushed the image away.

  Only Fallow’s intervention had saved her, saved them both.

  Fallow.

  The woman’s face drifted through his thoughts. She had been in this from the start, had admitted her role in the facility while they lay in the clean room.

  You are the culmination of my life’s work.

  Was that why she had saved them, had stopped Halt in the padded room? Or was there more? Had the woman’s conscience gotten to her?

  Chris struggled to concentrate, but cobwebs tangled with his thoughts, and he could make no sense of the questions. His body throbbed, the ache of a hundred bruises dulling his mind. Beside him, heat radiated from Liz, banishing the cold of the cell. Distantly, he felt the pull of sleep.

  His eyes fluttered open, catching a glimpse of Liz. The pained twist of her lips had faded, revealing a softness in her face, the kindness of the girl hidden within. Her breathing had quieted now, and her eyes quivered beneath her eyelids, lost in some dream.

  The weight of exhaustion slowly dragged Chris’s eyes shut again. He knew he should move, should return to the other bed. But the strength would not come; his last ounce of energy had fled.

  Within seconds, the soft whispers of sleep claimed him.

  26

  Light burned at Liz’s eyelids, dragging her back from her dreams, back to the pain. It washed over her like rain, a tingle that burned in every muscle, every fibre of her being. Gritting her teeth, she willed the agony to fade, to release her from its fiery grip.

  Slowly, the pain died away, slipping from her body, until only embers remained.

  Liz sucked in a breath, then suppressed a groan as the ache returned, now an icy frost spreading through her lungs. Whatever damage the collar had inflicted, it had spread to every fibre of her being. It would take more than one night to heal.

  Liz froze as movement came from beside her. Cracking open an eye, she found Chris asleep beside her. For a moment she frowned, the beginnings of anger curling in her throat. Then a dim memory came to her, of water all around her, of drowning in a bottomless ocean, of fire in her chest as she breathed the salty water.

  Then Chris’s firm hands on her shoulders, pulling her up, dragging her to the surface. And the relief of fresh air, filling her lungs, of oxygen flooding her body.

  Her anger faded, replaced by a warmth that swept away the pain. She looked at Chris, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest, the flickering of his eyelids. Silently, she remembered her fear as the Chead had beaten him to the ground, the terror that had risen within her. But rather than panic, it had filled her with purpose, with the need to act, to save him.

  A low moan came from Chris and he wriggled beneath the thin blanket, drawing closer. She sighed as his heat washed over her, and watched as his eyes slowly cracked open.

  “You know, when I said I’d give you a chance, I didn’t mean it as an invite…” she teased, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

  She caught him as he flinched away from her. Taking a gentle hold of his good hand, she pulled him back, drew him close, until only an inch separated them.

  “Don’t,” she murmured, basking in the heat of Chris’s body. “Don’t.”

  His hazel eyes stared back at her, streaked with a bloodshot red, but clear and filled with… something. She leaned in, trying to make out what, and her mouth brushed against his. A jolt of energy surged through her at the touch, and then she was kissing him.

  She felt Chris tensed against her, and for a second thought he would pull away.

  Then his hands were in her hair, and he was kissing her back, his lips hard against hers. A tingle came from her hip as a hand gripped her. Adrenaline throbbed in her chest, spreading to swallow her. She reached out, her arms wrapping around Chris, pulling him closer, leaving no escape. Goosebumps prickled her skin as fingers slid to the small of her back.

  Leaning her head back, Liz parted her lips, her tongue flicking out to taste him. The scent of him filled her nostrils as his tongue found hers, and they danced to a rhythm all of their own. Her mind fell away, drowned by the blood rushing from her racing heart. Her pain was forgotten, replaced by threads of pleasure winding through her body. Her skin was aflame, burning wherever his fingers touched.

  Reaching up, she slid her fingers through his hair, pulling him deeper. A hunger filled her, a need that grew with every heartbeat. A moan slipped from her lips and she gripped him hard, desperate now.

  Chris flinched in her arms and she paused, remembering his broken hand. For a moment they slowed, but their lips did not part, their tongues still touching, tasting. Liz wriggled in under his arm, her chest pounding like a drum as his good arm wrapped around her.

  Liz drew back then, sucking in a breath of air. Opening her eyes, she looked at him, saw the smile tugging at his lips. She shivered, a memory rising from her past, the horror of the day before returning. A sour taste filled her mouth, the pain returning. She blinked, and a tear streaked down her cheek.

  “What are we doing, Chris?” she whispered.

  Chris pulled back, his eyes sad. Reaching up, he wiped away the tear, then kissed her on the forehead. “What do you mean?”

  Liz shook her head. “What’s the point?” she choked, closing her eyes, the darkness welling within her. “They could kill us tomorrow, mutate us beyond recognition, burn the last traces of humanity from us–”

  She broke off as Chris kissed her again, quick and hard. Separating, he looked her in the eye. “We can’t let them win, Liz,” he whispered. “They’ve taken so much from us already, used us, stolen our humanity. But they can’t take our spirit, our hope. It’s like a flame inside me – barely a flicker now, but it keeps me going. It’s mine. It’s ours. And I won’t let them take it.”

&nbs
p; “Haven’t they already?”

  Chris only smiled. “Not yet. It’s like Ashley said - they’re only human. They’ll make mistakes.” The fingers of his good hand found hers, and squeezed. “When they do, we’ll be ready.”

  Staring into his eyes, Liz could almost bring herself to believe.

  Almost.

  Still, he was right. They couldn’t let their captors win. For the moment, they still had each other. She would not let them take that from her too. Leaning in, Liz gave herself to the flame burning inside her. Their mouths locked and she pressed hard against him, her hands sliding beneath his shirt. A wild hunger filled her, her kisses turning ravenous. His arms went around her again, gripping her with a new fierceness. His lips left hers as he pulled away - then they were pressed against her neck, igniting flames wherever they touched.

  She groaned, her neck arching backwards, her fingers tight in his hair.

  His hands slid beneath her shirt, trailing across her back, tingling wherever they touched. The warmth inside her spread, and she began to tremble. Lost in her passion, she leaned in and nipped at his neck.

  Liz smiled as Chris gave a little yelp. His hands continued to roam, though they had not yet gone far enough for her liking. Reaching up, she slid her fingers through the buttons of his shirt and began to undo them. Beneath, a fine layer of hair covered his chest. His skin burned beneath her fingers.

  Chris’s mouth found its way to the small of her throat, and with a rush of impatience she helped him with her own buttons, knowing his good hand was already occupied. His lips slid lower, his tongue darting out, tasting her, even as his hands etched invisible trails across the soft skin of her back.

  Clutching hard to his arm, Liz stifled a moan as Chris paused. His fingers froze on her back, his mouth’s progress coming to an abrupt halt.

  Opening her eyes, Liz looked down at him. He stared up at her from between the folds of her breasts, fear sparkling in his hazel eyes. Her stomach twisted as a trickle of ice slid down her back.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “There’s… there’s something wrong… There are… lumps…” Chris replied softly.

  Liz’s cheeks burned, but her fear fell away. Laughing softly, she shook her head. Her hands slid through his hair, drawing him in, until his lips brushed across her.

  Chris gave a low groan, then shook his head again. “No,” he pulled away, “not… not those,” the hackles rose on Liz’s neck as he looked at her.

  The heat slowly drained from Liz’s face. “What?”

  “On your back,” Chris said, his breath harsh. “There’s… something on your back.”

  Fear flooded Liz, and the passion in her chest spluttered and died. Sitting upright, she craned her neck, straining to see. Her movements grew frantic as she fumbled at her shirt, tugging at the collar, desperate to rid herself of it. Chris reached for her, tried to calm her, but she pushed him away. She heard fabric tear, and then the shirt came loose. Throwing it aside, she twisted her neck again and looked.

  Beside her, Chris’s face flushed, and his eyes flickered with desire. But she no longer cared, had eyes for only one thing now. Her naked back shone in the fluorescent lights, the lumps clear now. They bulged in the centre of her back, one on either side of her spine, midway between her arms and hips.

  A pressure built in Liz’s chest and escaped as a low whine, a muffled scream. An awful horror swept through her, a raging anger at the doctors, at their violation of her body. Another shriek built, but she swallowed it down, blinking back tears.

  Her eyes burned as she looked at Chris, saw the fresh tears in his eyes.

  “Where does it stop?” she whispered.

  27

  Within hours, Chris found a pair of growths on his own back. Though there was no pain or discomfort, they ignited a terrible horror inside him, a building terror that threatened to overwhelm him. Whatever the doctors had done to them, it seemed they had failed after all.

  They made a mistake, the words whispered through his thoughts, along with something else, a familiar word, a horror from his childhood.

  Cancer.

  The memory of his father’s illness still lay heavy on his mind – the wasting sickness, the slow loss of strength, of life. Despite its ferocity, his father had fought back, had even won, for a time. But cancer was like a weed, always there, waiting to return. It wore you down, drew the life from you one drop at a time.

  And his father, once larger than life, had been laid low.

  Now as the hours ticked past, Chris watched with horror as the lumps on his back grew. It could only be cancer. Vicious and unrelenting, it would spread through their bodies, poisoning their blood, robbing them of strength, until there was nothing left but empty husks.

  Lying on the bed, he held Liz in his arms, each alone in their own thoughts.

  The next day, they woke to the first pangs of pain. It began as a soft twitch from the centre of his back, radiating outwards from the strange protrusions. The ache pulsed, flickering with the beat of his heart, but growing sharper with each intake of breath. Hour by hour it spread across his back, threaded its way into his chest, until it hurt just to breathe.

  For Liz, it was worse. When she woke she could barely speak. Her skin had lost its colour, even the angry red marks beneath her collar had paled to white. By lunch she could no longer lie on her back. When he touched a hand to her forehead, her skin was burning hot with fever.

  Each hour the lumps grew. Their skin stretched and hardened around the protrusions, darkening to purple bruises. Each bulge was unyielding to their scrutinising prods, and soon tiny black spots appeared on their surface.

  When the lights flickered on the morning of the third day, Chris could hardly move from the pain. Agony wove its way through his torso, spreading out like the roots of a tree, engulfing his lungs, reducing each breath to a battle, a desperate fight for life.

  The next time a guard arrived with food, Chris could no longer tell whether it was breakfast or dinner. Forcing open his eyes, he blinked hard in the light, pain lancing through his skull. The room spun and then settled into a double image of two guards. His stomach churned as two images of Liz stood over him and offered a bowl of dark looking stew. He saw her waver on her feet, and blindly took the bowl before she fell.

  Sitting back, he raised a shaking spoonful of broth to his mouth, but there was no taste when he swallowed. His stomach swirled again, then he began to heave. He barely made it to the toilet. A moment later Liz was at the sink beside him.

  Afterwards, Chris slid to the ground, his head throbbing in the blinding light. Liz slumped beside him, her head settling on his shoulder. For a moment the pain faded, giving in to a wave of warmth. He closed his eyes, savouring Liz’s closeness, but the relief did not last long. His stomach lurched again and releasing Liz he crawled back to the toilet.

  The click of the lights going out was a welcome relief.

  Stomach clenched, lungs burning, head thumping, Chris crawled back to the beds. Stars danced across his vision, but he hauled himself into a bed, no longer caring who’s it was. The room stank of vomit and spilt food, of unwashed bodies and blood. The scent of chlorine had long since been overwhelmed.

  Caught in the clutches of fever, Chris lost all track of time. At some point he felt Liz’s body beside him, though he could not recall whose bed they slept in. His fevered mind drew comfort from the heat of her presence, in the closeness of her face. Then her face warped, his own body distorting, and he forced his eyes closed.

  Wild colours spun through his mind as time passed. At one point he remembered calling out, begging the guards to help them, to bring the doctors, to bring anyone. But no one came, no one responded, and he soon stopped asking for help. A short while later, he started asking for death.

  In his dreams, he saw his body slowly decaying, watched his veins turn black with death, his arms begin to rot. Then he would find himself whole, riding in the passenger seat of his father’s 68 Camaro, his
dad driving, an infectious grin on his youthful face. A moment later he was in a hospital, the smell of bleach and beeping of machinery all around. And his father lay in a bed, his arms withered, his face lined with age. Only the smile remained the same.

  Again the image faded, and Chris was back in the cell, back with the pain. Looking at his arms, he wondered what was real, what was not. One instant it was night, the next the blinding light of day, then back to black. At times he would wake, gasping for air, shivering beneath the blanket, and know in his heart he was dying.

  Once, he dreamed that he was flying, that he was soaring through mountains, far from the nightmares of their prison cell.

  And then he woke.

  28

  It took a long time for Chris to decide he was no longer dreaming. The cold air wrapped around him, sending a shiver through him, but otherwise there was no discomfort. The pain had vanished, and for a second he considered the possibility he was dead. Then a low groan came from someone nearby, and he knew he was not alone.

  Squeezing open his eyes, he peered out from the shadows of his bunk bed, searching for Liz.

  The first thing he realised was that they had not been alone in their fever dreams. Someone had entered the room while they slept, cleaning the mess of vomit and blood that had stained the room. Liz lay in the opposite bed, covered now by a blanket of black feathers. She shifted beneath it, then blinked across at him, raising a hand to shield her face. Her lips parted, her tongue licking her cracked lips.

  “Chris?” she croaked.

  “I’m here,” he replied, his throat raw. A desperate thirst clutched him, and he looked across at the sink, wondering if he had the strength to reach it.

  In the other bed, Liz shifted, the blanket of feathers moving with her. Dimly, Chris made to do the same, but a weight on his back pushed him down. Reaching back, the soft points of feathers brushed his hand. He shrugged, trying to dislodge the blanket, and struggled to his hands and knees.