by Matt Kruze
Just one little tablet it seemed, administered weekly, and you were a psychic. More or less.
And the main ingredient for that drug was a substance taken from the occipital area of the human brain. But it had to be ‘clean’. If the brain was subject to toxins, impurities in the air, it became almost redundant, and consequently of no use to the chemists at Sylexon.
Hence the rural locations.
City dwellers might have to contend with nitrogen dioxide levels of up to 170 micrograms per cubic metre, but they did not shoulder the threat of the imminent harvest of their brain tissue. Conversely, in rural areas, nitrogen dioxide levels fell to below 40 micrograms, and in some very particular clean spots, below 20. Anywhere with such pure air was of great interest to Sylexon–Serus would refer to these locations as ‘fecund’.
* * *
As he sat in the corner of his dark cell, air freighted with the scents of damp concrete and the musky aroma of a hundred former detainees, Jason Ryle reflected upon his lot. Of no doubt was the involvement of some organisation bigger, even, than Sylexon, which operated beyond the remit of the law; he had spent just forty five minutes in police custody before, to the chagrin of his interrogator, being released to a ‘higher authority’. Such was the influence of his paymasters and, moreover, their clients. Of his immediate future, he knew, there were two very different possible scenarios: firstly, they could help him. Quietly remove the evidence against him and Sylexon, and with a few golden handshakes among the back corridors of power, sweep the whole ugly mess under a large rug and nail it down at the edges. Alternatively, if the web of those affected decreed a necessity to tie up the loose ends and limit further damage, they would have him killed. It was a far cheaper solution than buying his silence–and a considerably more reliable one.
* * *
As the days rolled by–brief wedges of time which passed from dusk to dawn in a flicker of dizzying revelations–Sammy became better acquainted with the recent happenings at Sylexon, via both James and the media.
Images of the sprawling New Hampshire headquarters; of men in suits, jackets hoisted up over their heads, escorted from that breached fortress to the awaiting vehicles of some law enforcement agency or other, assaulted by the white flashes of tabloid photographers; similar scenes in Berkshire.
And every day, as James’s little network of investigators grew until he was eventually necessitated to surrender control to higher authorities, another revelation. Yet for every exposé, it seemed, there arose at least one additional mystery. The enigma grew like the Lernaean Hydra–two heads sprouting in place of each one decapitated, until Sylexon itself seemed destined to transcend into the annals of mythology. Government connections were posited but, James informed Sammy over coffee one afternoon, the fabric of those bonds had been skillfully tailored by Sylexon itself so as to guarantee them ultimate protection.
Certainly they had taken some losses, both here and in the States, but these were necessary sacrifices. The powerful men at the top, men like Serus who had so disturbed Ryle, who were untouched by James’s investigations, slipped back into the shadows of the mutating organisation and remained, as it were, at large.
‘They’ll just pack up and go somewhere else,’ he predicted forebodingly.
They were sat at one of the outside tables at the café on the High Street, squinting against the golden winter sun. ‘Something that was apparently so successful will always have a market. It’ll be repackaged, rebranded, and pedalled out to some other country.’
‘What about him?’ Sammy asked.
‘Who? Oh. Nothing. Not that I could find anyway. He just disappeared–gone.’ A little explosive gesture with his hands, mimicking some white-gloved magician. ‘Somebody knows where he is, or what happened to him, but those tracks have been thoroughly concealed. Nobody will find him, if he’s even still alive.’
Sammy shuddered at the image of the stranger barging into his house, and of that gleaming metal tool, rendered all the more sinister now that he understood something its purpose. He was silent for a moment, almost overcome by the recollection, before announcing softly, ‘They’re exhuming Andy.’
James nodded. ‘Makes sense. I doubt if they’ll find anything. Sounds like that’s what happened to him though.’
‘Celia will never let it rest,’ Sammy mused aloud.
‘She might have to. Try to help her with that, mm?’
‘Sure,’ Sammy replied, staring at the sun-spangled glass table, chewing his lip. He looked up, focused. ‘James–what can we do? How can we stop this happening again?’
A rueful, almost sardonic, smile. ‘Nothing. But it won’t happen here any more. Or even in this country. Content yourself with that. You did a good thing.’
‘Didn’t I just move it along? Not in my back yard–that kind of thing.’
‘Stop beating yourself over this mate. Look–the world has been made aware,’ he soothed. ‘Could be that Sylexon–or whatever they decide to call themselves–find it a little harder to undertake their grisly deeds from now on. Or maybe someone will cotton on to their work and develop it legitimately, find some alternative method that doesn’t amount to murder.’
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘Come on,’ James said, backing the metal chair out with a scrape and leaving a few coins on the table. ‘Your new life in maritime security,’ he announced, ‘awaits you!’
* * *
After a month in solitary confinement, Ryle was still no closer to knowing whose hands he was in. Perhaps a shadowy division of Sylexon’s–or whatever they were calling themselves now. Or else the covert arm of some government agency. And just because he was in the UK did not mean he was a prisoner of Her Majesty. Anyone with the right connections could have arranged for his release from police custody, a lifetime ago, to this dark and foreboding cell.
Almost certainly, though, he would never see daylight again. They had sent people in to question him from time to time, always alone, to find out exactly how much he knew, what kind of a threat he posed, but they had never revealed their identities.
Until finally, on the 30th day of confinement, he heard the approaching click of footsteps–expensive shoes at the end of an expensive, tailored suit. And behind the swelling click-clack that echoed from the damp concrete walls of the corridor, came the softer thud of booted feet. Soldiers.
A screech of metal as the lock was turned, then the louder protest of seldom-used hinges, and the door opened.
Ryle thought he knew the suited man before he spoke, even though he had never laid eyes on him before. Something about the malevolent, pernicious comportment which conformed so accurately to the mental image Ryle had conjured all those months ago.
‘You made a mistake Ryle,’ the voice rasped softly. ‘We paid you sufficiently I believe–sufficiently not to put yourself in a situation whereby you would compromise the project–and yourself.’
Ryle stared up at Serus, into the pale, baleful face, and nodded in submission. Then he let his chin drop to his chest. Finally it was his turn, finally someone had come to his door, and these men did not carry futuristic, skeletal devices but the hard, black everyday objects of combat. He recalled the comfort of the abrasive grip against his palm, the reassuring scent of oil and cold metal. Unlike his own victims, Ryle’s demise would be instantaneous.
He closed his eyes. It was over.
* * *
July 12th, Monday
A suburb of Perth, Western Australia
Megan cursed as she stepped on one of the dozen or so toy cars that lay scattered across the carpet like a miniature scrap yard. ‘You guys tidy these away,’ she shouted up the stairs on her way to the front door, ‘or I will and you know what that means.’
She reached for the door, at the same time looking at her watch: too early for Mike to be home. Another bloody salesman most likely.
But there were two of them standing on her doorstep, and from their black coveralls and balaclavas s
he could tell instantly they were not here to peddle their wares. She was stepping back but, like they all did, Megan froze for just a half-second too long, and the two men threw a sack over her head and dragged her out of the house. She was about to scream when there was a clattering impact at the back of her skull, a silver flash bright as lightning, and then blackness.
Megan blinked, opened her eyes, then shut them again, letting out a sigh of pain. Her head blazed. Holding her breath she instantly began pawing at her face, at the cloying fabric over her mouth and nose-
-but it was gone. She inhaled deeply, tried to look around but there was only darkness. And that noise. What the hell was that? Like the sighing of the ocean–quiet yet massive. And the smell too. The tang of sweat and other human scents.
Wincing, squinting into the blackness, Megan felt around her. Something hard was pressing into her leg, rubber and leather–a shoe? And above it fabric, soft and warm…shuddering.
‘Who’s there?’ she whispered.
Only that vast undulant susurration, like the respiration of the world.
A clang, the flash of white light, and she shut her eyes against the glare.
One hand held to her face, she allowed her eyelids to come open and looked out through slatted fingers. Slowly her vision adjusted to the brightness.
Megan gasped as her hand fell away, and she began to shake uncontrollably. Her vision might have become accustomed to the light, but it would never adjust to the sight all around her in the vast, high-ceilinged warehouse. People were lying on the concrete floor everywhere, crowded together, some unconscious, others rocking back and forth, knees drawn up to their chests, some standing and squinting around them in confusion. Rising on unsteady legs, careful not to trip on the feet and arms around her, Megan turned in a slow circle. She was among people, she assumed, taken captive just like her.
And there were thousands of them.
THE END
