“Then I guess we’ll see each other on the other side, one day.”
“One day,” he concurred.
One-Six-Two-Seven held the weapon steady. To ask forgiveness for something as paltry as taking a life in a time of war seemed nonsensical. What he wanted was to ask for understanding. As of late, nobody understood. Nobody wanted to understand. How could he negotiate a lasting peace between two incompatible sides? Compromise, the thing that evaded him, was undesirable to everyone else. Their world, their city, torn in half by extremes as it was could only be salvaged by compromise. In the interest of peace, in the interest of maintaining the truce, One-Six-Two-Seven pulled the trigger.
The sound of gunfire, lost in the darkness of a forgotten past, was still enough to smash him back into consciousness, back into the present, where the glass beneath his hand trembled as it slid inwards, allowing an undisturbed view of the lobby’s interior. Slouched on the ground, One-Six-Two-Seven grabbed at the rose that he had dropped and pulled it close to his chest. He imagined that holding it helped the pressure in his forehead fade away. There was nothing of note in the barren lobby, its floor faded and cracked, its walls stained and peeling. Everything inside the building spoke to the abandonment and neglect as much as the exterior did.
Its hypnotic pull on him dissolved, he backed away from it. If he had encountered it, if what he suspected was a memory wasn’t in fact a delusion, then he had been in the city before it’s demise. The details were lifting away like smoke in a breeze. Their vibrancy, easily diminished, took with it his courage.
A quick glance at the sky confirmed that it was still dawn, and yet he felt exhausted already. Letting out a disappointed breath, One-Six-Two-Seven resumed his trek down the empty street, unaware that he was on course for the center of the city.
Chapter Two:
A Nearby Sadness
One hand in the sand, the other hand clutching a rose, she forced her uncooperative body to its feet. The retching finally subsided, her aching stomach emptied, and she dared to stand upright. Sheets of white sand slid free of her clothing to join their countless brethren on the pale shoreline. Stretching, she noted that her body was stiff and restrictive but that the exercise helped to reassure her that she was alive.
Alive. Her errant thought surprised her and awakened her to the woeful sight before her. Rising unevenly, intrusively jutting into the sky, was a city carved from ancient darkened steel. Towers shot into the air, their nondescript features augmenting their vacancy. Gray clouds dueled with the beams of light that pierced them, irradiating the vast settlement with a brightened muteness.
Her first instinct told her to take a cautious step backwards. Decidedly ignoring that, she boldly held her ground and stared at her artificial intimidator, practically daring it to move against her.
Buying time, she surveyed the shore in each direction.
White sand ran the lengths of the beach, though it lacked so much as a hint of paradisiacal cleanliness. The sand was white as bone, and though she had never seen a bone before, she knew certainly that the thought was true. Puzzled by the fact that she knew her body contained two-hundred-and-six bones, and in spite of the fact that she had never seen a bone in her short life, she turned away from from the sight of the city.
There lay the immobile pallid sea, its infinite outline strengthened by the orb of cold light in the sky. Turning her back on the sun to face the city once more, she smelled the salt in the air and wrinkled her nose. She wandered up the empty beach to the equally empty street, worried by the dearth of activity. From what she could see, as her sandy shoes hit the asphalt pavement with a loud scratching noise, there were no other living people in any direction.
Before departing she studied the beach a final time. Emptiness. No boats, no swimmers, no birds. A desolate shore went untouched by everything, even the water hesitantly trembled at the shoreline.
Taking note of the excessive absence caused her to question her own presence. Where was she? How did she get here? Had she been asleep? More importantly, who was she? How had she wound up vomiting on a beach? Why did she not remember anything before a few precious minutes ago? Similar questions bombarded her irritable mind while the smell of salt vanished. She followed the vacant streets into the city where the seaside air was replaced by something that had no taste and no odor: the smell of absence.
She refused to panic. Even when it became abundantly clear that she was the only living thing around for miles, she refused to panic. She was, after all, a scientist.
Funny.
“I’m a scientist?” she mumbled to herself. She didn’t recall a single memory before waking up on the beach, vomiting, but for some reason she already considered herself a scientist.
Science. Didn’t that require lab coats, mice, and vials? She frowned dubiously. How was it possible to be a scientist when she might be the only person in this whole city? Though comedic, she banished the notion from her mind. Hope came to her another way. Maybe there were others out there? Maybe she wasn’t alone?
She could be hopeful as long as she didn’t panic.
Instinct told her that careful examination and purposeful study would yield the answers she sought, if she persevered long enough to claim them. Clues were already at her fingertips: waking up on a beach, the nausea, the memory loss. Together, with logical analysis and deduction, they would have a reasonable explanation. She surmised that the answers were in the city, the only logical location for them to reside. Finding the courage to proceed, she started to walk deeper into the elaborately vacant city.
Ignoring the imposing buildings and unsettling shadows proved to be difficult, especially since she hoped to find the smallest hints of history’s reach. Windows were darkened with crusted dirt. Signs were faded into obscurity. As she continued down a wide boulevard, towers at her sides, a tune came to mind. Carried from some unseen location, as if to lure her forward, it danced within her eyes and roused a dormant knowledge from the emptiest spots of her mind. Humming the tune, her heartbeat fell into a natural calmness. Automated, almost.
Keeping an even and orderly pace encouraged the tune, like a flame being fanned into a wildfire in her mind. Slithering out of her subconscious, the music teased itself into the forefront of her thoughts. It overrode her mind’s authority, it overwhelmed her instincts, and she trembled as she spoke the words that announced her return to the dead city.
“See fulfilled the Founders’ warning!” she declared, her eyes roaming across the unattended cityscape. The city, the words, and herself were connected by something she couldn’t adequately describe. She felt sure of it because she couldn’t meet the accusing stare of the towers for more than a few seconds at a time.
Whether by force of will or the nature of the subconscious, the knowledge of the lyrics and the tune escaped her. They floated away into the morning to join the granite clouds hovering in the unremarkable air. Reminding herself to keep calm in the wake of the music’s departure, she steadied her pace, realizing that in her panic she had become hurried.
She reaffirmed her belief that this could be explained. She would make sense of the dead city, its ghostly music, and her solitary presence. What she needed, what she wanted more than anything, was a sign. A promise from the empty city that she could conquer its mysteries.
And from behind her came the sound of footsteps. Her ears dissected the expedited pacing, attuned themselves to the gasps for air, and she knew that whatever the source it was motivated by fear or excitement. Perhaps both.
Turning to meet the source of the noise, she saw a young man burst out of an alleyway adjoining the impressively wide boulevard. He stumbled into the empty street, roughly her same height and age, his forehead laced with sweat and gathering dirt. Clearly, he’d panicked in the face of the situation.
Their gazes met and the fear that was etched into the lines of his expression were painfully obvious to her. Studying his audience for a moment, he took a fearful step backwards at the sight of her.
Then she realized that the man was afraid of her, which was such an abrupt and comedic thought that she held back a chuckle. Could there be any substantial danger in a woman who recalled nothing before a handful of minutes ago? Trying to remedy the situation, she cautiously extended her empty hand. In one of his hands, he held a rose similar to hers. She kept her hand outstretched in greeting despite the man’s suspicious glare.
“Are you real?” he croaked, taking another step back. He didn’t believe his eyes, not that he lacked reason. In a city as vastly abandoned as this one, either of them could be mistaken as apparitions to the other. Noting the extensive detail in his face, his eyes, his hair and his clothes, she decided that both of them were real. She looked up at the air, watching the clouds pass, shades of gray pulsing against each other in the weak light.
“Yes,” she decided. “At least I think I am. What about you?” She turned her attention back to her companion. He was still moving away from her. She noticed that his hand was bleeding rather profusely. She frowned at the unattended injury, her mind calling forward a myriad of problems if the cuts went untended. “I think you can trust me. And that I can trust you.”
“What makes you think that?” he demanded, hostility creeping into his voice.
She held up her rose.
“You have a rose like mine.” Tentatively, she asked, “What’s your name?”
His guarded expression never faltered. “My name is One-Six-Two-Seven. What’s yours?”
“Two-Six-Five-Eight,” she answered immediately. A moment of silence passed between them, but the man with a number for a name visibly relaxed.
“Neither of us has a real name,” he surmised. “Just a number. And I didn’t even remember that until just this moment.” Disappointed, he shook his head at the emerging gaps in his memory, more severe than he initially realized. She didn’t feel disappointed at the revelation. Instead, she felt as if they shared an important bond.
“An effect of the memory loss. Just like me,” she tapped the side of her head. “Your name is a bit of a mouth full. Can I call you Seven?”
“Only if I can call you Eight,” he shrugged.
“Agreed.”
“I heard the same music, you know. That was why I came running,” he admitted, his words substantiated by longing. “I think that the rose and the music mean I can trust you. If the amnesia wasn’t enough, I suppose.” Despite his resignation, Seven’s remarks did not sound the least bit trusting.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Eight assured him.
Seven made up his mind. “And I won’t hurt you, either.”
“Well. Since we’ve established that neither of us is going to hurt the other,” she smiled wryly, “Can I take a look at that hand of yours?” Seven checked his hand with visible surprise, obviously having forgotten that it was injured at all. Deciding that permission could come later, Eight acted.
She walked up to him and took the rose from his bloodied hand, guiding the reluctant young man towards the curb. After they sat down, she respectfully laid the roses on the pavement between them. Eight turned Seven’s injured hand over in hers as she examined the damage. Though deep, the gashes had stopped bleeding freely and were as clean as she could have hoped for.
Seven took the roses in his good hand, studying them while Eight considered her options. He kept his eyes on the flowers and hardly flinched when Eight prodded the cuts once more. She needed bandages, but a quick survey of the area reinforced her belief that supplies would be scarce.
“How do you know what you’re doing?” Seven inquired politely.
“I am, or was, a scientist. That’s how I know that the veins in your hand are fine. But I need something to bandage the wound.” Eight leaned away and looked down the empty street again, her heart sinking. If there was nothing to bandage the cuts with, then that meant the injury could get infected…
Her attention was caught by a ripping sound from beside her. With his uninjured left hand, Seven tore the long right sleeve from his gray shirt. For the first time since she had woken up on the beach, Eight considered her own appearance. Both herself and Seven were dressed in identically designed gray long sleeve shirts, pants, and shoes. When Seven unceremoniously handed the torn sleeve to Eight, she quietly praised his lucidity.
She bound it to his hand and laughed. Her powers of observation paled in comparison to his. Smiling at the makeshift bandage, Eight said jokingly, “My best work yet.”
Seven observed the bandage. He looked at Eight, unaware that he was staring. She refused to buckle from beneath his intense gaze. “Thank you,” said Seven, oblivious to the awkward silence. “I guess we get to worry about not starving to death now.”
Eight nodded and returned to her feet, desperately trying not to look at Seven. He seemed lopsided, with one long sleeve and one short sleeve. Somehow it fit his rapidly shifting attention span to be dressed awkwardly. She helped Seven up and together they meandered along the sidewalk, headed deep into the city. Eight kept both roses in her left hand, wondering what two people with no recollection of themselves could discuss?
They fell into a silence that fit their situation. With no objective and no destination, the two companions filed down the empty streets of the city. Neither of them had a plan of action to follow. Eight allowed their time together to become a period of unspoken acclimation. It was Seven, his voice breaking an extended silence of at least an hour, who ventured into the realm of conversation.
“You said you’re a scientist,” Seven repeated her claim back to her with factual accuracy. “I think I was a security guard.”
“Really?” Eight asked, her curiosity instantly ablaze at the idea. “Any idea what you guarded?”
Seven looked into the forbidding pylons that stabbed the sky.
“Yeah.”
Eight accepted the minimalist answer and did not argue when silence reclaimed their journey for itself. At intersections along their journey Eight made sporadic turns, goaded by the hope of progress as Seven followed her wordlessly. Wherever they happened to be, the scene remained the same. Ground level properties that lined the roadside had nothing inside of them. Any nature that had lined the roads had long since faded away. She wondered what the different tenements at the base of each tower might have been before the city met its demise. Maybe one of these empty shops had been a bakery? Or a bookstore?
She had become so obsessed with her questions, submerged in her theories of the city’s fall, that Seven forced her out of her reverie.
“Look,” he said, nudging her. Eight took heed of his suggestion. Ahead of them, the towers lessened in might and vanished completely. They emerged from the street into a wide clearing, filled with smaller buildings that were dwarfed by the towers that ringed the plaza. A guard booth and lowered gate marked the entryway. Eight watched as Seven knelt in front of the booth and wiped encrusted dirt from the exterior.
“Demna Clay University,” Seven recited, back on his feet and wiping his hand on his pant leg.
“A college,” Eight said, eyeing the barren landscape surrounding the academic buildings.
“Looks like all the trees died,” Seven observed.
“No one has been around to take care of any of it. Landscaping would grow wild for a few years but without proper irrigation and maintenance it would eventually die,” Eight theorized.
“How long would that take?”
“I don’t know. Seventy, eighty years? It all depends. We should take a look around.”
“Agreed,” Seven answered.
Concrete paths, which once cut through what must have been an impressive garden, were visible from the path that Eight walked with Seven. She imagined that it might have been a verdant maze in its prime, but death had stolen its glory. By coincidence they were closest to one of the larger buildings, an oddly shaped cylindrical construct with an uneven roof. It bore the hallmarks of modern design: sheets of metal cobbled together with panes of ancient glass. Again, a pang of longing
stabbed at Eight’s ribs. What it must have looked like in its prime, surrounded by lush gardens and occupied with students, she would never know for sure.
“J. Fyne Memorial Science Building,” Eight read the rusted letters on the overhang above the building’s twenty-door entrance. Most of the doors were missing, their glass frames obliterated in the same forgotten conflict that extinguished the rest of the city.
“This place looks beat up,” Seven noted, gesturing at the burn marks across the front of the science building. “I wonder what happened here.”
Eight put her palm on her forehead. She took a daring step through the shattered doorway, standing in the fallow lobby. Breathing rapidly, she moved forward as her shoes crunched against the shattered glass. There were two main hallways on either side of the lobby and one large door ahead of her.
“The Cobalt Imaging Pavilion,” Eight announced, reciting the name despite the lack of signage. She was addressing Seven, who she could not see in the poor light but knew to be at her side without looking. His presence, like her knowledge of the auditorium beyond the door, was an indisputable certainty.
“You’ve been here before?” Seven asked.
Eight didn’t answer. Gingerly placing her hand on the door, she pushed it open. A gust of air hissed out, shoving past her, carrying on it the same melody that had summoned her back into the world with Seven. Holding her breath, she stepped forward into one of the many dark spots in her memory, humming the tune as the Cobalt Imaging Pavilion claimed her for itself.
Eight moved her hand among the photon particles that were creating, in conjunction with precision force-fields maintained by electromagnetic currents, a three-dimensional projection of a deoxyribonucleic acid sequence. With swift movements of her hand she controlled the interactive display, magnifying and lessening the most important strands of genetic information. A voice interrupted her solitary work, familiar to her but unexpected given the setting.
Someone to Remember Me: The Anniversary Edition Page 2