Strangers in the Night

by Flex, Raymond S

  He set about getting into the suit he had chosen.

  He zipped it all the way up, held the helmet beneath his arm and then headed for the door.

  The security keypad had power.

  And the electromagnetic lock was engaged.

  That was unexpected.

  But it wasn’t an obstacle.

  Digging into the knowledge he’d accumulated through all the manuals he’d read, Mitts used the manual-override code on the keypad.

  The locks snicked back.

  And Mitts plodded through the door.

  Mitts had spent so many night-time hours prowling about the Compound that he was almost on autopilot as he swooped through the corridors.

  He didn’t pause for any kind of a nostalgic moment. He felt nothing for the Compound. All the same, he would’ve thought that, after seven years here, he would feel something.

  Somehow, he just couldn’t accept the Compound had been his home.

  Or as close to a ‘home’ as it was possible to get.

  Mitts made his way into the reception area of the Compound, where he put on the helmet. As he recalled it from the manuals he had leafed through, there had been a further three security points for anybody entering from the outside wishing to get here.

  But there was no power in these outer areas.

  Mitts had simply to push the rusted-up exterior door open.

  He barged it with his shoulder, glad for all those sit-ups and press-ups.

  They’d given him strength.

  Before Mitts could really work out what he had done, he realised that he was out into the night-time air.

  His surprise was so great that he almost forgot to flip the switch at the back of his suit.

  The one which would allow him to breathe.

  * * *

  Breathing in the air of the suit was like sucking on disinfectant, straight from a plastic bottle.

  Mitts felt it dry out his mouth. At the same time, it brought all the saliva in his tongue to the surface. He could hear the gentle, rhythmic tick-tick as the breathing apparatus responded to his respiration.

  Already, he felt hot in the suit.

  Mitts followed the exterior fence which ran around the Compound. At one point, he reached a gate. He unzipped his sports bag and produced a pair of wire cutters. He snipped a nice, big hole.

  Then he ducked down and stepped through.

  On the other side, Mitts glanced back over his shoulder.

  A series of squat, cement buildings, lit up in the moonlight.

  The Compound.

  An ugly place.

  Mitts’s focus drifted up to the moon.

  He stood staring at it for a long while.

  Often, Mitts would leave his bedroom behind, sneak out through the air vents just so that he might slump himself up by an exterior hatch and stare at the moon.

  It made him feel almost as if he was back home again.

  Almost as if things were back to normal.

  Once, Mitts had stayed out in the air vent for the whole night, waiting for the sun to rise up on the horizon. But he didn’t seem to be able to pick out a vantage point where he could look at it directly.

  All he could make out from his position in the air vent were the secondary details: the sun rays licking the concrete surrounding the Compound.

  Mitts fixed his mind on his destination, guiding himself about the wire fence.

  He used the Compound’s scattered buildings as a guide for his progress.

  There was that one run of buildings which, at least on the plans, looked like it might form the shape of a top hat. He ran his eyes over the Compound, searching for that feature.

  He found it.

  Made toward it.

  He took care not to break into anything more than a fast walk.

  He didn’t want to trip and fall.

  There was no telling what damage he might do.

  A broken leg wouldn’t be any way to start off the journey.

  He made his way around the back of the top hat-looking section of building, and then he went on a little further, past the pineapple-shaped outbuilding.

  Then he turned his focus to searching.

  He looked over the Compound.

  Looking for it.

  It had to be here.

  Mitts glanced up and—finally—he saw it.

  The ventilation hatch which, for the first time, seven years ago, Mitts had sat slumped up against. The vantage point from which he had looked out on the outside world.

  But that was only part of what Mitts was looking for.

  He turned his gaze downward. To the wall beneath the ventilation hatch.

  And he saw . . . nothing.

  What had he expected?

  It had been seven years.

  There was nothing there.

  Still, he couldn’t help but pace over.

  He cut through the once-electrified wire fence.

  Let himself through to the other side.

  He stared down at the cement, looking for some sort of clue.

  Something that might just give him a hint.

  When Mitts squinted, he thought he might be able to see a damp patch on the concrete. But, the more he brought his vision clear—sharper—he became more and more convinced that he was only fooling himself.

  ‘Bringing the wool down over his eyes’.

  He had read that expression in one of the many novels his parents had brought along into the Restricted Area.

  Mitts felt his gut sink slightly. He had hoped that he might find something to either confirm, or deny, what he had seen seven years ago.

  But, no . . .

  Everything was just as muddy as it had been before.

  Mitts moved on.

  He knew—logically speaking—he needed to cover as much ground as he possibly could during the night, before the sun came up.

  Because, when the sun did come up, Mitts would have no idea what to expect.

  He turned away from the scene which’d so haunted him all these seven years—had haunted him so much that he hadn’t returned to this spot where he had seen that . . . that creature.

  Not until tonight.

  Mitts headed back toward the wire fence. Away once again from the place he had lived these past years. He did feel a slight sinking disappointment.

  He would’ve liked to have found something.

  Anything at all.

  He set off back across the Compound.

  Made it to the fence.

  And then, from out of the darkness, there came a bright—overpoweringly bright—light.

  It shone all over him.

  Froze him.

  He turned around.

  Held his suited forearm up to the visor of his suit.

  He heard his breathing coming faster now.

  The staccato tick-tick-tick-tick-tick from his suit as his breathing pulled hard on the oxygen tanks.

  Several beads of sweat rolled down his face.

  A salty smell.

  The taste of salt on his lips.

  A spotlight, that was what it was.

  He recalled from the plans.

  But he couldn’t recall anything about automation.

  Though that didn’t mean there wasn’t any automation.

  Was this another section of the Compound which continued to have power?

  Now that his eyes had adjusted a little to the bright light, he realised that there was a silhouette standing by the side of the machine. He tracked the silhouette.

  He would’ve known that silhouette anywhere.

  Just about anywhere.

  He knew that silhouette now.

  Heinmein.

  * * *

  Mitts thought about running. About escaping.

  But something rooted him to the spot.

  He couldn’t leave.

  He couldn’t leave now.

  Danger . . . he felt it in the air.

  Before he could make any sort of conscious decision, he was striding b
ack toward the Compound.

  Headed for the reception area.

  Back in the building, Mitts was confronted by Heinmein.

  As always, he was dressed in his tatty lab coat.

  Heinmein’s eyes were wide. His pupils inflamed by the lenses of his thick glasses. “You found your way out?” he said.

  Before Mitts could say anything at all, Heinmein added, “But how . . . how did you manage it?”

  Mitts told him about the air vents.

  That he had come up here often, at night.

  He said nothing about the grey-purple skinned being he had encountered those seven years earlier.

  Heinmein’s glare never left him throughout the whole of the story.

  Mitts waited uneasily for Heinmein to break out of his daze.

  Surely he was fixing to attack.

  However, Heinmein only reached up to adjust the lie of his glasses across the bridge of his nose.

  He nodded to the suit which Mitts wore. “And I see that you found some toys?”

  Mitts felt himself blush a little, though he didn’t quite realise why.

  After all, he had made up his mind and he was determined to stick with his choice.

  For him, there was no returning to the Restricted Area, and Heinmein might as well know why.

  “I’m sick of it,” Mitts said, staring right into Heinmein’s black eyes, “sick of how you treat us all as living experiments.”

  Heinmein remained still.

  “I know you keep records—are using us for your research, for whatever end it might be.” Mitts shook his head. “I don’t want to be part of it anymore.”

  Heinmein didn’t reply right away, and Mitts saw him swallow hard, watched his Adam’s apple bobble in his throat. And then he responded, “What about your family? You are not concerned about them?”

  Mitts felt his chest tighten. Although he had thought over his response about a million times in his own head, it was totally different now that he had to say the words out loud.

  Almost as it, every time he opened his mouth, his throat closed up on him.

  In the end, Mitts could only squeeze out a single syllable, “No.”

  Heinmein continued to stare hard at him. His gaze was unflinching, as if he was merely looking at a test specimen . . . and what else was Mitts to Heinmein?

  “How long?” Mitts said. “How long have you been coming up here—how long has it been safe to leave the Restricted Area?”

  Heinmein flashed his eyes, gave a slight sigh. “Well—safe—that really is a relative term, is it not?” He glanced beyond Mitts, in such a way that Mitts was almost convinced there might be someone standing behind him.

  It took all his resolve not to turn and look.

  Mitts wondered, haphazardly, if Heinmein might be armed.

  He had come across several rooms on the Compound with assorted weapons.

  But he had always left them well alone.

  Could he really trust Heinmein would’ve done the same?

  Heinmein nodded to Mitts, and then to his sports bag. “You have seen for yourself that I keep the power up and running for those battery packs, and that it is my custom to use one of those suits if up in the Compound for any sustained period of time.” He cocked his head to one side. “And if I go outside, why, then it is a necessity.”

  Mitts tightened his hold on the strap of his sports bag.

  It was time to go.

  “So,” Mitts said, “are you planning to stop me?”

  Heinmein remained straight faced for several moments.

  And then his expression cracked.

  His mouth widened into a jagged-toothed smile.

  “Of course not,” Heinmein said, spreading his hands wide, “that was not what I had planned at all.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “But there was something which I believe you might have an interest in seeing.”

  “What?” Mitts fired back.

  Heinmein gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, still smiling that grimy smile. “The reason why you are still alive.”

  * * *

  Mitts made no move to leave his sports bag behind in the reception area, neither did he make any gesture to take off his suit. And Heinmein said nothing about Mitts’s decision to walk through the corridors of the Compound still dressed as he was.

  Heinmein led him down a series of staircases, onto what Mitts calculated to be the third basement level. It was an area of the Compound that Mitts had never got around to studying.

  Most likely because, when he’d looked at the plan, there had been nothing that’d immediately attracted his attention.

  No store cupboards of particular interest.

  Heinmein brought Mitts past a series of metal doors, each with etched metal plaques fastened to them. All of the plaques had long-winded names which Mitts never had the chance to take in fully.

  When they reached the end of the corridor, though, and Heinmein produced a jingling keyring from within one of the pockets of his lab coat, Mitts made out what the plaque said:

  Autopsy

  Mitts slipped Heinmein a sidelong glance. “What was this place used for?”

  Already focused on slipping the key into the lock, Heinmein gave a side-on shrug and mumbled, “Governmental purposes.”

  As Mitts heard the key snick in the lock, he found himself reaching out, grabbing hold of Heinmein’s forearm. He felt how frail Heinmein’s bones felt, how layers of fat hung off his arm, and when he looked once more into the doctor’s black eyes, he saw that he was frightened.

  Frightened of him?

  “What did you do here?”

  Heinmein’s eyes widened a touch more.

  Then he looked away. “I did certain things with bio-chemical body modifications . . .”

  Mitts tightened his grip. “What does that mean?”

  Heinmein, trembling now, looked back, then said, “I conducted experiments on humans—on soldiers—certain projects that were designed to help the Army.”

  “The ‘Army’? ” Mitts replied, finally releasing Heinmein’s arm.

  “Yes,” Heinmein said, turning the key in the lock, and then pushing the door open. He outstretched his arm, and tilted his head to one side in a deferential, almost sarcastic, way. “Please,” he said, “after you.”

  Mitts stepped in over the threshold and found himself, almost right away, overpowered by the glimmering metal in the bright light. He looked about him, to the wall.

  A series of gigantic filing cabinets.

  Each one with a tag assigned to it:

  Alpha-numeric sequences that meant nothing at all to him.

  But he supposed they meant an awful lot indeed to some shutdown database.

  In the middle of the room, there was a stainless-steel table—much like the one which Mitts had become accustomed to back in the Restricted Area.

  Mitts glanced to Heinmein, looking for some sort of clue as to what was expected of him.

  Heinmein dipped his head, and padded off toward the enormous filing cabinet which filled the entirety of the wall. Then, scooting along to one of the drawers he had, apparently, already marked out in his mind, he fished another key from his keyring and turned it in the lock.

  What Mitts saw next, he couldn’t quite believe.

  Heinmein brought the drawer sliding out with an unbearable screech of hinges.

  On the drawer Mitts observed the bagged-up form.

  An overpowering stench of sulphur entered the air.

  Spiked the air.

  Heinmein glanced back at Mitts. He batted his left eyelid. Nothing more than a nervous twitch; but a nervous twitch all the same.

  He reached out and took hold of the zipper on the bag, and then, with Mitts moving closer still, to get a good look over Heinmein’s shoulder, he pulled it open.

  Mitts looked down.

  On the grey-purple flesh.

  On the body which, at first, seemed to have no form.

  Mitts felt his mind melting within his sk
ull.

  His heart rose up to his throat.

  It beat hard against his skin.

  He reached up to touch his pulse, to check that he wasn’t imagining this.

  That this wasn’t another one of his lucid dreams.

  “Is it . . .” Mitts got out.

  Without turning to look at him, Heinmein gave a nod. He spoke his next few words through a sigh, “Dead, yes, when I found it.” He paused for several seconds and then added, “Outside the Compound.”

  Mitts felt a dizzy spell catch him.

  He breathed in deeply.

  Tried to calm himself down.

  But he could hardly keep himself still.

  He felt his leg jigging, uncontrollably.

  Energy bouncing through him.

  Mitts tried to clear his vision. To bring his mind back to just what was going on here. That what he had seen—seven years ago—had in fact been real. He stared down at the body once more, this time hoping that he would better understand.

  He started at the head.

  An inflated mass of grey-purple flesh.

  Then he moved downward.

  To the neck.

  The creature’s skin reminded Mitts of whale blubber, of what he’d seen of whales in nature documentaries. He wondered if the flesh was still wet to the touch.

  Mitts thought about reaching out.

  Thought about touching the skin.

  But he held back.

  Something told him that he and Heinmein might be in great danger here.

  When Mitts reached the mid-section of the creature, he saw what resembled a stomach. It was bulbous, sticking out . . . it reminded Mitts of pictures he had seen in textbooks:

  Round-stomached patients suffering from liver diseases.

  There was a series of sewn-up scars down the creatures stomach, and this was where, Mitts imagined, Heinmein had conducted the autopsy; where he had attempted to bring the creature’s secrets out into the harsh, bright light of the room.

  The creature had two arms, too, just like them.

  But no feet.

  As if he had read Mitts’s mind, Heinmein said, “Although I never saw it alive, I believe it would move by dragging its body across the ground.”

  Mitts felt his chest tighten again. He thought back to that day. To the day when he had slumped himself up there, against the ventilation hatch.

  Heinmein continued to gaze down on the creature as if this might be the very first time he had actually inspected it. Then he glanced back at Mitts. “You saw this before, didn’t you?”