Strangers in the Night

by Flex, Raymond S

  So much like human veins.

  She pulls back, drops the syringe into a metal bin.

  She stares long and hard at the creature.

  Waiting.

  EVERYTHING CHANGED

  The ringing in Mitts’s ears was too much to bear.

  He crunched his eyelids shut, trying to get shot of the noise in his head.

  But it only made it worse.

  He reached out about him.

  Realised he was lying on the floor.

  On the Station floor.

  He could feel skin—soft skin.

  He cracked an eyelid open.

  Saw that it was Samantha.

  She lay on her back.

  Her chest rose and fell with troubled breathing.

  Before Mitts knew it, he was up on his feet.

  The world was a silent macabre spectacle.

  Scattered bodies all around.

  None of them moving.

  No sound.

  Mitts reached out. Took hold of Samantha’s shoulders. He gave her a shake. He spoke to her.

  But his voice never even reached his own ears.

  He heard only ringing.

  Burning . . . he could smell burning.

  He breathed in.

  Felt ash lining his throat.

  He had to get out.

  He had to get himself and Samantha out.

  A muted crunching sound behind him.

  Mitts turned to look.

  A large beam which supported the ceiling.

  Wilting beneath its own weight.

  There was no time.

  Soon it would collapse.

  Mitts grabbed hold of Samantha’s fingers. Entwined them with his own.

  He dragged her toward the exit.

  When he reached the doorway, he felt Samantha struggling against his hold.

  He bent down to her. Spoke to her. Tried to get her to understand him.

  But her eyes remained closed.

  Her muscles resisted him.

  He needed help.

  He couldn’t do this alone.

  He released her. Trod away.

  Outside, dust hung in the air.

  Thick, grey clouds.

  Everything flattened by the blast.

  All he saw were bodies. Strewn through the streets.

  The dainty, sallow plaster walls of the cottages crumbled.

  They were covered in black dust.

  When he looked down, he saw the faces of the two men who had escorted Samantha.

  Their faces were peaceful.

  Their eyes shut tight.

  They continued to hold their rifles close to their chests.

  Mitts walked on.

  Several times, he stumbled.

  But he kept himself upright.

  He needed to get assistance . . . to save Samantha.

  On his way out of the Village, Mitts felt a pang.

  At the back of his head.

  He turned his attention to a particular pile of rubble.

  Déjà vu.

  Familiar.

  Yes, he had seen this before.

  . . . Perhaps in a dream?

  Mitts stood stock still. Hypnotised by the pile of rubble.

  He stared long and hard.

  Unable to believe.

  There—beneath the rubble—he was certain he would find himself.

  He crouched down.

  Dug with his hands.

  Brought one piece up.

  Cast it away.

  Another.

  Then another.

  Finally, he uncovered the person below.

  Constantly rising black smoke dimmed the overcast daylight.

  He removed another scrap.

  Another.

  And then he saw the face.

  Her face.

  Luca.

  Her eyes lolled downward in their sockets.

  Her lips were slightly parted.

  Dusted with ash.

  Lifeless.

  The colour in her cheeks—that glow—was gone.

  Replaced by a grey-purple colour.

  The colour of their skin.

  Mitts’s breath shuddered out of him.

  He stepped away.

  She had been right.

  Her dream had been right.

  He broke into a run.

  Headed out through the gates.

  Away from the Village.

  Away from the destruction.

  As the ringing in his ears grew louder, he thought about his frustration this morning.

  Hadn’t he wanted to know what that dream had meant?

  Well, now he did . . .

  * * *

  Outside the Village, Mitts faced off with one of Samantha’s escorts.

  Like the others, he bore a semi-automatic rifle.

  Mitts stared into his eyes.

  He sunk to his knees.

  Held his hands up then clasped them behind his head.

  In the near distance, Mitts made out another escort.

  Ready to assist.

  Mitts felt stabbing pains in his temples.

  He closed his eyes.

  The ringing in his ears was too much.

  Something else put him on edge.

  A second later, it struck him.

  Sulphur.

  It stank of sulphur.

  These two escorts absolutely stank of sulphur.

  Mitts tilted his head back.

  He made eye contact with the escort who pointed his gun at him.

  He stared hard into his eyes.

  What did it mean?

  The other escort got up close to Mitts.

  He barked loudly in his ear.

  He demanded to know where she was.

  Mitts could hardly think to breathe.

  Let alone talk.

  He managed to tilt his head.

  To mumble some reply.

  To communicate that she was back in the Village.

  That she was back there.

  The escort with his gun pointed at Mitts, jerked him to his feet.

  He led him in the direction of the water.

  To the boat.

  * * *

  Mitts didn’t sleep in the boat. But he struggled to recall any details of the journey.

  Had they administered some drug?

  They loaded him into a truck, on the other side of the water.

  They placed a black hood over his head.

  Mitts, still bleary from the constant ringing in his ears, asked them why this was necessary.

  They told him that he ‘hadn’t yet committed’.

  ‘Committed’ to what?

  But it didn’t seem he was going to get answers any time soon.

  They drove for what seemed like hours.

  Mitts stirred from his daze. He heard a pair of slams.

  The front doors of the truck being shut.

  When they removed his hood, he saw it was dark.

  The escorts helped him out of the truck.

  Mitts rolled his shoulders. Tried to get himself shot of the aches from the journey.

  His head felt sore.

  Through narrowed eyes, he glanced out.

  A garden.

  Bristling. Full of life.

  Sprawling green shoots. Brightly coloured flowers.

  Chocolate-brown soil.

  Lit up by an array of electric tea lights.

  Almost like fairies.

  The escorts led Mitts along the garden path.

  Gravel crunched beneath his boots.

  They passed by burbling streams, gurgling through guttering at their feet.

  Mitts didn’t feel afraid.

  Should he?

  He had lost everything.

  Everything he cared about.

  Everything he loved.

  All over again.

  He strained his neck to look back. To see where they had come from.

  To see the truck.

  The escort leading him forward shoved him in the b
ack.

  He jerked him around to face the direction they were travelling.

  Deeper into the garden.

  Mitts hadn’t the strength to overpower the man.

  Words came as a struggle. Squeezed out through dead-tired lips. “. . . Where is she? . . . Did you get her? . . . Is she still alive?”

  Another shove in the back.

  Before Mitts could ask again, the terrain beneath his feet changed.

  The gravel was replaced by laminate flooring.

  A pair of tinted glass doors appeared ahead.

  “Where are we?” Mitts asked. “Where’re we going?”

  But the escort didn’t respond.

  * * *

  The escort led Mitts along a series of corridors—corridors which reminded him of the Compound.

  Mitts cast his mind back to those times in the middle of the night when he would stand up on that plastic box of his possessions, screwdriver in hand, and work at opening up the ventilation hatch.

  There had been sheer excitement then.

  An excitement which he hadn’t been able to control.

  He thought about dropping down through the ducts.

  Into the forbidden areas of the Compound.

  How he had trudged about the corridors, looking for something—anything—which might provide a distraction.

  Any kind of distraction.

  The escort thrust Mitts up six flights of stairs.

  They arrived outside an unmarked door.

  “Go in,” the escort said.

  Mitts eyed the semi-automatic which dangled over the escort’s shoulder and did what he was told. Once he crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind him.

  The room was almost entirely done out in white.

  A window looked down on the garden outside.

  In the distance, Mitts could make out rolling hills.

  No sign of the lake.

  He tried to open the window a little—to allow some air in—but it was sealed shut.

  He tapped his fingernails against the windowpane. The plasticky sound told him it was reinforced glass. That any hope of escape would be in vain.

  He would never break through.

  Not without a wrecking ball.

  There were twin beds. Each of them had white sheets. A fluffy, white towel sat neatly folded at the foot of each bed.

  He explored further. Came across an en-suite bathroom.

  No mirror. No shower curtain.

  Nothing to put himself into any sort of danger.

  No place to hide.

  So this room was to be his new home.

  For the time being.

  His head still hummed from the explosion. But at least he could hear himself think.

  Was that a good or bad thing?

  Mitts slumped down in a white leather chair which sat by the window.

  He propped his elbow on the armrest. Stared out at the garden.

  There was nothing for him to do.

  What seemed like half an hour later, there was an electric buzz.

  A doorbell?

  Mitts sat still, wondering what he was expected to do.

  This was a prison cell, after all.

  Wasn’t it?

  Were they going to bother with the pretence of privacy here?

  Just as Doctor Heinmein had done back at the Compound . . .

  Another buzz.

  They really were insistent.

  He shoved himself up and out of the chair.

  “Come in,” he muttered.

  The door slid open.

  Red hair.

  White lab coat.

  Slim posture.

  She tilted her head to one side.

  This couldn’t be happening . . . it couldn’t be happening . . . and yet, here she was.

  The woman from his dreams.

  * * *

  “Carla,” the red-headed scientist said, extending her hand to him.

  Mitts stared long and hard at her well-manicured, delicate fingers. He decided someone might be watching this meeting, using it as some sort of measuring stick for his mental health.

  He accepted her handshake.

  She smelled lightly of mint.

  “Mitts,” he replied.

  “Yes,” Carla said, with a smile, the skin about her eyes crinkling, “I know.”

  She glanced about the bedroom, as if she was searching for something.

  He noticed she wore a coral necklace. She constantly ran her fingertips across it.

  She indicated the white leather chair. “Please,” she said.

  Mitts glanced to the door. It had already shut.

  If he did get out the door then where would he run?

  Mitts did as she said. He sunk into the chair. Feeling cramp setting in, he stretched his legs out.

  In the truck, he’d had to fold his legs up in an uncomfortable fashion.

  It felt good to have more space.

  Carla perched on the edge of one of the neatly made beds.

  Mitts’s stomach grumbled.

  Carla glanced to him, that same smile clinging to her lips. “Hungry?” she said.

  “A little,” Mitts admitted.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll bring in something for you to eat—just a few questions first, that’s all.”

  Mitts expected Carla to dig out a computer tablet, or, at the very least, a paper notepad and pencil.

  He supposed the hidden cameras, surely dotted around the room, would be quite sufficient for keeping a record of this meeting.

  Carla stuffed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. She leaned back a little on the bed, making the mattress springs creak. “So, Mitts,” she said, putting extra stress on his name. “Tell me about the dreams.”

  Mitts felt a chill pass through his gut.

  He glanced at her briefly, almost unable to understand the invitation.

  Then his mind came to a conclusion:

  Samantha.

  Of course.

  She had told them.

  About these prophetic dreams of his.

  Was that the reason why Samantha had wanted him to come here with her?

  Mitts fixed Carla with a stare. It was deeply unnerving to be sitting here with this woman who’d been present in his dreams. “Why don’t you tell me what went on?” he said. “What caused the explosion back at the Village?”

  When Mitts heard his voice coming back at him, he was surprised at how insistent he sounded.

  And a little impressed with himself.

  He had managed to hold his resolve.

  Carla exhaled daintily. “Please, Mitts, it’s important we hear about your dreams.” She widened her eyes. “You’ve seen me, haven’t you? You’ve seen me in the dreams you’ve been having lately?”

  Mitts felt his chest tighten.

  His stomach dipped.

  He glanced about the room. He felt restless.

  He stood.

  Paced back and forth.

  Mitts imagined those watching would see this as an act of aggression. That it was all they would need to pounce. He expected the door to burst open. For those escorts to come busting in.

  Ready to gun him down.

  But nobody came.

  And Carla didn’t so much as flinch.

  Mitts stared long and hard at her.

  He bunched his fingers into fists.

  “The dreams?” he said.

  “Yes, Mitts,” Carla replied. “The dreams.”

  Mitts paused his pacing.

  He stared out the window.

  Down to the garden below.

  To the flickering tea lights.

  He allowed himself a wry smile.

  “The whole world is tumbling down and you think about an ornamental garden?”

  When he looked back at Carla, she gave him a neutral smile.

  Mitts shook his head. “Where’d those creatures come from, huh? Is it you? Have you been manufacturing them here? Are they human creations?”

  Like b
efore, Carla made no response.

  Just that same, neutral smile.

  Tell us about the dreams, Mitts, he imagined her saying.

  Mitts breathed in deeply.

  He glanced around the room. “Ever since I came here,” Mitts said, “I started to have dreams . . . strange, vivid—lucid—dreams.”

  He looked to Carla.

  She fed him a nod of encouragement.

  “First,” Mitts continued, “dreams about dancers. On a balcony. New Year’s Eve.” He shook his head. “It came back, again and again . . .”

  “How long ago was this, Mitts?” Carla said, breaking her silence.

  Mitts shook his head. He gazed out the window.

  It was pitch black outside now.

  The glow of the garden below seemed almost otherworldly.

  Ethereal.

  “I was eleven when we left home, when I left home with my family, and then—”

  Something caught in his throat.

  “We know what happened, Mitts, and you must realise that we’re very sorry.” She paused for a moment as if to indicate the emotional weight which her voice didn’t carry. “What concerns us is the dreams—we need to know about the dreams.”

  “Right,” Mitts said, pressing his forehead up against the cool windowpane. “The dreams.”

  * * *

  Again, Mitts had no way of knowing how much time really passed.

  There was no clock.

  Only the night moving by outside the window.

  His brain kept buzzing.

  He told Carla everything she needed to know about his dreams.

  As much as he was able to recall after all these years.

  When he reached the end, when he had told Carla about his latest dreams—the ones which’d featured her—he restrained the urge to ask straight out how they had done it.

  How they had invaded his mind.

  Instead, he turned his mind to another matter.

  “There was another person,” Mitts said. “Back in the Village.”

  Carla rose up from the bed, on her way out.

  Apparently she’d got everything she needed.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Luca.”

  It felt as if someone had slipped a knife into Mitts’s stomach.

  He had hardly made sense of all that had happened. Those words Luca had spoken. How she had told him to ‘Get out’. That he was welcome no longer . . . and then she had died.

  Just like that.

  Simple as a click of the fingers.

  “It didn’t really matter which one of you came,” Carla went on. “We just needed one for the purposes of our studies.”