Strangers in the Night
Page 22
Of something else.
He attempted to look around.
“Stay still, please,” the elderly scientist scolded.
Mitts obeyed.
The elderly scientist made some minor adjustment to the suckers on his scalp.
“Doctor Smith?” the blond assistant said.
The elderly scientist—‘Doctor Smith’, apparently—crossed the room.
Mitts took the opportunity to get a better look at his surroundings.
The room was tight.
Clearly kept off to some nook or cranny of the Facility.
Whatever went on in this room, they didn’t want anybody stumbling upon it.
Then again, most of what went on about the Facility, wasn’t supposed to be stumbled upon.
He closed his eyes.
What he could hear—what he could feel—was a sort of low-level crackling.
Almost like static inside his own head.
It was like a night when he had woken from a nightmare.
It had been thundering outside.
He had shifted out of bed. Gone downstairs.
He had opened the back door. Stood in the rain for several minutes.
He could still recall the soaking sensation of the rain up against his skin.
Plastering his boxer shorts.
Smearing his hair to his forehead.
But it had been that chatter in the air which’d drawn his attention.
A radio tuned between stations.
A TV spewing white noise.
Something there . . . and yet not.
“Mr Thornestone?”
Mitts glanced up.
Until now, nobody involved with the Facility had admitted to knowing his surname.
He hadn’t heard it in a long time.
Not since he had been back in school.
Doctor Smith met his eye. He gave him a slender smile.
Did Doctor Smith have one of those earpieces snaking up his neck?
Was there someone in a darkened room informing him exactly what Mitts was thinking?
“Would you like to know,” Doctor Smith said, in his reedy, seemingly weakening voice, “how exactly it is that we can read your thoughts?”
Mitts had no idea how to respond.
Doctor Smith turned his back.
He looked to his blond assistant.
He gave him a firm nod.
The assistant flipped a switch on the wall.
Mitts expected it to be a light switch.
He thought that the whole room would suddenly be bathed in fierce white light.
In the distance, across the room, something illuminated.
Mitts strained his eyes.
He saw, in actual fact, that it was another room.
Adjacent to this one.
Identical in every way.
Divided by a two-way mirror.
He absorbed the sight beyond the glass.
One of those creatures.
One of the Strangers.
Like him, it was hooked up to a whole host of wires.
Propped up on an examination table.
Mirror images.
And yet they were destined to be bound together.
When Mitts’s eyes opened he wasn’t in the real world any longer.
He was apart from it.
No longer was he lying down . . . he was standing up.
Sulphur . . . in his nostrils, down his throat . . . in his lungs.
When he peered about, he realised he stood on a water-like substance.
It reminded him of the lake.
He stretched his mind back to those times when the creatures had come.
All of them hovering over the surface of the water.
He stretched his mind further.
Tried to work out how it might be possible.
And he came up with . . . nothing at all.
The air was a light-grey tone.
An overcast day.
And yet, different from any overcast day Mitts had experienced.
The air had a mystical quality to it.
A buzzing layer of static.
Invisible, and yet, when he reached out, he could feel it.
He thought of bumblebees. Crawling up and down his arms.
He knew he should panic.
But—strangely—he felt at peace with himself.
As if he might never have worries again.
Never in his life.
He gazed across the water.
Terrain sprouted up.
Dark-purple land masses.
Hills.
He could hardly believe it.
It was just like his dream . . . and yet this was a dream.
He only needed someone to wake him . . .
. . . UP!”
Mitts came to right away.
He felt as if his skin was melting.
As if the air itself was too hot.
“Come on now. Wake up, Mr Thornestone. Wake up!”
The voice was calm. Yet insistent.
Doctor Smith’s voice.
Mitts propped himself up on his elbows.
He felt a cool hand across his forehead.
“That’s it, that’s it.”
The tones of Doctor Smith’s voice were calming.
“Good boy,” Doctor Smith said. “You’re coming round now.”
Mitts allowed Doctor Smith to ease him back down flat.
Onto the examination table.
Mitts rested his head back on a too-thin pillow.
He blinked once—twice.
He tried to clear his eyes.
Clear his eyes of the landscape he had just seen.
The world he had just returned from.
He calmed himself down. He peered through the two-way mirror.
Through the glass.
Into the other room.
He eyed the creature.
The Stranger . . . the Slug.
Mitts was far from an expert on Strangers, but he could see, from the way it lay, how its fangs were still—its entire body still—that it was dead.
He turned on Doctor Smith. “What happened?” he said. “What’s gone wrong?”
Doctor Smith smiled gently, working at his touchscreen. “Nothing’s wrong, Mr Thornestone. You’ve just returned from a dream. A dream of the Stranger’s making.”
“No,” Mitts said, shaking his head. “It wasn’t a dream . . . there’s no way it was a dream.”
Doctor Smith held still.
To begin with, he thought he hadn’t heard him.
Then, with a wide smile, Doctor Smith finally replied.
“I was hoping you would say that.”
* * *
Later in the day, back in his room, Mitts peered out the window.
He looked down to the garden.
He wore a fluffy, white dressing gown. It had been given to him a few weeks back.
Perhaps to put him at greater comfort.
He could still smell the heavy scent of disinfectant.
It seeped out of his pores.
More than anything, he wished the stench might be replaced by the scent of sulphur.
The smell he had experienced in the other world.
Although it had only been a few hours ago, already it felt like another lifetime.
Mitts had never felt so awake in all his life.
He felt every thought churning through his mind.
His brain throbbed.
But there was no pain.
It was a pleasant sensation.
At the same time, his body felt exhausted.
As if it weighed him down.
They had had to bring him to his room in a wheelchair.
When he had attempted to stand—even aided by a pair of escorts—he hadn’t been able.
There was a buzz at the door.
Mitts remained quiet.
And neither did he bother to look.
To see who it was.
It didn’t seem worth his energy.
He continued to stare out across the garden below.
He was vaguely aware of the voice behind him.
He didn’t turn.
Carla appeared before him.
Her voice babbled at him . . . through him.
Static rattled his skull.
Finally, as if someone had turned the tuning dial a little, the signal came clear.
Mitts slipped back into the ‘real world’ . . . his world.
“. . . in the end, and . . .”
Mitts opened his mouth.
Let out a slight groan.
His vocalising apparatus wouldn’t obey him.
And then, as had happened with his sense of hearing, everything clicked back into place.
Click.
“What happens to the creatures?” he said. “I mean after you’ve used them?”
Seemingly taken aback by Mitts’s sudden lucidity, Carla paused a moment before replying. “They’re clones, Mitts. That’s all. We made them to serve our purposes. They wouldn’t exist—”
But before she’d even finished, Mitts shook his head.
He fixed his eyes on the stone seat down in the garden.
The one he’d been sitting on just that morning.
“No,” Mitts broke in, his voice exercising patience. “I asked what you do with them.”
Carla didn’t reply right away.
“It’s okay,” Mitts went on, “you don’t need to consult, you can tell me the truth. I’m man enough for the truth.”
After another brief pause, Carla responded.
Her voice sounded husky now.
“They die.”
Mitts nodded to himself.
He had known that, of course. That much had been apparent.
He had only wanted her to say it.
Had only wanted her to admit it.
“How many do you use up spying on me?” Mitts asked.
“ ‘Spying on you’?” Carla replied, clearly a touch bewildered.
The scent of sulphur became almost too strong to stand.
No, it was too strong to stand.
Too strong for him—a mere mortal—to resist.
He pushed himself up onto his feet, using the arms of his chair.
“Careful,” Carla said, her voice a whisper.
Mitts staggered. He found his balance.
His physical strength.
“Why? Are you worried your little experiments might be ruined?”
Carla’s mouth latched open.
But she said nothing at all.
“How many?” Mitts repeated.
Carla, this time, spoke clearly. “About one a day,” she said. “For moderate surveillance.”
“And intensive surveillance?” Mitts put in.
She swallowed hard.
Mitts caught a whiff of her minty scent.
“It depends on the range—where the target is . . . how deep we wish to go . . .”
“To spy on my thoughts—Luca’s thoughts—in the Village?”
She blinked rapidly.
Slipped a glance to the door.
This only served to enrage him.
He grabbed hold of her lab coat.
Felt the material tight in his fist.
“How many?!”
She trembled in his hold.
They would be here for him.
Any second.
But he had to know.
“Seven . . . eight . . . sometimes more.”
Carla sobbed.
Mitts cocked his head to one side.
He stared deeply into Carla’s eyes.
Was there a soul there?
Trapped . . . somewhere at the back.
In a cage. Hands curled about the bars.
Peering out with a doleful expression.
Mitts loosened his hold.
Carla took a couple of steps back.
He considered his words.
Calmed himself down.
Then said, “What do you want to achieve?”
“ ‘Achieve’?” Carla replied, as if it was some kind of alien term.
“What’s the goal of these experiments? What did you want to gain from cloning—from studying—these creatures? These Slugs?” he added, in a mocking tone.
Carla held herself still.
Mitts took a step toward her.
She took one back from him.
The buzzer on the door went.
She flashed a glance over her shoulder.
He locked his eyes onto hers.
In a thick, throaty voice, he said, “Come in.”
* * *
Mitts didn’t need to look. He knew who it was.
Samantha.
Of course . . . who else would they send?
They needed to calm him down.
Otherwise everything would be ruined.
Feeling Samantha’s gaze lingering over him, Mitts looked to Carla. “I wonder,” he said, reaching out for her. “I wonder what might happen if I snap your neck.”
Carla’s eyes widened.
She stared at his hands.
Closing on her.
Coming to squeeze her throat.
Mitts stared hard into Carla’s eyes.
Her lips quivered.
He thought he could smell blood.
Thick on her breath.
No more of the cool, refreshing, mintiness.
Carla backed into the wall.
Mitts closed the gap.
His fingernails brushed her neck.
His hands found their way about her throat.
He felt her pulse.
The bloody smell drove him on.
He closed his grip.
Squeezed her throat.
Carla trembled.
But she didn’t struggle.
Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he heard a gunshot.
He smelled a harsh, intrusive—mechanical—odour.
Nothing like sulphur . . . nothing like the sulphur he craved.
He waited for the pain.
Looked forward to embracing the pain.
He had had enough.
In his head, he counted out the remaining seconds of his life.
They seemed somehow important.
He reached a count of ten.
Still no pain.
Carla’s body had gone slack.
Surprised, he released her.
She fell to the floor.
Dead.
Blood leaked from her.
Her eyes lolled back in their sockets.
Her mouth latched open.
Mitts turned.
Looked to the door.
Samantha.
Her expression was neutral.
She held a gun.
Tight in her grip.
But it didn’t point at him.
It pointed at Carla.
It was as if someone had knocked all the air out of him.
And he was dimly aware of falling to the floor.
* * *
“Mr Thornestone? Mr Thornestone?”
Mitts was lying down.
He crooked open an eye.
Back on the examination table.
He took in Doctor Smith’s wrinkled, leathery features.
This was what he’d wanted.
What he’d wanted all along.
He’d only wanted to go back.
To go back home.
Doctor Smith was grave-faced.
He worked at Mitts’s scalp. Putting suckers into place. Fiddling with wires.
Arranging everything.
When Doctor Smith spoke, it sounded as if his voice was weighed down by a sigh. “A shame,” he said. “A real shame.”
Mitts wasn’t aware if Doctor Smith was speaking to himself.
Or if he was speaking for his unseen assistant’s benefit.
As before, Mitts felt like an audience member.
A passenger.
Present only in body.
Absent in mind.
�
�We were really counting on you.”
“ ‘Counting on me’?” Mitts repeated.
“Yes. I suppose we’ll have to start again. Think of another solution.”
“. . . Why?”
“ ‘Why’ indeed,” Doctor Smith replied. “It does seem that we had a good shake, doesn’t it?” He shook his head. “But we keep on going—the human race keeps going—more resilient than cockroaches.” He paused a long while, making some adjustment which Mitts couldn’t see. “It’s going to take a long time for us to find another like you—another working on the same psychoactive plane as the Slugs . . . if we find one at all.”
Mitts felt his mind blurring in and out.
He could smell sulphur now.
Could see dark-purple hills.
Almost there . . . almost there . . . almost home.
He glared out over the side of the examination table.
To the other room.
The light was switched off.
The two-way mirror active.
Mitts couldn’t see the room on the other side.
But he could feel the Stranger there.
He could feel its presence.
His family.
His future.
Another future.
Mitts tilted his head back to Doctor Smith.
Again, it felt as if his lips only traced the words.
“. . . Luca . . . why Luca?”
“Pardon me,” Doctor Smith said, leaning over Mitts.
His eyebrows arched up high into his non-existent hairline.
“Oh, was that ‘Luca’? Yes, I suppose we could’ve used her. We could’ve extracted her. But, truth be told, we were expecting marvellous things from you both. We thought you might be the answer, quite frankly.” His lips widened into a smile. “Now, if that doesn’t sound desperate, then I really don’t know what does.”
He made his final adjustments to the wires around Mitts’s head.
Then gave a slight chuckle.
“I’m sure I sound like an old nut to you. An old man. Death’s been tapping me on the shoulder for years.” He leaned back, sighed. “The future of the human race will soon be out of my hands.”
He nodded to the two-way mirror, to the unseen Stranger on the other side.
“Whatever you’re looking for, I hope you find it. In that other world.”