by Mark Ayre
More than twenty guards were within shouting distance of Adam’s captive. That she remained quiet suggested she feared his empty gun. This was good. His head was pounding, his lips wet with the blood his nose had ejected. Dizziness came and went. He needed to rest and recuperate, but that was out of the question. Time was short.
“Where’s my sister?”
The women met his eyes and lied. “I don’t know.”
“Fine, I’ll shoot you.”
He pointed the gun at her head.
“Wait, wait. Okay. She’s on this floor. I can show you if—”
Her hand went for the controls. Adam stepped forward, moving his gun within inches of her skull.
“Mess me about, and I’ll kill you.” He nodded to the bodies. “As these folks will testify.”
The woman had one hand on her leg. Slowly she brought her free hand to the control panel. With a couple of clicks, she revealed a cell far less grand than his. Eve stood near a metal frame bed. Using her powers, she had slammed another woman against a wall. At first, Adam couldn’t make out who this person was. Then…
“Mum?”
His gun lowered a little. His eyes must have revealed a lack of focus. Grabbing a weapon from under the desk, Adam’s captive shot him in the stomach.
With Sandra still pinned to the wall, Eve stepped into the corridor, where stood three armed guards. They stared for a second then, simultaneously, their necks snapped, and they dropped. Eve released her mother, who stumbled into the hall.
“Well, that was mature.”
“It was a mistake,” said Eve. “I should have left one of them alive to lead me to the trial. Then I could have killed you.”
“That would have been a mistake,” mused Sandra. “Only I can get you into the section of the facility within which the trial takes place.”
“Don’t count on it,” said Eve. “Now. Lead on.”
“Besides, the guilt would have eaten you alive.”
“Lead on, before I break your legs.”
Sandra smiled as though she was a point up. Perhaps she was. The older woman appeared calm while Eve wound tighter with each second. She had an intense desire to wipe the smirk from her mother’s face. She held herself.
Despite her victory grin, Sandra began to do as Eve had instructed. After four steps, her phone rang. She pointed at her pocket.
“Probably someone from HR shouting about dead guards,” she said. “You would not believe how hard it is to find reliable amoral mercenaries who can also be trusted to follow orders. There was this one man—”
“Answer it,” said Eve, because it seemed the opposite of what Sandra wanted.
“If you want to save the girls, do we have time?”
“Answer it. Put it on speaker. Now.”
Shrugging as though she wasn’t bothered, Sandra did.
“Yes?”
“Ma’am, it’s Adam. He got out of his cell and made his way into the control room on -2.”
“And?”
“I shot him,” said the woman. “In the stomach.”
“With a tranq, I hope?”
When the woman didn't answer, Sandra sighed. Eve felt her heart sink.
“Is he alive?” said Sandra.
“I don’t know,” said the woman. “He vanished when the bullet hit. We can’t find him.”
“If he’s invisible he’s alive,” said Sandra, then turned to Eve. “Still want to stop the trial?”
Somehow, with the news of these nine endangered women, Eve had seen a glimmer of hope. For how long had she been afraid she was a demon? Something stripped of humanity, heartless. When she’d learned of the girls, she’d imagined selflessly saving them, putting her life on the line to do the right thing, rather than selfishly going after Adam and escaping, as she always would have in the past.
That was easier when she thought Adam was locked in a cell, relatively safe.
Sandra awaited an answer.
Hating herself, Eve said, “Take me to this control room. We have to find Adam.”
They crested a hill, and there it was, only a handful of miles away. The facility he and Julia had built, lying low, slumped across the ground, draped across hundreds of acres. It was incredible to think that, only thirty years ago, it had been nothing more than a shed. Three decades and billions of pounds later, Joel still felt as though they were only at the beginning of their journey. They were two of the wealthiest people in the world. Their money had bought them power, but only the underhand kind. They were behind the scenes of some of the most influential men and women across the globe, but that wasn’t enough, had never been enough.
From the moment Sandra’s twins had shown what they could do—when Eve had used her mind to knock a stack of papers from a desk—Joel had known his ultimate destiny. They would harness those incredible abilities and use them to achieve the kind of power of which the greatest men and women of history had only dreamed.
Sandra’s actions had put him back decades. All the children who had followed were sub-par. None gave Joel the same feeling as had Adam and Eve. When Sandy had fled with the twins, Joel had been furious. When she returned, it was Julia who convinced him to spare the traitor. As always, his sister had been right. Now it was back in his grasp at last.
He leaned forward, pressing his face to the window like a small boy for the first time seeing the sea. His excitement built. Within half an hour, he would have seen the twins for himself, for the first time since they were toddlers. After observing them a while, he would visit Steadman, to see if Sandra had been correct about the positive results of the latest trial. He was sure she would be and was excited for what this latest pregnancy might bring.
He remembered Cassandra’s prophecy, relayed to him by Sandra. Soon, all nine children would be together for the first time. There were only seven children at present, so that had to mean twins—another pair who might be as perfect as Adam and Eve. Joel hardly dared hope.
If she existed, Joel would meet the new mother; tell her how special she was. After making pleasant, he would meet Sandra at her office. They would share a drink, and he would kill her.
Julia had been right to stop him at the time, but he would wait no longer. He tapped on the window, and the driver rolled it down.
“Faster,” said Joel. “I’m excited to get home.”
A bland faced man knocked upon the door and talked in quiet tones with Yacob. Once the stranger was gone, Yacob turned to Hattie and clapped. His smile was repulsive and terrifying.
“This is it,” he said. “Time to see your daughter.”
The only above ground level of the facility was like an egg. The white was a large, never used, open plan office and the yolk a smaller area where were housed lockers, a control room and the single lift to the lower levels. Thick steel walls protected the yolk, and only one set of huge electronic doors offered entry or exit from this area.
Hattie had been sitting in one on the central rooms. From here, Yacob led her along two narrow corridors to the electronic doors. She remembered walking through them for the first time, experiencing extreme trepidation, finding courage in the knowledge she would not be there long, and would soon be £2,000 richer. A few weeks later, as poor as ever, she had moved to a farmhouse from which she was forbidden to leave.
Now she was walking through them again, but only temporarily. Her heart pounded, she held in tears, they stepped through.
Through the white of the egg they walked, Yacob’s left hand on her arm, a gun in his right. Two more armed men trailed behind as they walked towards the glass entrance doors. Through these, thirty seconds away, Hattie saw her daughter and could hold the tears no longer. She began to sink to her knees.
“Pull it together,” Yacob hissed, yanking her up and showing her a blade. “This should be a joyous reunion. Don’t make me spoil it.”
The sky outside grew darker by the second. The open-plan office was gloomy, but no one switched on the many powerful tube lights above their heads. A
ll around Hattie and Yacob were covered desks and cabinets set out like an obstacle course. This bland furniture, Hattie knew, concealed many more armed men and women, one of whom would put a bullet in Omi. Hattie’s daughter’s protector stood to Delilah’s left, pushing in a wheelchair a man Hattie recognised as Doc. Graham—better known to those within the organisation as Grendel—was on Delilah’s right, walking a little ahead of her.
“You’ll be tempted to say something,” Yacob said, whispering though Omi and co were not close enough to hear. “If you behave, I promise to put a bullet in your head and let Omi take the same. If you try to warn them, you both live.”
Hattie stared. He gave a nasty smile.
“I’ll need you alive to watch us torture him, then your daughter.”
“No,” whispered Hattie. “Please don’t. Please—”
“Shut up. There’s no need to beg. It doesn’t have to go that way.”
Yacob raised a hand in greeting as Omi came closer. Showing her the blade again, he resumed whispering.
“Be a good girl, and it will be over before you know it.”
Isla had friends who were parents. Without exception, they spoke of how their children’s childhoods seemed to flash by.
They had no idea. Fifteen minutes after Isla had given birth, her daughter appeared to be five or six years old. Steadman usually provided baby clothes for the encaged mothers in his care. With Isla’s child, there would have been no point.
Before their eyes, she grew, and the best they could do was wrap her in a towel. By the time the midwife, Michael, got it together to ask about a name, the little girl could answer for herself.
“Name’s Pandora, isn’t it mummy?”
“Um, sure.”
Adam and Eve aged at an ordinary human rate. Except for possibly Lucy, with whom it was impossible to tell, all future red room children had biological clocks which ran too fast or too slow. Before Pandora, Delilah’s had been the fastest. Eight months after her birth, she looked eight years old; at her current rate of growth, she would not live to be the age she now seemed.
Pandora was something else. Before the end of the day, old age would have taken her life.
Despite this rapid ageing, Isla still felt a powerful love for her daughter. Even in the minutes, she had spent in the world, they had formed a bond Isla knew would last the rest of her life, though her daughter would be long gone.
At this thought, Isla could not hold back the tears, but when she tried to hide her head in her hands, Pandora came to her. Taking Isla’s hand in hers, she squeezed.
“It’s okay, mummy,” she said. “You’ve been amazing, and we’re going to do something incredible, something awesome, as soon as my brother gets here.”
“Your brother?”
Isla’s shock had kept her from speaking. It was Steadman who had released the exclamation. All adult eyes turned to Isla’s stomach, which had flattened remarkably quickly. Pandora looked confused, then laughed when she realised.
“My paternal brother, sillies.”
Abbot and Steadman looked at each other. Steadman spoke again. “You don’t have a father.”
“’ Course I do, and you—” she pointed at Steadman—“will soon meet him, if you’re good. Maybe you too.” This time she was pointing at Michael, looking unsure. At last, she turned to Abbot. “Not you. In a second, I’m going to kill you.”
Given her rapid ageing, Pandora was fast growing into the body of a ten-year-old. Despite still being a child (complete with sweet voice and innocent blue eyes), Abbot retreated from her words. His eyes widened with fear. Steadman scoffed.
“Come now, Abbot, there’s no need to be afraid.” He turned to Pandora. “Little girl, I’m going to call in some friendly people; they’ll take you somewhere nice and cosy. I’m afraid we’ll have to separate you from your mother for a little while but—”
Even while holding her perfect baby, Isla had feared her daughter would grow into a monster. To the contrary, she had turned into a picture-perfect little girl and was becoming more beautiful by the minute. She had the kind of looks people tended to underestimate, especially when found in a child.
While Steadman was speaking, Pandora shot forward, moving with incredible speed towards the doctor. He stopped, raising his hands, but she meant not to attack.
Sliding between his legs, she sprung to her feet then jumped from the ground as though it were a trampoline, almost hitting the ceiling before dropping onto Abbot’s back.
The doctor opened his mouth to cry out. Before he could, Pandora grabbed his throat, dug in her nails, and tore it wide.
As a torrent of blood fired across the room, splattering the floor, the bed, and Steadman’s legs, both Michael and Isla screamed.
Momentarily stunned, Steadman was the first to react. Whipping back his coat he grabbed for the same gun with which he had ended Karim’s life.
It had gone.
Pandora, calm as a child who has just woken from a refreshing nap, stepped not over but onto the dead Dr Abbot’s back and pointed her stolen gun at Steadman’s head.
She was fast approaching puberty.
Grinning, she said, “Told you I was going to kill him. Now, does anyone know where I can get some sanitary products?”
Adam first hit a table, then the floor. Rolling onto his front, he groaned; in his head, a marching band. That nonstop pounding like a million drum sticks against his brain, faster and faster. His vision swam, went black, came back swimming. He closed his eyes. His nose was bleeding again. It could have been worse. Unlike Eve, he had not taken a bullet to the stomach. Not that it was a competition.
He had lost focus. Stupid. Though he had believed his mother lived, seeing her was a punch to the gut. Every lesson she’d ever taught, he’d forgotten. As a result, his captive had almost killed him. Just in time, he had seen the gun. Allowing the bullet to pass through him, as the guards outside pushed and shoved to be the first to enter, Adam had made sure his shooter couldn’t see him, then dropped through the floor.
There was a greater distance between floors than he had expected. His whole body ached, his bones rattled. If ever his headache subsided, the pain would intensify.
Shoving himself into a seated position, he opened his eyes again. At first, he saw nothing, then blurred vision returned. Fast, the room crept into focus: more metal floors, ceilings, and walls, broken only by a single, solid door and a mirror which ran the length of room’s west side. Dotted around the place were tables, empty. There were no chairs.
A little girl screamed. One of the tables wobbled, tipped. Adam heard the crash but when he blinked all the furniture was as it had been. There was no little girl.
From nowhere, a doctor appeared, grabbed his shoulders—do it again, boy, do it again—then vanished into mist.
As the vision departed, so did his legs from beneath him. The floor arrived, slapping his shoulder then head. The little girl appeared. Again, she screamed. This time the table flipped, spun and crashed to the ground. From nearby, Adam heard a dry clap as the girl began to cry.
“Eve?”
Memories. He and Eve had been here before.
Rolling and sitting again, this time, Adam put his focus into staying up. Though he had never opened his cell doors, he did not believe the organisation would yet have put together that he could walk through walls. The woman in the control room thought she had shot him, but they knew he was alive, or he would have reappeared. He guessed they would believe he had fled the room in the commotion. Knowing he couldn’t stay invisible long, they would guard the lifts while flicking through camera views on that floor, trying to find him. Before long, they would realise he wasn’t going to show and would start checking the pictures on other levels. They might even enlist the help of the other control rooms. Whatever the case, he didn’t have long.
Standing, he found he could not move for the quicksand of memory. In one corner of the room, a toddler Adam hugged a toddler Eve. In another, a doctor was shouti
ng, in a third, another doctor whispered.
My name is Doctor Steadman. I want to help get the best out of you.
In Adam’s memory, the door opened. Though he knew it was a recollection, he twitched and spun to the present-day door, almost falling as he did. It didn’t move. No one entered. In the past, his mother had walked in. She loomed over her tiny children.
Do as they say, children. If you don’t want to be hurt, you must—
But no, this couldn’t be right. This was a false memory. Had their mother not told them on countless occasions, they had been born in a hospital? Their father hadn’t been around, so their mother had raised them alone. When they were four, Eve used her powers in pre-school. Shocked, the teacher spoke to the police. From the cops, the information filtered to the organisation.
Soon after, the chase had begun.
Had mum been lying?
She couldn’t have been.
Except she had to have been.
No, she wouldn’t.
She was.
Adam put his head in his hands before internal argument drove him insane. If his mother had lied about their early years, that might be understandable. But if it wasn’t the truth, why claim Eve had given them away? That story had driven Eve into deep guilt as a child and had shaped her merciless adulthood personality.
Could his mother be so cold?
To this, he knew the answer. Not wanting to face it, he crossed the room. Before long, they would spy him on a camera. He needed to be as close to his goal as possible before that time. If he had come from above, it made sense to keep descending, to the bottom.
Saskia.
Afraid to use his power again so soon, in case he passed out, Adam wiped the blood from his face with his shirt and crossed to the door. Grabbing it, he listened for pounding feet but could hear nothing. He tried the handle and found it unlocked.
Stepping into the hall, he went in search of a lift.
Their arrival in the crowded corridor drew all eyes. Eyes which widened when the armed men and women saw one of the newcomers was Eve. Invisible fingers of ice crept around Sandra’s throat. She shuddered.