Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1)

by M. A. Phipps

  My eyes flutter open. I glance up, catching sight of the table at the end of the bed. Suddenly, all I can think about is the dryness in my throat. It’s like a raging inferno, scorching my insides whenever I swallow.

  Despite the pain overwhelming my body and the fact that I’m probably going to die soon anyway, all I care about right now is easing my thirst. Pushing myself up, I claw my way forward, dragging my limp body behind me. The drugs they sedated me with are still working in full force, leaving me paralyzed from the waist down.

  I clench my jaw and fresh beads of sweat rise up across my skin. The exertion is exhausting, but I convince myself to keep going. Reaching the table, I grab hold of the bed, using the last of my strength to hoist my hand up just enough to touch the screen. It’s a struggle, but after several failed attempts, the robotic arm descends with the very thing that will be my salvation.

  I reach for the water, and my body slumps against the side of the bed as I down it in one go. The glass clatters against the floor the instant I’m finished, the sound as it rolls across the concrete echoing through the small room.

  Exhausted, I lean my head back against the mattress. I close my eyes, desperate to sleep, but I’m kept awake by the thought of everything that’s happened. The events of the past few hours ring through my mind, haunting me.

  I find myself thinking of the man in my vision. Who was he? How does he know me?

  Or rather, how will he know me?

  Above all, I’m curious about Dr. Richter’s reaction. It’s frustrating that everyone else here seems to know more about what’s happening to me than I do. They know more about my condition. They know more about what causes it. They even know more about the mysterious man—or at least who he is.

  We’re all clueless in one respect, though. Why I saw him in the first place.

  How will I meet him? I’ll never leave this place, so it seems highly unlikely that our paths would ever cross.

  I think about PHOENIX. I’ve never seen the face of a single person in that group. Their executions are never broadcast. But from how the State portrays them, I’ve always assumed that they’re nothing more than monstrous terrorists who would do absolutely anything to see our society collapse. I guess I always figured its members would look the part.

  But that man, Ezra Laramie, his name was. He just looked like a normal person.

  My head aches with a combination of confusion and fear, but at the same time, I can’t deny the spark of curiosity lingering behind them. It’s enough to make me wonder how much of what we know is actually the truth, and how much of what we’ve been force-fed by the State is a lie.

  It occurs to me, almost at once, that I want to find out. Not only what’s happening to me, but the truth about the world we live in. The truth about PHOENIX.

  I have a feeling I know where I’ll find those answers.

  The only way forward is to find the man from my vision. There has to be a reason behind why I saw him, and besides, I can’t go back in there. Not after this. Whether or not they plan to kill me or simply run more tests, I can’t take any more.

  But what can I do about it? I need to escape, that much I know. But how? No one leaves the DSD, so it’s impossible, surely. Plus, there's the other issue. Even if I did manage to escape, how would I begin to find Ezra Laramie?

  Within seconds of this question crossing my mind, the answer seems to come to me in the form of another vision. I double over in agony as it explodes inside my brain, but I’m too weak to scream. I bite my tongue. The overwhelming taste of blood pools in my mouth, although I can hardly register it through the pain.

  After a few moments of this, my suffering begins to fade, and I glance up to find myself standing in an alley. It’s nighttime, and I can see the shine of halogen lights reflecting off my skin. A dingy bar stands a few feet away from me, with a sign overhead reading, The Vega. It flickers as the bulbs buzz with an eerie hum.

  I turn in place to take in the surrounding area. The faint glow encompasses a signpost at the end of the street, which says B42. It also has a symbol on it, which represents Zone 7.

  A scream tears from my throat as a fresh wave of pain overwhelms my body. As it does, a strange pressure descends around me. It builds up, attacking my insides like a vicious cancer, until I can’t take it a second longer. I scream once again, only vaguely aware of the loud shatter in front of me.

  I reel back. My head hits the hard mattress, startling me, and suddenly, I realize that I’m back at the DSD. I look around frantically, panting as my heart races. Sweat covers my skin and more black spots flash in front of my eyes, blinding me.

  When my vision finally clears, I’m alarmed to see the pieces of glass scattered across the floor. Glancing up, I notice that only a few remnants of mirror still hang above the sink, but I can’t wrap my head around how it broke in the first place.

  My body still shaking, I lean forward and grab a large shard lying a few inches from my feet. Hesitantly, I look into it. The whites of my eyes are entirely blood red. My pupils are dilated to the point where the irises are nothing more than a thin rim encircling black.

  I gape at my reflection in fear. How long have I looked like this? Days? Weeks? Or is my current state simply a result of this most recent experiment? In which case, what the hell is happening to me?

  What have these people done to me that would cause this sort of reaction?

  Time passes in a daze, but I never take my eyes off the girl staring back at me from the glass. I register the feeling gradually returning to my legs, but I don't bother to move. There's no point. Instead, I allow myself to drift in and out of consciousness, the hours rolling by in a dreary blur.

  My entire body tenses when I hear a sound outside my door, jerking me fully awake. The familiar beeping of the keypad expels a dull echo through the wall, alerting me that I only have a few seconds, if that.

  I peer up at the security camera. The little red light is still blinking.

  If I’m going to escape, it’s now or never.

  Making a split second decision, I curl up into a ball, trying my best to make the movement seem as natural as possible. But what they can’t see, what I hope they can’t see, is the glass shard my fingers are forcing beneath the mattress.

  The door springs open the instant my hand leaves the bed.

  I lean back and focus my attention on the attendant standing in the doorway. Her expression is emotionless, just like the rest of them. Yet, I can sense her confusion when she glimpses the pieces of mirror strewn across the floor. Nonetheless, she doesn’t mention them.

  “Dr. Richter would like to speak with you.” She gives me the once over, her upper lip twitching in disgust. “I will allow you a moment to get dressed,” she adds.

  I pick myself up from the floor, my legs shaking unsteadily beneath me. The woman stands there, scrutinizing my every move. I grimace as I turn away from her and my hands tremble as they reach for the pants folded on the bedspread. Carefully sliding them on underneath the soaked paper-thin gown, I deliberately take my time so I can figure out my next plan of action. When I try to change into the shirt, my body involuntarily spasms, still aching from whatever they did to me before. Taking a deep breath, I slide my feet into the shoes positioned beside the bed.

  My eyes dart up to meet the woman's.

  “Follow me,” she murmurs.

  She holds my gaze for a long moment before walking out the door. I hesitate, glancing down at the mattress.

  Now or never, I remind myself.

  Dropping to one knee, my hands graze across my shoe as I pretend to adjust the ties. I have maybe five seconds before the woman notices my absence, so I move quickly, yanking the shard out from its hiding place and tucking it inside the left sleeve of my shirt.

  I time everything perfectly. As soon as the glass is concealed, the attendant reappears in the doorway—lips pursed and her annoyance plainly visible.

  I immediately stand up and follow her out into the corridor. The pa
th we follow is familiar, even though I’ve only walked it one other time. When we stop beside the closed door, she enters a series of numbers into the adjoining keypad. The door opens at once, revealing the room with the long mirrored wall.

  Dr. Richter is already inside, waiting for me. His expression is hard, and he no longer bothers with that forced smile.

  “Take a seat,” he orders.

  I look back at the woman, but I only catch a glimpse of her before she exits the room, and the door locks behind her. I turn toward Dr. Richter. Taking a deep breath to settle my nerves, I make my way over to the opposite side of the table. The silence is laced with tension as I weakly slump into the chair.

  “You look like hell,” he says after a moment.

  “What have you done to me?” I growl.

  He removes his glasses, breaking eye contact with me for the brief moment it takes him to clean them on his coat.

  “I haven’t done anything that your body wouldn’t have naturally embraced on its own. I merely sped up the process.”

  I glare at him, taken aback by his words as well as the terrifying message behind them. “What do you mean?” I breathe.

  He looks up at me now, carefully replacing his glasses before folding his hands on the table.

  “You are evolving,” he answers. “Developing abilities that other humans can only dream of. Although I was uncertain of it before, this last trial confirmed my suspicions.” He pauses and a sly smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. “You are exactly who I imagined you to be,” he purrs.

  “You said I wouldn’t be harmed,” I whisper. “You said I would be treated with civility.”

  “Yes,” he admits. “But certain sacrifices need to be made for the advancement of science.”

  Sacrifices? I nearly scream at him. How can he act as if what they did to me was anything short of inhuman? It was torture, plain and simple. Not that I shouldn’t have seen it coming. After all, that’s what the DSD is known for.

  I gape at him in disbelief, feeling even more horrified than I was before. But I know that no good will come of arguing with him. They have the upper hand—my complaints won’t change that. Hell, they won’t even be recognized.

  My eyes drop, and I wonder why this had to happen to me. Is what he said true? Would this have occurred anyway, even if they hadn’t encouraged it? Was this always inevitable? I think of the man in my vision and Dr. Richter’s reaction to seeing him.

  If I’m going to get answers, now is the time.

  “The man I saw . . . who is he?” I ask.

  “His name is Ezra Laramie,” he mutters in a flat tone. “A known and active member of the insurgent group, PHOENIX.”

  “Why would I see him?” I ask, directing the question more to myself.

  “I was hoping you would be able to answer that,” he says.

  I look up at him, and for one long moment, we simply stare at each other, both speechless with our mutual confusion. Eventually, he closes his eyes and sighs.

  “You don’t know. That’s to be expected, I suppose. After all, it hasn’t happened yet.”

  His exasperation with this whole ordeal is beginning to show through, and I can see his usually stable composure gradually crumbling away. When I still don’t say anything, his eyes darken.

  “However, maybe you can tell me about the rest of it,” he sneers.

  “The rest of what?” I ask.

  “Your vision. Was it a continuation of what you saw at W. P. Headquarters?”

  I consider him for a few seconds, debating if it will really do me any good to tell him. I’ve yet to figure out how I’m going to escape anyway. For the time being, the best thing to do would be to play along, keep him talking until I can work out what I’m doing. Even if I don’t trust him.

  “More like . . . a missing piece out of the middle,” I try to explain.

  “How does it end?” he breathes.

  I can hear the anticipation in his voice, and suddenly, I regret opening my mouth at all. He won’t like the answer to the question he’s asking me, but I don’t see any other choice except to tell him. I hesitate, feeling more certain than ever that my life is in danger.

  Dr. Richter fidgets in his seat as his usually calm façade continues to collapse. “How does it end?” he shouts, slamming his fist on the table in front of me.

  I take a deep breath, and a sudden defiance burns within me as I meet his gaze. A smile curls my lips, and for the first time since I woke up here, I feel like maybe I’m actually the one with the upper hand.

  “We all die,” I answer.

  DR. RICHTER’S EYES WIDEN. HE STARES at me for a moment before clearing his throat and regaining the composure that he was so close to losing. Suddenly, he breaks eye contact with me, looking down at the tablet before swiping his index finger across the top of the screen.

  In a calm voice, he murmurs, “Could you please come back in?”

  The woman from before re-enters the room a few seconds later. Her expression is still hollow as she stands in the doorway like an obedient soldier, awaiting her next orders.

  “Take the subject back to the laboratory and prep the team for another session,” Dr. Richter instructs.

  My heart catches in my chest as my eyes dart to his. The panic rushes from my lungs in a single utterance of disbelief. “What?” I breathe.

  At almost the exact same moment, the woman expresses her nearly identical uncertainty. “So soon?” she asks.

  I glance between them. The woman looks confused. Uneasy even. Yet, regardless of her misgivings, I know she’ll do what he says in the end.

  They all will.

  My eyes dart back to Dr. Richter as he rises from his seat, a fresh wave of fear holding me down in my own. He gathers his few belongings and approaches the door. I follow his every movement. Waiting.

  After a few steps, he turns to look at me. His eyes stare back into mine with an alarming ferocity behind them. “We will retrieve the vision in its entirety,” he drawls, “and then you will lead us to PHOENIX.”

  Incredulity takes hold of me as I gape at him in disbelief. What does he expect from me? Doesn’t he even realize that his last test nearly killed me?

  I shake my head. “You know I can’t control it—” I begin to protest.

  He lunges forward and slams his hand down on the table. “You will learn to!” he shouts. “You will lead me to him!”

  I reel back, hearing his words echo like an alarm in my head.

  Lead me to him.

  Lead me to him . . . .

  A scream rips from my throat as my knees buckle beneath me, and all at once, I see a number of images. Stab after stab, they flash through my thoughts.

  I see the bar again—The Vega. Except this time, I’m seeing it as if I'm standing inside. I notice a bartender casually drying a wet glass, and there are three people sitting at the bar in front of him, one of which I recognize.

  It’s him, I think in-between the stabs. He’s here.

  My hand shoots out and clutches at the table for support. Sweat trickles from my skin as I suck in a heavy breath.

  “What have you just seen?” Dr. Richter’s voice is faint. The abrupt buzzing in my ears is almost enough to drown him out.

  Footsteps reflect off the tiled floor, and within seconds, I’m aware of him standing in front of me. Leaning down, he roughly grabs hold of my shirt. With a single tug, he pulls me toward him until our faces are only a few inches apart.

  “Answer me!” he screams.

  Traces of spit land on my cheeks, but I don’t blink or react. I simply stare back into those cold gray eyes, determined not to tell him another word.

  After a moment, he releases his grip on me, his lips pulling into a malicious sneer as he drops me to the floor. I moan when my head hits the hard surface of the tiles.

  Fingers trembling, I grip the edge of the table and pull myself back up. Once I’m on my feet, my eyes dart to Dr. Richter’s. But he isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at
the woman.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice her pull a syringe from the pocket of her white coat. Instinctively, I take a step away from her. I won’t let them do this to me.

  Not again.

  My hand shifts until I feel the jagged edge of the mirror slide against my palm. “Stay away from me,” I whisper.

  The woman ignores me and begins to move forward. I take another step back, tightening my grip around my makeshift blade. I glance at Dr. Richter, but he doesn’t say or do anything. He watches us instead, his face an expressionless mask.

  “I said stay away from me!” I shriek. I raise my armed hand as a last means of defense. My entire body shakes with rage, fear, and a multitude of emotions I can no longer control. They build up inside of me, the pressure from them growing until I can’t possibly hold onto it for another moment. Finally, the extreme weight of everything I'm feeling seems to explode from my very pores—an outflowing of energy that’s like a heavy burden being lifted from my shoulders.

  The mirrored wall shatters. The pieces fall with a loud clatter to the floor, revealing the hidden room on the other side. A number of doctors stare back at me, shell-shocked and unmoving.

  As if in response, all sense of sound is instantly lost to me. I’m unable to hear anything, as if I’ve somehow become separated from the room around me—like I’m trapped in a soundproof bubble where nothing and no one can touch me.

  My gaze latches onto the woman, and I can feel the energy around us pulsating like a beating heart. I notice her fingers slacken almost at once, dropping the syringe to the floor. My lips twitch. She grabs her head and begins to scream, but I can’t hear her. Her body curls in on itself as she falls to her knees.

  My breaths are ragged, and despite my deafness, I can hear every one like a chorus in my head. My pulse throbs in every vein, adding to the chaos.

  I stare at the woman as she writhes in agony on the floor. Oddly enough, I feel nothing. A strange, inhuman detachment has taken hold of me, and at this moment, all I can feel is pleasure in her pain.