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

by M. A. Phipps

  Dr. Richter rushes to the woman’s side. He looks so confused—so helpless. So incapable of helping her. His mouth shapes words, shouting at me.

  I don’t hear them either.

  In. Out. In. Out. My lungs work at double speed, trying to get my erratic breathing under control. I blink several times, but that horrible pressure returns, rushing through my body. Crushing me with its inexplicable power.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and stumble backward. Out of the blue, my hearing returns, pulling me out of my daze and throwing me back into the room.

  The woman’s screams seem to dissipate the second I open my eyes. All trace of color dissolves from her skin, and she goes limp in Dr. Richter’s arms. Several moments pass. However, the worst is far from over.

  We both stare in horror as blood slowly begins to stream from every orifice on her body.

  Dr. Richter pushes her away, distancing himself from the growing puddle of red. After a long moment, he finally looks up at me.

  “What have you done to her?” he breathes.

  His lips tremble, but the glint of excitement in his eyes reveals his true, unnerving emotions. I glance between him and the unconscious figure before us. Did I do that to her? Could I do that to her? I shake my head in a desperate attempt to regain myself.

  I feel dizzy. Nauseous. I try to look around me, but everything is obscured and hazy. For a while, I don’t move and neither does Dr. Richter. It’s only after I remind myself of my intention to escape that I even remotely regain the energy to do so.

  Shifting forward, I raise the shard of glass within an inch of his throat.

  “Take off your coat.”

  He looks up at me, bewildered by my words.

  “Do it!” I bark, threatening him again.

  He shies away from me, lifting his hands in an uncharacteristic gesture of surrender. Lowering his arms, he removes his white coat and thrusts it in my direction—watching me in amazement the entire time. I’m not an idiot, though. I know this piece of broken mirror doesn’t scare him.

  But I do, and that’s all that matters right now.

  I snatch the coat from his outstretched hand and wrap it around my body as I move toward the open door. Suddenly, freedom actually seems within reach. Inhaling deeply, I hungrily embrace it, ready to run to the ends of the Earth to escape this hell.

  However, something holds me back the instant I step through the doorway. A question burning in the back of my brain, feeding a desperate curiosity. I’m unwilling and unable to ignore it.

  Stopping in my tracks, I cast a reluctant glance back over my shoulder at Dr. Richter. “Why do you want me to find him?” I ask. I watch him carefully, but he doesn’t turn to look at me.

  “I want to end what you saw before it has the chance to begin,” he mutters, his voice so soft I can only just hear it.

  “And you think that man will be the cause of it all?”

  Silence.

  The seconds roll by. Realizing that the clock is ticking, I abandon my need for answers and hurry back through the open doorway. It’s only when I round the corner that I hear his long-awaited words follow me down the corridor.

  “He’s a criminal,” he calls after me. “You can’t trust him. You can’t trust him!”

  His words seem to be a warning, but I ignore them as they fade into the emptiness of the hallway.

  I try to keep my movements steady and inconspicuous, all too aware of the cameras hanging overhead. All too aware that, at any moment, an influx of Enforcers could arrive to detain me.

  But no one comes. No one tries to stop me.

  Progressing through the facility, I somehow make it to what I assume must be the main entrance of the building. Still, the ease of my escape hasn’t gone unnoticed, and truthfully, I can’t help but feel suspicious of it. After all, it’s too similar to what happened at W. P. Headquarters, and the memory of how that turned out is all too fresh.

  Unlike last time, there’s no home for me to escape to. So, why hasn’t anyone come after me? Why hasn’t Dr. Richter raised the alarm?

  Something isn’t right, I realize. This has been too easy.

  I glance around the corner, hesitantly eyeing the doors in front of me. There are a number of guards standing watch, but there aren’t any other exits—at least none that I could find.

  This is the only way in or out.

  I shake my head. This won’t be possible. It can’t be possible. But I have no other choice.

  Releasing a long quavering breath, my fingers thrust the broken shard of mirror into the pocket of Dr. Richter’s coat. Keeping my head down, I do the only thing I can. I walk toward the glass doors.

  My footsteps reverberate off the floor, blending into the surrounding sound of the lobby. No one looks at me, causing a faint flutter of hope to come to life in my stomach. However, it’s immediately extinguished when my eyes land on the turnstile exit.

  My heart drops. If I prick my finger, the alarm will go off, since I don’t have the security clearance to leave this place. I’ll be caught.

  This won’t work.

  I look around, all the while telling myself to keep moving forward. My heart races. My breaths are heavy. My eyes dart from side to side, and that vague feeling of hope is resurrected when I spot a group of doctors to my right—a tight knit crowd also leaving the building.

  I fall into line behind them, blending into the mass of white coats. I keep as close to them as possible, but remain at the back to stay unnoticed. Luckily, it seems to work.

  Beep after beep after beep. The group grows smaller as each person ahead of me passes through the turnstile. When the last doctor pricks his finger and the little light turns green, I push through the barricade, practically hugging myself to his body before it can close and lock me in—cutting off my only chance of escape.

  He glances over his shoulder when he feels me press against him, no doubt thrown off by the unexpected and abnormal proximity of another person. I turn my head away, grumbling an apology before hurrying in the opposite direction and out the door.

  The cool evening air hits me like a slap in the face. I breathe it in. It’s like a welcome sigh of relief after everything I’ve been through—fresh in comparison to the stale, odorous air I’ve been breathing for weeks.

  The feeling of freedom doesn’t last for long. Because, despite the fact that I’ve escaped and I’m now running from the State itself, I know this isn’t simply a case of luck.

  I was only able to leave because they let me leave. Because Dr. Richter let me leave. And there’s only one reason I can think of as to why he would do that.

  He thinks I’ll lead him to the man from my vision.

  He thinks I’ll lead him to Ezra Laramie.

  MY EYES LOCK ON THE sign in front of me. The insignia for Zone 7 seems to loom over me like a shadow, alluding to the daunting nature of the task ahead. I have no other choice except to move forward. I know that. After all, I can’t go home. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. There’s nowhere else left for me to go.

  Not if I want to survive.

  Peering down at my arm, I tug up the sleeve until my wrist is exposed. Even though I can’t see it, I know the chip is there. Just as I know they’ll use it to track me—that they’re already using it to track me.

  I breathe in deeply, more aware than ever of what I have to do. The only reason I haven’t taken care of it already is I figured, this way, they’d be more inclined to back off. If I left it in, they’d keep their distance until I led them to PHOENIX. However, if I tried to remove it prematurely, they’d realize what I’m planning and just take me back to the DSD.

  That is something I simply can’t allow to happen.

  My fingers tremble as I slide them inside the deep pocket of Dr. Richter’s coat. Cautiously, I wrap them around the jagged edges of the broken mirror. My nerves waver, but I tighten my grip, reminding myself that there’s no other option.

  “It ends here,” I breathe.

  Casting agitat
ed glances around the empty street, I slink into a nearby alley to avoid detection. It’s almost pitch black, but I figure that’s for the best. I don’t want to see what I’m about to do anyway.

  My hand twitches as I use the broken glass to cut a long strip from the hem of the coat. Rolling the material into a ball, I jam it inside my mouth, biting down hard.

  I take a long breath, readying myself.

  Carefully, my fingers point the mirror against the flesh on my naked wrist. I hesitate for a moment, temporarily overcome with fear. One single slip is all it would take. One mistake, and I’ll die here in this alley, covered in my own blood.

  I shake my head to escape the horrific images that surround me. The chips are located in this exact spot for a reason—to avoid people doing what I’m so stupidly about to do. But it has to be done.

  There’s no other way.

  I clamp my teeth over the cloth, and before I can talk myself out of it, I push the tip of the shard into my skin.

  A grunt passes through my lips, but my screams are muffled. Dark red blood pools from the wound and drips onto the pavement. My fingers work the glass, turning it around inside my arm.

  Black spots flash in front of my eyes, and I feel dizzy from the pain. All the nerve endings in my body seem to come alive in response to it—a sort of sickening sensation that goes hand in hand with each movement. I jiggle the mirror, trying to maintain my hold on consciousness. But the darkness is overwhelming, calling to me from the depths of this self-inflicted torment.

  Finally, I feel the edge of the mirror scrape against the chip. Sucking in quick breaths, I attempt to lift it free. I bite down even harder on the cloth, struggling not to succumb to the pain.

  My body goes limp as I slump back against the brick wall behind me. My jaw slackens, and the material previously muting my screams unravels across my outstretched arm. Looking down, I see the glint of gold protruding from my wrist.

  For a brief moment, I do nothing except stare at the chip. Pinching it between my fingers, I hold it up to my eyes. The minimal light surrounding me reflects off its surface, and it amazes me how so much fear can revolve around such a small object. It’s pathetic, really.

  I consider what to do with it, wondering if I should just crush it here and now. Something deep inside of me seems to counter that idea, and instead it coaxes me to throw it into the dark shadows of the alley.

  Keep it active, I tell myself.

  It’s the best thing to do. Fortunately, the chips are only good for identification and tracking. They don’t keep any record of vital signs, which means, if I leave it here in one piece, Dr. Richter and his team will just think I’ve stopped to rest for a while. They won’t have any way of knowing that I cut the damn thing out. Not until they find it at least, at which point, I’ll be long gone.

  Hopefully.

  Ready to make a move, I wrap the strip of material around my wrist to control the bleeding. I know it won’t stop it, but it’ll have to do until I can figure out how to close up the wound properly.

  My fingers awkwardly work with my mouth, tying the cloth as tightly as possible. When it’s as good as I can get it, I pull down my sleeve to hide what I’ve done—both from myself and from any wandering eyes.

  Dropping the bloodied glass back inside my pocket, I straighten up and proceed forward. My body feels weak without the wall for support, and the extreme lightheadedness from my blood loss is crippling. I exit the alley, stumbling every few steps, despite my attempts to walk normally.

  I’m not sure how much time passes. The night is thick as I search the area for the sign from my vision, the haziness clouding my eyes making my task that much more difficult.

  The streets are empty, creating a sort of ghost town. I’ve never been this far from home, and the difference between this zone and the one I grew up in is staggering.

  Unlike where I’m from, Zone 7 marks the border of the city—the outer edge before passing into other areas of the country. However, travel between cities is strictly prohibited. Special clearance is required for any exceptions, and even those are hard to come by.

  It’s very rare for people to want to leave, though. Most don’t tend to stray very far from their residential zone, except for work, although I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s the fear of winding up in a place like this.

  I glance around. The buildings are derelict and the roads are filthy. It’s obvious the State doesn’t bother with upkeep this far out. I can’t even spot any security cameras, which is strange to say the least, especially since that’s how the State keeps a handle on crime. It’s enough to make me question who would be unfortunate enough to live here.

  My stomach turns as a sudden and overpowering nausea crawls up my throat. Fresh sweat beads along my skin as a dizzy spell skews my vision. I trip forward, reaching out my arms to break my fall. My fingers clutch at the nearest object to prevent myself from landing face first on the pavement. They wrap around metal—the frame of what I assume must be a signpost.

  I take a few quavering breaths as I steady myself. My eyes blink multiple times, trying to clear the muddled haze preventing me from seeing clearly. When I can finally focus, I notice the emblem for Zone 7 staring back at me, along with the name of the road.

  B42.

  This is it, I realize. I’m here. I made it.

  For some reason, the idea shocks me. Maybe because, up until now, I was still convincing myself that none of this was real—that the visions were nothing more than bizarre hallucinations, concocted by my unhinged brain for one reason or other that remained a mystery to me. Yet, seeing this sign in front of me now, as well as the familiar surroundings of this dreary street, is enough to tell me this is all actually happening.

  Staring down the length of the road, I follow the path I'm able to recall from the vivid images in my head. There’s no one around, but that doesn’t surprise me. It’s late and probably past curfew. I can't imagine that anyone takes that risk, not even out here. Everyone usually abides by the law that’s been put in place.

  Everyone, it seems, except for me.

  I wince when a strong halogen light blinds me from one side. I turn toward it, both terrified and relieved to see the setting from my vision laid out in front of me.

  It’s exactly as I remember it. The lights flicker. The bulbs buzz. In many ways, it stands out far more than the other buildings, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll really find him here. On the other hand, the area alone is enough to dissuade anyone from going closer.

  Perhaps that makes it the perfect hiding place, after all.

  I take a deep breath and trudge forward, trying to avoid the rain-filled potholes littering the road. My hands are shaking, and my persistent nerves are flipping my stomach. I lick my lips as my fingers reach for the rusty handle on the metal door. My lungs inhale once again before I finally pull it open.

  I’m greeted by the musty smell of smoke and a general staleness. The stench is so powerful, it’s practically tangible, but I clench my jaw and bear it, stepping blindly into The Vega’s clutches.

  Upon entering, every eye in the room turns to look at me, and I stop short, thrown by the abrupt realization of what I’m doing.

  I glance between the many suspicious faces, getting the distinct impression that strangers aren’t seen here all that often. I linger in the doorway, not quite sure how to react. Having just come of legal age, I’ve never even been in a place like this before.

  I try to act naturally, or as close to that as possible.

  I impulsively plop down on a seat at the bar and peek up at the bartender, who eyes me curiously as he dries the glass in his hand with a dirty rag. A toothpick sticks lazily out of one corner of his mouth.

  “What can I get ya?” he asks in a gruff voice.

  “Water,” I croak, realizing just how thirsty I actually am.

  The bartender laughs, shaking his head as he picks up another glass. “Yer in a bar, sweet cheeks,” he says with a grin. “You’ll
have to order somethin’ a bit more toxic.”

  I’m taken aback by his relaxed and overly informal manner. I’ve never heard anyone speak like this. I don’t even speak this way to my own mother.

  I hesitate, unsure what to say. Alcoholic beverages aren’t all that common in Zone 2, or in our society at all for that matter. Drinking is seen as a degrading habit, and it’s not even legal in many places across the city. Plus, I have no way to pay for it.

  As I consider my options, my eyes glance around the bar, and suddenly, my heart skips a few beats in my chest. A shudder runs up my spine as my breathing becomes erratic.

  For a long moment, I’m completely unaware of the bartender—standing silently, still waiting for me to answer. Instead, I gape at the man seated two stools down from me. Every detail about him is identical to the ones lodged in my memory.

  It’s him, I think to myself.

  My eyes widen in disbelief as I stare at Ezra Laramie.

  “Well?” the bartender asks.

  His voice startles me, and I quickly look back at him, clearing my throat. I have to buy myself some time. Worry about payment later, I tell myself.

  “I’ll have what he’s having.” With a nod of my head, I gesture toward the man who, up until a minute ago, I wasn’t even certain was actually real.

  The bartender gives me a strange look, obvious distrust burning deep within his gaze. But whatever doubts he has about me, he doesn’t voice them.

  “Sure thing,” he grumbles.

  Within a matter of seconds, a pint of some strange amber liquid is placed in front of me. I stare at the glass, trying to keep my eyes focused ahead. However, I can’t help but peer over at the man beside me. It’s an unusual feeling—like déjà vu, as if I’m seeing someone from a distant dream impossibly brought to life.

  I swallow, feeling both uncertain and afraid. I have no idea what to say or do from this point. I hadn’t planned any further than simply finding him. Maybe because I didn't think I would make it this far. Or maybe because I know he won't believe me. And why should he? A woman he’s never met before tells him she was kidnapped by the DSD after experiencing a vision of the end of the world? A vision that, conveniently enough, he just so happened to be in? I wouldn’t blame him for not believing me. Hell, I wouldn’t blame him if he tried to kill me as soon as I mention the DSD.