Type X

by M. A. Phipps

  “Wynter,” he calls.

  I pause in the doorway, glancing over my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the woman waiting in the hallway. The obedient servant as submissive as ever.

  His footsteps reverberate through the room as he closes the distance between us. “One more thing.”

  Taking hold of my arm, he turns it with a jerking twist to expose the crook of my elbow. Before I can react, he plunges a needle into the throbbing vein there—adding yet another puncture mark to my already riddled skin. I grimace as blood fills the vial attached to the syringe, and when it reaches its limit, he yanks it out with a sharp tug. A cruel smile curls his lips in response to my expression.

  “Can’t forget this.” He shakes the container in front of my face, flaunting his power over me.

  A profound hatred floods my body as I tear my arm from his grasp, and just like every other day, I want nothing more than to see him dead. Preferably, by my hands.

  Thinking he’d ever neglect this part of our little meetings was foolish. Taking my blood has become a daily occurrence—one he derives pleasure from since it causes me distress. What he needs it for, I don’t know, but I do know it’s important. Known as Type X, it’s a brand new blood type that he wishes to study.

  One of a kind, just like me.

  “Get some rest.”

  His voice penetrates my ears, startling me with his uncharacteristic choice of words.

  Letting out a heavy sigh, he meets my gaze, but light from the ceiling reflects off his glasses, shielding his eyes. Through an irritable grunt, he says, “The attack is in four days. We leave in two.” Then, he turns back to his work, dismissing me with his silence.

  My fingers tremble as my hands ball into fists, and I nod my head once before exiting the room.

  The blue light of the hologram illuminates the exam room, engulfing me in its glow. My eyes follow the image, watching as a slew of names take shape across its transparent exterior. They rise up in random intervals as if the places they represent are only just now coming into existence.

  A strange apprehension floods my body, and pins and needles attack my skin as I reach out to touch it. Like a moth drawn to a flame, my hand is lured in by the light.

  I gasp and reel back when my fingertips press against a hard surface. Yellowed with age, the wooden globe positioned in front of me spins in slow turns on its tilted axis. As I watch the rotations, my brain struggles to make sense of it.

  Seconds ago, it was nothing more than a projection of a world I have personally had a hand in destroying. Now, it’s something different.

  Something important, I tell myself.

  I take an uncertain step backward, only just now noticing the glass desk sitting beneath the rotating sphere. As my eyes trail along its edges, I become plagued with the nagging feeling that I’ve seen this before.

  But where?

  A dream?

  A memory . . . ?

  Curiosity guides my gaze, coaxing me to investigate my immediate surroundings. My heart thumps with wild, erratic pulses, leaping into my throat when I grasp the full extent of the changes. The exam room is gone, replaced by an unusual combination of glass and wood. Everything is hazy and out of focus. Everything except for the globe, which seems to stare back at me from its place on the desktop.

  A fuzzy sensation clouds my brain, dimming the room until I’m drowning in darkness.

  Only one thing manages to break through the fog.

  “What’s this?” a male voice calls out from the shadows.

  My lungs spasm in response, drawing a sharp breath as my body turns toward the sound. As I glance around the room, an uneasy chill crosses my skin . . . but there’s no one there. Same as before, I’m the only one here, accompanied by nothing but glass, wood, and silence.

  Questioning my sanity, I focus on the desk again. The instant my eyes lock on it, a faint buzzing begins to emanate from its surface. The embedded computer screen flashes to life a moment later, the light refracting off its transparent casing.

  Inching forward, I peer through the glare, and the gleam is blinding in comparison to the thick gloom around me. As my vision adjusts, the words on the screen become clear.

  I can’t explain why, but they resonate with the flicker of humanity that still exists somewhere within me. Or, perhaps, they’re simply responding to the memories that refuse to surface.

  Without even realizing it, the words spill from my lips. “Project W. A. R.”

  A burst of static skews the screen. The glow pulsates outward like a beating heart as a mess of letters and images race past in a blur, making me wonder if the system has lost control. I can’t keep track of them, nor do I try to.

  Convulsions of light splash across the walls, and I find myself shrinking back when they reach out to touch me. Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice joins the confusion. Its nonsensical ramblings only add to the chaos.

  “. . . Twenty-two . . .”

  “. . . refuses to eat . . .”

  “. . . intravenous measures . . .”

  I turn in place, searching for the source of the whispers, but I see nothing.

  “. . . Thirty-eight . . .”

  “. . . withstanding . . .”

  “. . . more resilient . . .”

  A crazed alarm overtakes me, reacting to every word. My fingers grab at my head as I cower to the floor, covering my ears in an effort to push the voice out.

  The voice that is beginning to resemble my own.

  “. . . Fifty-six . . .”

  “. . . extracted information . . .”

  “. . . will continue testing . . .”

  Without warning, the whispers cease. Unsteady breaths permeate the air as my body quakes with a bizarre and unsolicited sense of dread. I refuse to give into it. In a cautious move, I lower my hands, readying myself.

  Still quiet. The voice is gone.

  Or is it?

  Exhaling, I lift my head, and my throat tightens as a choked scream blocks my airways. My eyes widen, locking with those of the woman standing in front of me.

  In an urgent whisper, she mutters, “They’re initials.”

  Her different colored eyes pierce right through my soul.

  “W . . . A . . . R . . . Wynter Arabelle Reeves.”

  The minimal light in the room is extinguished once those words fade into silence, leaving me trapped in a cage of shadows. With each passing minute, my breaths grow more frantic. A sudden anxiety is eating me alive as my suppressed fear claws its way out from the recesses of my brain.

  My eyes narrow as I turn on my heel. Taking a deep, calming breath, I concentrate on finding clues that will explain what’s going on here. The woman—who I now realize was my own distorted reflection—is gone, leaving me alone again.

  The seconds tick by. As I examine the black room, I glimpse a peculiar break in the darkness that wasn’t there before. It’s small and inconspicuous, not that unlike a dying ember in a pit of ash. Exercising caution, I inch forward, but intrigue gets the best of me. My fingers twitch as I reach out to touch it.

  What I find there is smooth like glass and glossy like liquid. A loud shriek breaks through my lips when I flatten my hand against the odd surface, causing a bright light to erupt in response, exploding in a great flash. My body flinches as a crashing sound thunders in my ears, the high frequency making my eyes water. I stop myself from blinking and watch in amazement as thousands of tiny mirrors cascade like rain to the floor.

  The shards land at my feet, and when I look into them, I notice the same reflection repeated in each cracked piece. Face, after face, after face—all wearing an identical expression of horror.

  I try to move, but I’m frozen. I try to think, but I can’t make sense of what’s happening. The only coherent element in the room is the male voice wrapping around me as my surroundings descend into blackness once again.

  “Wynter . . . .”

  My eyes shoot open.

  “Wynter—”

 
I blink a few times, bringing the bleary figure above me into focus. The irritating woman from before leans over the bed, repeating my name.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I force myself upright. A head-rush impairs my vision, blocking out everything until I can only see the fading images in my head. When the sensation passes, I lock eyes on the familiar setting of my quarters—reminding me where I am.

  With a heavy sigh, it occurs to me that my vision must’ve been a dream. A part of me feels relieved since I honestly didn’t think I was even capable of it anymore. Sleep is hard enough to come by, but dreaming? No. I can’t remember the last time I was blessed with that sort of escape.

  Still, there’s another part of me that can’t help feeling unnerved by what I saw. The blue light. The globe. That familiar voice.

  I brush my hand across my forehead, pushing back a few rogue strands of hair. My chest heaves with each breath passing through my lips—my lungs working in short bursts that coincide with the rapid, frantic beating of my heart.

  For a moment, I find myself wondering if the woman is taking note of my agitated state, and if she’ll mention it to Dr. Richter. This change in my behavior is sure to spark his interest, and that will only lead to more examinations and tests. I glance up at her, but I’m met with an innocent smile—its questionable authenticity sickly sweet.

  If she is planning to tell him, she doesn’t mention it.

  “It’s time.”

  I nod and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Although I keep my eyes on the floor, I’m aware of her retreating figure as she returns to the hallway.

  “I’ll be waiting outside,” she says, pausing beside the door. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  The lock clicks back into place behind her, and after a moment, I rise to my feet. My usual gear is folded on the table at the foot of the bed, and taking another breath to prepare myself, I reach forward to grab it.

  Hands clenched into fists around the black material, I thumb the leather and mesh paneling, feeling the rough texture beneath my touch as each passing minute only delays the inevitable. For a split second, I swear I can see blood still ingrained in the fabric.

  With a grimace, I turn away. A bitter taste crosses my tongue, but as I make for the sink to wash it from my mouth, I’m caught off guard by my reflection in the mirror hanging above it. The sight stops me in my tracks.

  The woman staring back at me is healthy and fit with hair that falls to the small of her back in a billowing curtain of brown silk. Everything about her oozes strength and control.

  Even though we’re the same person, I feel like I’m looking at a stranger.

  Unable to bear her unwavering gaze any longer, I shift my attention to one corner of the mirror. The sharp edges remind me of the tiled glass in my dream. The memory shrouds my brain, cutting through my thoughts as if the recollection is something physical and real. I remember the way it fell around me and seemed to swallow me whole. For a quick second, I can even hear the deafening crash in my ears.

  In the time it takes for me to blink, the terror of my dream pushes to the surface—bursting out of my subconscious in a violent wave. The hallucination settles over my eyes.

  My feet stumble back when I glimpse the shards covering the floor, reducing the mirror to a mess of scattered pieces. Breaths leak in ragged gasps from my constricting lungs. Overwhelming panic cripples my body, and I squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to escape it. I whisper numbers to myself through trembling lips, counting down from ten—a coping mechanism for these rare moments when sanity eludes me. The instant I reach zero, my eyes reopen. As to be expected, the floor is bare.

  I turn toward the bed, shaking my head in wild jerks as my fingers grip the black material in my hands even harder. Uncertain of how much time I’ve already wasted, I hurry to dress in the same ensemble I’m always given for these missions. The plain black bodysuit hugs my body and consists of leather panels mixed with softer sections of layered fabric for easy movement. Heavy duty combat boots lace up to just below my knees.

  Remembering Richter’s new nickname for me, I look at the clothes with distaste. He called me an angel of death, and a part of me wonders if this outfit is intended to make me look the part.

  When the last zipper is in place, I reach over and rap my knuckles once against the door. A second later, the familiar beeps echo through the wall as the woman enters the unlocking code into the keypad. The door springs open to reveal her standing in the hallway, dark eyes appraising me as she displays her trademark smile.

  “Are you ready?”

  I push past her, refusing to answer.

  We proceed through the long corridors in silence, only communicating when necessary to discuss my next mission. It’s strange. We’ve gone through this routine several times before, however, I can never escape the feeling that always follows me.

  The feeling that I’m heading to my own execution.

  As we round a corner, Dr. Richter joins us. He does so with such stealth that I barely even register his presence at first. Or maybe I’m so accustomed to him that I just choose not to acknowledge it.

  Without speaking a single word, he offers me a communicator. In begrudging acceptance, I swipe it from his hand and insert it in place.

  “Have you been debriefed?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I mutter, keeping my expression drawn and my eyes trained ahead.

  He responds in a low, guttural breath. “Good. I’ll be here, just like usual.”

  Sensing him watching me, I glance up to meet his gaze. Smiling, he taps his finger twice against his ear.

  No further words are exchanged between us until we reach the back exit of the building. A group of Enforcers is already there waiting for us, including those belonging to my so-called security detail.

  We stop a few feet away from them when I feel the blood-curdling warmth of Dr. Richter’s hands. They grip my shoulders, nails digging through the fabric to the point I can feel them chafing against my skin. He stares at me with that familiar sinister smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and lifting his fingers to my face, he grazes my cheek as he brushes a strand of hair from my lips.

  “You know what to do,” he croons. “I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.”

  Despite the false tenderness of his words, I can sense the menace hiding beneath them.

  His eyes bore into mine as he takes a step back, and my heart plummets when he raises his arm in the air. He watches me, gauging my reaction to his mocking salute.

  “For the State.” His voice is solemn, and every syllable in his tone seems to dare me to disobey.

  I clench my jaw, determined not to give him that satisfaction. “For the State,” I repeat, regurgitating the words like an emotionless marionette.

  His lips twitch into an even deeper smile.

  Disgusted, I turn away and proceed into the midst of the awaiting Enforcers. They stand aside, allowing me to pass, and the door behind them beeps open as if it can sense my approach. Bodies surround me—a wall of black forming a perfect circular formation as each footstep keeps in time with mine. The sound reflects off the tarmac as we make our way toward the truck waiting less than a hundred yards away.

  An ominous tension always surrounds these moments, making me feel like a convict being transported rather than a soldier heading to war. I suppose, in spite of my vital role in all of this, I am nothing more than that.

  The doors to the armored truck bang open, and I clamber into the back, followed by three of the Enforcers. As soon as we’re inside, the engine roars to life, ready to carry us off to yet another battle.

  Another slaughter, I correct myself.

  Vacant thoughts fill my brain during our journey, giving me a temporary reprieve from the real world. I only snap out of my inattention when the winds outside the truck grow louder, alerting me that we’ve reached the airfield.

  The vehicle skids to a halt, and the doors spring open, giving us permission to unload. Following after the E
nforcers, I look up as my feet touch down on the pavement. The transport helicopter is already prepped for take-off, the rotors whirring with a taunting purr.

  My entourage hurries me along, and I’m herded into the cargo hold like a mindless sheep. Sinking into my usual seat, my hands tighten the straps and click the harness into place.

  My eyes scan the metal interior, watching as the seats around me fill up, one by one. For some reason, I feel on edge. The only sensation I tend to experience in these moments is a detached sort of nausea, but right now, something doesn’t seem right.

  Straining my thoughts, I search for anything unusual or out of place. I focus on the immediate future, but I find nothing. Everything is as it should be.

  Letting out a tired breath, I toss it up to being nothing more than residual uneasiness from the dream I had earlier. In an attempt to force it from my mind, I tilt my head back against the seat and close my eyes.

  Here, in this helicopter and on my way to destroy another piece of my humanity, I realize just how exhausted I am. I try to fight against it, but the sound of the rotors lulls me to sleep. Finally, lacking any logical reason not to, I give into it.

  The darkness quickly rises to wrap me in its embrace. As it does, a broken mirror is the last thing I see.

  “We are approaching our target destination. Prepare for landing in T-minus five minutes.”

  My eyelids dart open, and a startled breath fills my chest as I jerk awake. The sound of the announcement bangs around me like a crude alarm, making my head hurt. I shift in my seat, elongating my spine as I glance around the metal interior. The Enforcers are all preoccupied in some way, readying themselves for the battle ahead.

  Lifting my shoulders, I tilt my chin toward the ceiling to stretch out my stiff neck. A heavy sigh trickles through my lips, and as it does, I find myself thinking of the Enforcer from my last mission. I remember his nervousness and blatant fear of me more clearly than anything I’ve been forced to endure over the course of the past two years.

  Peering up, my gaze lands on the seat positioned opposite mine. For half a second, I expect to see him sitting there, staring back at me with those same terror-stricken eyes. The face that awaits me is older and more seasoned. A man rather than a frightened boy.