by Jodie Kobe
“No? Doesn’t strike anything in that brain of yours?”
I shake my head. Every memory from my past has been erased, either because I've been dead for the past 30 years and forgotten everything, or because my mind has been cleared on purpose. According to the scientists, it’s the latter. But they never fully explained if the former is also related to the loss of memories.
“A shame, really.” Denham picks up the knife.
My foot twitches.
No. Stay still, I tell myself.
So I obey my own order, breathing little by little.
“I have a mission for you.” Denham pauses in his act of examining the knife. “But I need you to realize who I am first.”
I don’t miss a beat. “A commander.” My assumption is not the answer he’s looking for, but this is all I can think of.
Denham fixes the collar of his uniform. “That’s correct, yes. But I’m looking for something else. The answer to the question, where have you seen me before.”
“Like I said, nowhere. You’re a completely new face to me.”
But even as I say that, I start doubting it. Denham recognizes me from somewhere, yet I do not know who he is. I am not reaching far enough. There has to be something more.
“All right, I give up. Give me a hint.” Or I might as well not know. Maybe he's confusing me for someone else.
Denham tilts his head slightly. “The first time you arrived here, I knew I recognized you from somewhere, I just didn’t know where—”
“I never asked for a story.”
But Denham continues as if I didn’t just say something. “The memory was so—” he raises his fist and clenches air— “close, yet I did not know what it was.”
I clear my throat loudly. “I said, I never asked for a story. Why don’t you just tell me why you think I’m so familiar?”
Denham lowers the blade back on the table and spins it around so that the silver point faces me. “I’m sure you can remember it yourself.”
I search through my head, trying to locate any memory of a Denham Carnez from my earlier life. But there is nothing, and I’m sure that he is mistaking me for a different person.
I weave my fingers together and look away from him, trying hard to remember anything that I could have done in my past life. I’ve never really tried to find my memories.
Something flashes in my mind, but I don’t know if the blade triggered it. Something pulls on my stomach as the short hair on Denham’s head becomes familiar to me. I fidget. What if I do know him?
I shake my head. No. He wants me to believe that, and he’s slowly succeeding.
But why don’t I want to believe this? It’s not like I can remember anything from my old life. Maybe what Denham is saying is true.
The doors to the room burst open, shoving me away from my very-close memory. A guard's head peeks into the room.
“The guy is awake, sir,” he says quickly. “He's nauseous and weak, but he can talk.”
“Well, that was quicker than I expected.” Denham stands up and brushes his shirt off. Looking at me, he says, “I had planned for us to have a longer conversation. But that's not a problem. We shall add another companion to our group.”
He starts heading for the door, grabbing my arm and pulling me up on my feet simultaneously. The guard trails behind us as Denham leads the way to the room right next to his. The door is marked with gold lettering. It's a storage closet.
I don't even bother to question why they would put a body in a storage closet because I am too busy trying to peek past Denham's tall figure as he opens the door. Denham enters first, then the guard pushes me in, shutting the door behind us. He stays outside the closet.
But this room is much bigger than I expect a storage closet to be. It's messy with mops and cans and wires. I step over objects on the ground as I follow Denham toward the farthest corner of the room. A figure sits on the ground, back leaning against the wall. Short brown hair and tall stature. It's Fox. The rise and fall of his chest brings relief to me. He's not dead.
“Fox,” I whisper, almost pushing Denham out of the way to get to him faster. But Denham grabs my arm and blocks my path even more, obviously trying to tell me he's first. I shut my mouth.
Fox tilts his head back at us with a crooked grin on his face. His face, normally tan, is chalky in color. I can't believe the zap to his stomach made him look like this. He's smiling. At a serious time like this? I don't think he's fully conscious. He almost looks like he's been drugged.
“Viv-eh-ann.” My name is long and slurred coming from him. Yep, he's not thinking properly. “Whaat aaaare yaaa doin' here?”
I swallow the urge to hide behind Denham. But the commander's the enemy. I can't use an enemy as a shield.
Fox's question is never answered. Denham crouches down until he is eye level with him. He raises his hand and slaps Fox right across the face.
Fox, slumped in his sitting position, tilts to the ground. He laughs and pats the hard tile. “Waanna knooow...s-something?”
Denham yanks at Fox's short hair. A cringe appears on the drunk guy's face.
“Yes?” Denham asks.
Fox gargles before answering. “My stomach kind of tingles.”
I shake myself off and bend down until I'm next to Fox too. Wrapping my hands around his arm, I pull him up into a normal sitting position. Denham just watches.
“It's all right,” I tell Fox, wondering why on earth would he care to know that right now. I'm not supposed to be comforting Fox. He's supposed to be up and steady on his feet. I'm supposed to be listening to his commanding voice.
He obviously did not plan this. But what if instead of getting tazed, he got shot? What would have happened then?
Denham laughs lightly and prepares to stand up. But when he's halfway on his feet, Fox swings his own legs right at Denham's knees.
I yelp and jump back as the drunk look on Fox's face disappears, getting replaced with the alert and adrenaline-filled one I saw earlier.
I only have time to wonder what just happened before Denham, who doesn't have that great of a reaction time as I am expecting, collapses to the floor, pulling me down with him.
But Fox is already by my side, grabbing hold of my arms and righting me.
“Wha—?” I start.
Fox kicks Denham in the side, but Denham doesn't even seem to feel it. He recovers quickly, just like he did with the punch to his jaw.
So Fox's and Denham's battle continues here, in the storage closet.
I zip to the other side of the room, head turning left and right, looking for any weapon I can use. But there are weapons everywhere; I just don't know which one to choose. No guards have charged in, but I doubt there will be anymore room left.
I grab a broom off the floor and swing it directly at Denham's head. But he ducks, only because he is trying to dodge Fox's next punch.
I swing again, but hit his side. The broom leaves my hands and goes flying.
I grunt. But my eyes land on an ax inside an empty cardboard box.
My heart seems to stop as I realize what I can do with it. But no... I can't. I'm not a killer. I don't make people bleed.
Fox throws another punch and swings an elbow, but Denham easily maneuvers around it, presenting Fox with a jab to the face.
Screw this.
I snatch the ax off the floor, feeling tears falling down my cheeks already. How can I murder someone? This isn't right.
But my arms are already swinging at Denham's side. He has his back to me, about to take a swing at Fox again.
And I'm thinking about what I'm going to become if I go through with this. I'm thinking what am I going to do if I accidentally hit Fox?
But too late to stop.
Woosh.
Clunk.
Denham's scream rips through the small storage closet. The blade of the ax digs itself into his side.
The impact of the force sends Denham stumbling to the left and into a wall. He crumbles and his scre
ams never stop.
God, why don't they stop?
Wait. They're my own.
Fox is by my side in a second, covering my mouth with his hand.
“Shh.” I hear the words, but I don't care because I'm frozen in place. My tears have stopped and all I can do is stare at Denham's body.
There is no blood.
There are no organs.
Only wires. Wires protruding from his side, where the blade of the ax impaled him. Wires pour out from his neck. No one hit him there, but there they are anyway.
My muffled shrieks stop. I sink to my feet, Fox going down with me. He's staring at Denham's lifeless body in silence, unaware that he is clutching my arm in a death grip.
I've never seen this before.
Denham isn't—there is no pool of blood. Where is his blood—? He's supposed to have blood.
My stomach tightens, and I gag.
His face starts flashing in my mind, stinging my eyes and blocking air to enter my nose.
I see myself, on my knees on a platform, looking out at a large crowd of people. My hands are tied behind my back, and tears are sliding down my face. A man, with a long blade in his hand stands in front of me. His hair is dark and short, his skin is dark, and his uniform is black.
And I realize where I’ve seen him before.
He is Denham, the man who stabbed me three times until I fell over dead. It was 30 years ago, way before I was revived and way before I lived underground. I used to be some kind of soldier in my old life, an impassive human being according to Jack Welds himself.
My arms throb and I don’t understand what’s happening to me. A sharp pain shoots up my neck, settling in my head. That’s not true. He’s not the man who killed me.
But yet he is, and even though I want to veer away from the truth, I know it’s impossible.
CHAPTER 21
V I V I A N
Denham was right. I do know him.
And all it took for me to remember him was an ax to his side.
Now I’ve returned what he did to me, except I don’t know if he’s ever coming back.
He's my murderer. The man who killed me in the video I saw back in the complex.
I’m on my knees with my palms flat against the closet floor, gagging. My heart is ready to rip out of my chest. I’m expecting my brain to shut down.
Why doesn’t it? I don’t want to be conscious during this.
What have I done?
My face is completely wet, and I’m trying to wipe it on my shoulder. Fox is by my side, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
Denham limp corpse is visible out of my peripheral vision, and it’s difficult not to think about him. Fox is grabbing my arms, and I now realize I’ve started flailing them around.
“No!” I shriek. “No, no, no. Please don’t. I d-d-didn’t...why—?”
My voice cracks and I stop talking, yanking my arms back from Fox to curl myself into a tight ball.
The wires protruding from Denham’s side and his neck are stapled to my mind. I try to back away, to leave them in the dark, but they follow me.
“Vivian.” Fox’s voice echoes in my ears. His hand is over my mouth, but his palm is wet from my spit and the tears falling down my face. “Shh, don’t move. We’re staying here.”
I cringe as a vice compresses down on my head. My eyes are shut, and I don’t dare open them. I don’t want to see Fox’s face. I don’t want to see what I’ve done to Denham. “S-stop.” What I mean to tell him is that he should get away, give me some space.
My stomach is eating at me, and I can’t do anything. I can’t dig my fingers into it to tell it to stop. I can’t even settle the screams in my head.
Stop this and make it all go away. But who am I talking to? No one is here to listen to me.
Fox’s shadow, looming over me a couple of seconds ago, disappears. His presence is missing, and I almost relax. Almost.
Denham’s fading image drills itself into my head again, and I clench my hands, wishing whatever I have left in my stomach would leave. I do not feel good.
Why did I do that? Why did I even have to come with Denham? Why did Fox do what he did? This would never have happened if he stayed where he was, if whatever he faked was actually real.
His drunk act was actually an act. Where does he expect to go after this? We can’t stay in the room for long. Someone’s going to wonder why Denham is taking so long. And when that someone comes inside, they’re going to wonder why Denham is there, looking more like a machine than a human.
Oh god. Why this?
I cough and spit out a bitter taste from my mouth.
Fox is not by my side anymore. It’s what I asked for, isn’t it? But where is he?
With my eyes still stinging, I lift my head from the ground, my eyes searching for Fox’s tall figure. They first land on the ax, then to what it’s attached to. Denham’s corpse. The sharp blade tore through his black uniform and completely hacked into his bones. I didn’t swing that hard.
Shut up. You did.
I am not the same thing as him, am I? We are part of the same project. We both survived death when everyone thought we were gone.
No, we can’t be the same. I am not a machine. I do not have wires inside me.
Next my eyes land on Fox, who's crouched by a wall, trying to pick at the cover of an air vent.
Hold on. Air vent?
With my eyes, I quickly measure Fox’s body size, and then the size of the vent. There’s no way he’ll fit through that. It’s not big enough for him. It doesn’t even look big enough for me.
I run a hand over my wet face and shudder at the thought of Denham again.
Pull yourself together. You can’t be like this. You need to get out, not sulk.
As soon as I think this, I know I’ve already wasted a couple of precious seconds. The time could have been used to find a way out.
But I killed Jack Welds’ project. We were supposed to bring him back. Now we’ll never be able to do anything with him.
It’s my fault. Entirely my fault.
He wouldn’t want to cooperate and go back anyway.
I grab my hair, trying to force the thought out of my head. But it has glued itself to me, causing my stomach to flip with guilt at what I have done. Fox isn’t saying anything about it, but I’m sure he's thinking it.
I clutch my stomach as I shakily get to my feet. With one trembling foot in front of the other, I stumble to Fox.
He pops the cover off and sets it on the ground, his head directing toward the small space.
“Go,” he says. His eyes dart behind me, at Denham’s corpse. “Follow the tunnel and find a way out.”
I stare at the opening, then move my eyes to Fox. “I can’t fit through there.” My voice cracks.
Even if I can fit, I don’t have the skills to sneak by and run outside. It’s not that easy, not for me.
Fox’s face drops. “Try it. If you can, keep going and find someway to call the others for help.”
“And where are you going to go?” I ask. My thoughts go to the door. He’ll walk out, get himself captured, and then what?
Fox shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.”
My throat starts to sting and I look down at the opening of the vent, holding my breath to stop my tears.
Hesitantly at first, I step toward the vent. I shouldn’t waste anymore time. Move.
And I do.
Fox is right. My small figure squeezes through the opening, but barely. My shoulders scrape against the tight walls.
I’m stuck in that white container again.
My lungs shrink, but I keep going, using my arms to pull myself into the cramped tunnel. I grunt with each pull, and as my feet finally enter, the tunnel darkens and I hear another snap from behind me. Fox has closed the vent.
I hear his voice. “If there's nothing on the other side, don't come back right away. Bye.”
I nod, even though I know he can’t see me
, and continue to crawl through the dark vent, hoping I don’t cause too much noise. What if the people outside the vent tunnel hear someone crawling through? What if they come to check it out?
Silent tears fall down my face, but I can’t reach out to wipe them. There is not enough room. Why couldn’t this vent be a little bit bigger? Maybe that way Fox would be able to fit and follow me.
And if I do get to the other side, what I am supposed to do then?
An indistinguishable voice comes from behind me, right in the room I left Fox in.
I stop where I am, hoping to catch anything else. Is Fox in trouble? Should I go back?
No. Keep going. The best you can do is find some help.
I gulp in a breath, but nearly gag as I realize what kinds of things have settled on these metal walls. Things I don't want to think about. I purse my lips together and continue dragging myself forward, exhaling whenever I succeed. I have to keep doing it over and over again, and every accomplishment is a silent congratulations from me.
Fox stays away from my mind; Denham stays away from my mind. All I'm thinking about is what could possibly be waiting for me at the end.
I keep my head down as I crawl, only because that's the most I can do to give me as much space as possible. I can't even see what's ahead of me—
Bang!
The metal wall in front of me collides with my forehead. I hiss and slide back, realizing this is the end of the tunnel.
No. This can't be. There's nothing there. Why does the vent end—?
I turn my head right and see the passage doesn't actually stop here. It turns right.
That's where I need to go.
But how can I twist my body to get a good turn? It seems almost impossible.
Clenching my teeth together, I turn on my side, surprising myself when I still fit into the tight space. Slowly, I squirm the top half of my body into the right turn of the tunnel. My head is pointing toward the way I want to go while my feet point behind me. My body forms a right angle.
I toss myself forward, but only manage to hit my hand against the close-packed walls with a clang.
I clear my throat, my eyes searching the dark and claustrophobic surroundings around me.
There's light ahead of me. A square filled with black and white lines. The white is the brightest, and I know that I'm looking at the next opening. It's blocked by an air vent cover.
I haul myself forward—still on my side—until my feet leave the previous section of the tunnel and enter the new one through the turn. Then I rotate back on my stomach. Breathing steadily, I continue to crawl toward the bright light.