Jinn Nation

by Caroline Barnard-Smith

  Christa leant towards Jake, fervently hoping he wouldn’t drool on her chin the way Darrell had done. She was pleasantly surprised. Jake’s kiss was warm and tender, completely devoid of the fumbled shame she had experienced with Darrell. When he finally drew away he stared at her, as if awaiting further instructions. Christa thought again about Crystal Fitzgerald’s novel, about the chapter in the barn when the farm hand had laid Gertrude down on some hay and removed her petticoats. She projected this image into Jake’s mind, barely able to meet his eyes with her own. He nodded wordlessly as he reached for her, gently pushing her down onto the bed.

  ***

  Jake never returned to the Institute. Christa mourned him for months before finally deciding to put him out of her mind. Still, when she was supposed to be concentrating on a particularly boring Maths lesson or some new test devised by the scientists, her thoughts often wandered to memories of him: how his hands had felt on her bare skin, the sweet smell of his hair as it surrounded her, the small noises of their love, kept muffled in case somebody overheard.

  Christa didn’t tell the scientists about her newly discovered ability to control peoples’ actions. She confided only in Darrell, huddled beneath his sheets one night during a thunderstorm when neither of them could sleep.

  “Why don’t you try to control the scientists?” he asked her, edging closer as a bright spark of lightening flared before the window. “You could make them use that bloody taser gun on each other.”

  Christa laughed as she imagined the scientists falling over each other and twitching on the floor, each studded with hissing taser darts. “I haven’t been able to do it since,” she said. “I keep trying, but it won’t work.”

  “So what did you make this Jake guy do?”

  Christa lowered her eyes. “Nothing, really. I made him stand on one leg and touch his nose.”

  Darrell didn’t look entirely convinced, but he obviously didn’t want to press the subject. “Do you want to stay in here tonight?” he asked instead.

  Christa smiled and reached for his hand. She knew that thunderstorms gave her friend headaches, made him feel twitchy and anxious. “Okay.”

  Darrell lay down and she curled against him as she’d done countless times, listening to the rise and fall of his breath until they both finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

  ***

  Christa didn’t go to her afternoon lessons the day the scientists found out about her emerging abilities. Feeling particularly frustrated, sick of the scientists’ constant questions and her wrists burning against the tight restraints keeping her tied to a purposefully uncomfortable chair – used to force her into reading the thoughts of the one scientist holding the key that would release her - she felt something inside herself softly break and reach out. Invisible fingers tightened around the cuffs on her wrists and pulled at the leather until it snapped open. The scientists turned as one towards the sound of the tearing cuffs, their mouths dropping open as Christa pulled her hands free and rubbed her bruised wrists. She looked around at them, her heart sinking when she realised what she had done. They would never give her any peace now.

  As the scientists attempted to push her further day after day, drenching her in ice water, attaching electrodes to her temples and shocking her at intervals, anything to tempt her powers to show themselves, Christa became nervous and miserable. Darrell would often hear her crying at night through the thin wall separating their rooms. He would slip from his bed and crawl into hers, wrapping his arms around her and muffling her sobs against his chest until she fell asleep.

  “Why should we have to live like this?” she said one night after a particularly hard day. Her lungs ached with every rasping breath, the result of spending the afternoon locked inside a claustrophobic tank filled with acrid air that burned her throat as she struggled to breathe. Fear and panic had finally caused her to lash out and wrench the tank’s door from its hinges with such force her eyes streamed and her head throbbed with pain. The scientists had been so impressed they could barely contain their glee, grinning and nodding even as Christa collapsed on the floor, one hand pressed to her straining chest.

  “Jake was like us. He could speak to me in my head, but he doesn’t have to live here. Scientists don’t do experiments on him, he goes to university. He has a life outside of here.”

  “But what would we do outside, Chris?” Darrell said. “Where would we live?”

  “We’d live together. We’d look after each other.” When Darrell began to shake his head she turned away from him, fresh tears in her eyes. “It isn’t right, what they do to us. I shouldn’t have to lie in a bed of agony, wondering why death refuses to come.”

  “That’s a bit over-the-top, Chris.”

  “Is it? How do you know they won’t kill one of us some day? What if they lock me in the tank again and I can’t force open the door?”

  They lapsed into silence, staring up into the dark, the peace only broken by the sound of Christa’s laboured breathing.

  “Perhaps we could live in a house,” Darrell finally said. “We could go to university, just like Jake.”

  Christa smiled for the first time and reached beneath the duvet for his hand, curling her shaking fingers around his.

  ***

  Christa made her escape on the evening of her twenty-second birthday. The day passed like any other – the scientists never indulged their subjects with gifts or birthday cake – but once the sun had set and Christa began to relax for the night, stretched out on her bed with her arms behind her head, they came for her. Catching her off-guard with unscheduled experiments was a common trick, but something about that night felt crueller than the others. The scientists were a little more grim-faced, the restraints used to manoeuvre her from her bedroom to the sterile suite across the compound a little tighter. When Christa tried to concentrate and catch a stray thought or a fleeting comment, she sensed pity from the guards standing to attention along the length of the corridors and a strange, determined resignation from the scientists surrounding her.

  She was hustled into the largest of the rooms reserved for tests and experiments, the walls made of a stainless steel that reflected dull light around the operating table standing in the middle of the floor. When Christa saw the table had been prepared in advance, that cold steel cuffs were attached at each corner, she began to struggle against the restraints pinning her hands behind her back, kicking out at the scientists who were gripping her arms and propelling her forward.

  “Get off me,” she cried, knowing her pleas were in vain. “What are you doing now? Leave me alone.”

  The scientists refused to acknowledge that she had spoken. Instead, they gathered behind her and hoisted her up as though she was some inanimate doll, removing her restraints and deftly locking her arms and legs into the cuffs on the table. Christa began to tremble as she lay prostrate, spread-eagled on her stomach and unable to even look up into the faces of her tormentors. If she turned her head, she could just about make out a covered trolley being wheeled into the room. As the familiar trepidation began to build in her stomach, Christa’s will became sharper. She was able to push through her fear and see clearly into the thoughts of the scientists.

  “This is the most exciting moment of my life. At last, I’m about to see something truly spectacular.”

  “Damn, I forgot to record my programme. Maybe Jane will remember. No, she’s probably too busy playing bingo. God, I hate bingo.”

  “Subject A seems sedate. Good eye movement. Reflexes are normal.”

  “I can smell something. Is that me? Do I smell?”

  “This is going to be interesting. How will Subject A respond to such an intense pain stimulant? I’m so glad those fat cats on the board finally sanctioned this.”

  As this last thought rose above the others and filtered through into her mind, Christa’s heart quickened. She craned her neck when the cover was lifted from the trolley, trying to discover what terrible thing they had planned for he
r. A strong hand pushed down in the centre of her back, forcing her to lay still. Christa braced herself as another scientist loomed over her, releasing the breath she was holding when instead of stabbing or maiming her, he proceeded to cut away her pyjama top with a large pair of scissors. Once the material had been peeled away to expose her back, the scientists gathered at the far side of the room. They muttered amongst themselves, shuffling papers and tapping ballpoint pens against their clipboards.

  Finally, one man broke away from the group and busied himself over the trolley while the others formed a semi-circle around Christa, their excitement so intense it vibrated in the air like a living thing. When the scientist at the trolley straightened and turned towards her, Christa recognised him as a leader of sorts. The tall, thick-set man often led her daily tests, instructing her to move this or that way, to follow his finger with her eyes, to tell him what she was thinking at that precise moment. She bared her teeth and spat at him.

  “You’re all sick. Do you enjoy doing this? Do you?”

  He barely glanced at the small glob of spittle that had landed on his shoe. Instead, he lifted the long, shining object he was holding, pressing a button on the side that made the rod hiss into life. The blue glow of electricity buzzed up and down the shaft, illuminating the man’s blanched face.

  “What the hell is that?” Christa didn’t want to show the hated scientists how scared she was, but she found it impossible to control the high-pitched panic in her voice.

  Again, she was ignored. “Now, observe closely,” the man said to the group standing behind him. “I want every second of this recorded.”

  With barely a pause for breath, he stepped forward and lowered the burning rod onto Christa’s back, drawing it down the length of her spine while she screamed and struggled, her eyes filling with tears. It felt as if her skin was tearing apart, as if fire had seeped through her tissues and was incinerating her bones and muscles. Even when the man lifted the rod from her back, the intense heat lingered, teasing every nerve ending to unknown heights of agony. Christa tried to squirm and arch her back, anything to alleviate the pain, but the cuffs at her wrists and ankles kept her firmly fixed in place.

  “Interesting,” the man was saying. “There’s no initial response. I’m going to try again, and this time–”

  “No!” Christa screamed. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

  Stoked by fear and pain and pure, white rage, her will blossomed and erupted, shattering the cuffs holding her as though they were made of glass. Christa scrambled down from the table as the scientists backed away, her lips drawn back in a snarl, her eyes bloodshot and wild. One scientist attempted to creep towards the far side of the room, his hand raised, ready to press the button of a fire alarm and alert the guards. Christa turned on him and unleashed all her fury, all her repressed anger and insufferable frustration. The scientist gaped in horror as his own arm snapped back towards him and twisted at the wrist, falling to the floor in a screaming, shaking ball as the audible snapping of his fragile bones echoed around the steel walls.

  That was when the scientists began to run. They knocked each other out of the way in their scrabble to wrench open the door and spill out into the corridor, almost colliding with the guards stationed at the end. Christa followed them out and found herself face to face with four guards, their expressions hard and determined, their hands groping for their batons and handcuffs.

  “That’s enough now, miss,” one of them said. “You’ve had your fun.”

  “I’m not going back,” Christa said.

  The guard shook his head and began to reach for her but Christa sprang away, her chest heaving with exertion and a strange, all-encompassing excitement.

  “I said I’m not going back.” As she shouted the words, she thrust her mind outwards, using her invisible force to swipe at the men until they groaned and staggered backwards, hands raised to their heads, eyes weeping with blood.

  Christa turned and ran back down the corridor, dodging the few scientists brave enough to attempt pursuit and reaching out to crush the minds of the guards who stepped into her path, feeling her will grow stronger as she squeezed their brains like soft fruit until they cried out and crumpled to the ground. She raced across the courtyard and turned into her own corridor, skidding to a halt outside Darrell’s door. He opened it before she did, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he stared at her.

  “Christa? What’s going on?”

  “We’re leaving. Tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Look what they did to me.” Christa turned to show Darrell the long, raised burn scored into her back, wincing as she felt his eyes upon her. She remained still for as long as she could bear before whirling back around, hiding her pain from view once more. “I’m not staying here,” she said. “I can’t. You have to come with me.”

  Even though Darrell’s wide, red-rimmed eyes betrayed his terror at the thought of leaving the Institute, the only home he’d ever known, he nodded his agreement.

  “Come on, then.” Christa grasped Darrell’s hand and began to run once more, pulling him behind her.

  They had almost reached the exit - a tall pair of ornate doors at the far end of the courtyard - when a great wave of shouting and whistling sprang up, followed by the sound of running feet. The guards and scientists who were still standing had banded together and were rapidly closing in on them, creating a circle around Christa and Darrell. They were holding any weapon they had been able to find, their faces dark with hate. Darrell squeezed Christa’s hand in his own and began to tremble.

  “Come quietly and you won’t get hurt,” a guard shouted.

  “Fuck you.” A great wash of anger roared through Christa and raced out into the night, streaking the sky with crimson as the walls surrounding the courtyard simultaneously burst into flames. The mob cowered before the sudden rush of heat, covering their faces with their arms as several windows shattered. The glass flew out across the courtyard, cutting down anyone standing too close. Blood began to run between the flagstones, creating tiny red rivulets that ran towards Christa and Darrell, both mute and frozen in their shock.

  The spell was broken when a scientist appeared behind them, brandishing a golf club. He swung it at Darrell’s legs, causing him to cry out and fall to his knees. Christa turned on the man, pushing him away from them with the full extent of her sharpened will. He flew backwards through the air and slammed against the wall with a sickening thud, the back of his head seeming to explode on impact.

  Christa bent to wrap her arms around Darrell’s waist, hoisting him to his feet. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  She began to weave her way through the scrambling bodies, looking back to make sure Darrell was behind her. A guard ran towards them, teeth gritted and face shining with sweat as he waved his baton above his head. Christa sent out tendrils of pain-laced power, prickling his brain with her own electricity until he stopped in his tracks and fell across a scientist. As the two men thrashed together on the bloody flagstones, Christa screamed in release, her body erupting with white, hot shockwaves that rumbled against the walls of the courtyard and ignited the stone floor. Dodging a burning scientist, his hands in the air and his clothes and hair all but consumed by the flames, she made a beeline for the darkened office, cleaving the door in two and jumping inside without breaking her sprint.

  It wasn’t until she had punched her way out of the great glass windows at the front of the building, until she was pulling sweet, smoke-free air down into her heaving lungs, that she realised Darrell was still inside. Christa stood before the smoking ruin that had been the Institute, torn between her desire to go back and locate Darrell, and the tumult of panicked urgency that had propelled her escape and was now prompting her to flee towards the city spread before her, to run as fast as she could and never look back.

  A deafening crash seemed to make her mind up for her. An interior wall had crashed to the ground, shattering across the
courtyard and crushing the office. As the earth itself shook and debris flew through the broken window with the brute force of a hurricane, fear got the better of Christa. She stumbled away and broke into a run, hurling herself down the Institute’s long sloping lawns and out of the iron gates beyond.

  Seventeen

  London, UK – Present Day

  Dylan could hear Rob through the thin wall, moaning and grunting like a rutting boar. He looked down at the girl knelt before him, her fingers entwined in the buttons of his fly, attempting to free his penis from its denim casing. He was afraid she would be disappointed when she found it, he couldn’t seem to muster even the tiniest surge of excitement. Sighing, he finally stepped away. The girl blinked up at him in confusion, her hands dropping to her sides.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, it’s not you. I’m just not in the mood.”

  The girl flicked her impossibly glossy, long black hair over one shoulder and smiled. “So why did you come here, sweetheart? Perhaps there’s something else I can do for you?” She fell forward onto her hands and began crawling towards him, doughy mask of make-up making her face appear luminescent and otherworldly in the half-light.

  “Perhaps.” Dylan followed the curving line of her neck as she moved, his senses straining, stretching to scent out the pulsating flow of blood moving just beneath her throat.

  In the adjoining room, the noises were becoming louder, more ferocious. A picture hanging on the wall, a twee scene of a boy in nineteenth century clothes leading a horse down a country lane, rattled in its frame as a body hit the wall behind it, muffling a choking scream. The girl before Dylan faltered and turned towards the sound, a frown on her face.