Is it though? Is it not just doing its job?
The Stone Man was now within fifty feet of the jeep, and Paul realised his fingers had buried themselves in his seat padding up to the second knuckle. His right heel began to kick against the rubber mat in the footwell.
Forty feet. With bulging eyes, Paul glanced at the soldier in the driver’s seat, who was sitting and staring stoically ahead, the only evidence of his own discomfiture being the two lines of sweat than ran down the side of his face. He held the radio to his ear with one hand, waiting for the order. Paul wanted to scream NOW at him, and only managed to not do so through sheer force of will. They had to run this. He had to let them.
Thirty feet.
“Stand by.”
Paul’s kicking heel became a stamping gesture, his foot looking for an accelerator that wasn’t there.
Twenty feet.
It’s too big to be real. This can’t be real. This whole thing is a nightmare. This whole thing has been one long fever dream. I’m in a coma, I’m already dead, OH GOD GET ME OUT OF HERE—
Ten feet.
“Clearance.”
“Roger,” replied the soldier, in a thinner voice than his facial expression would have led one to expect, and pressed his foot onto the accelerator as he turned the wheel. The jeep’s engine gently roared, and the vehicle swung out and to the left, away from the Stone Man’s path and towards the yellow plastic strip that ran along the floor upon the western side of the hall. Paul had been right about them operating well within the barrier limits; the strips that ran in a square around the hall were only roughly one hundred feet apart in both directions. Once the jeep reached the strip—the time it took to do so was almost two seconds—the driver drove them quickly along its length. Paul’s head swung wildly behind him, watching the Stone Man; was it still moving? With the bouncing, rapid movement of the jeep, he couldn’t quite tell. The driver swung them around, the jeep spraying earth from the dirt floor as it did so, ending up facing the south wall, but already the driver was reversing quickly in the opposite direction. The jeep backed neatly into the northwest corner, and stopped. The whole procedure had taken less than five seconds.
Paul let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, giving a small moan of both relief and despair as he did so. The first part—the very first time—had now worked. Even though everyone had expected it to, the temporary relief was immense. But what would happen now? All eyes were on the Stone Man.
It was already beginning to turn, its right shoulder leading its body, the head staring straight ahead as it did so. There was no sense of urgency, or of recalculation in its movements. It was simply continuing to follow, and Paul felt a brief, infinitesimal flicker of hope.
That’s it, he surprised himself by thinking. This way.
Once it had completed its relatively slow about-face, the Stone Man recommenced walking again, this time heading towards the northwest corner of the yellow square where the jeep waited. Paul’s hope and confidence immediately died a harsh death, so much so that he briefly wondered if the fear, the intense anxiety and desperation, weren’t projected from the thing at close range in a similar way as they had been from wherever the Stone Man came from in the days before its arrival; the same intense fear that he and Andy had broken the circuit of when they locked in—
Is that its insurance policy? Paul wondered. Is that how it makes sure that its targets charge into the barrier once it gets close? If Andy and I hadn’t locked in before they got here, if that hadn’t somehow broken the effect, would I be going insane with the urge to run by now, as opposed to just shitting myself?
It was a thought he didn’t have time to ponder further, as it was nearly time to move again. The countdown came over the radio once more, verbally closing the distance as the Stone Man did so physically. Paul had visions of those arms suddenly extending longer, reaching from its body—just as its chest cavity had when it took Patrick—and plucking Paul from the jeep, the handcuffs around his ankles gouging into his bones until the chains holding them snapped, and then Paul would be drawn towards the Stone Man, where its chest would begin to open once more and Paul would be turned in the air, his spine now exposed—
Ten feet.
“Clearance.”
The engine rumbled again, and Paul felt his blood run cold for only a millisecond as the tyres spun helplessly in place, before catching hold and propelling the jeep away to the Stone Man’s right this time, running along the eastern wall before turning and parking in the southeast corner.
They all watched, everyone in the hall, as the Stone Man went through the same procedure once more—the slow turn over the same shoulder—as it prepared for another approach. This time hope flared brighter in Paul’s heart, but even with that feeling came balance.
It was working. They’d have to see, they’d have to give it time, but it was working … yet if it stayed working … could he ever get used to this? He didn’t know, but if he’d been right all along, he would simply have to.
It’s not programmed for this, he’d said to Straub, in his frantic, desperate explanation. I don’t think this is in any of its presets or whatever. They obviously know us to an extent, know our base urges and instincts, maybe because they think in a similar way in some respects, I don’t bloody know. But I think with them … that’s it. They operate in straight lines.
The Stone Man completed its half-circle, and was beginning to head towards them once more.
Look at the way the Stone Men operate, he’d said. They think route one, the simplest procedure, as time taken doesn’t bother them, right? They don’t bother with contingencies, because for them, the logical solution should work every time. That’s why they just build the unstoppable creature and set the bugger off, waiting for the results because, as far as they’re concerned, that should take care of everything. But, if we don’t run blindly into the barrier … they don’t know what to do.
The rhythmic pounding through the floor, like the ticking of the second hand on the universe’s biggest clock, shaving away precious, precious time with every step.
So what happens if we don’t run? What does it do? If nothing else, Straub, you need to know that. But regardless … if you’re ever going to have a chance to beat these things, you need time as well. Time to study them, time to try out more of your crap on them without having to worry about innocent civilians and falling buildings. Right? So what if, and I know this is just a bullshit theory, but at the same time we’ve seen nothing to suggest that it’s got anything else in its bag, but … what if all it can do is pursue? What if we just keep the fucker moving, and chasing, indefinitely? Hell, what if we do that and after a while, after weeks or months, the bastard just runs out of juice? There’s so much we could learn, and being totally honest, it might mean you find something out that can save my bloody life, or it breaks down before it can get me. So, what I’m saying is, if I can find out how big the barrier is, and if it’s big enough to work …
“Clearance.” Paul’s hand gripped the door handle as the jeep lurched again. He didn’t know it then, but that hand movement was something that, in time, would become as automatic as breathing.
… why don’t we just let it chase me for as long as we can?
As the jeep swung out to the left again, and Paul’s premature conviction that his plan might bear some kind of fruit grew, he also had a sudden, clear, but fleeting thought. It was pushed away almost as soon as it arrived—he didn’t really have any choice now, regardless—but part of it still caught in his mind, and over the many months ahead it would grow steadily, causing him greater and greater unease.
In that moment, he’d briefly seen the plan working, and what it might mean if he really could be kept moving indefinitely. Being here in the hall, doing circuits of this tiny space in Sheffield for the foreseeable future, with no idea of how long that might be. Paul knew that there were three possible-to-likely outcomes to all of it: either they stopped the Stone Man, or it stopped it
self, or they eventually decided to pull the plug on the whole thing and shoot him in the head. He was prepared for any of those, he thought, or at least as much as anyone could be.
But there was a slim chance of a less likely, fourth outcome.
For some reason, he couldn’t decide how he felt about the possibility; because if it remained in their interests to keep him alive, they would do so, with the experiment continuing in that tiny, windowless, sightless place. An experiment that could potentially run for years, if they saw fit, with no end in sight. And Paul didn’t know how long that would be bearable, and then thought of the alternative, and decided that the alternative would always be worse, of course it would. But he looked at the walls, and the closed doors, and the approaching Stone Man, and knew that it was all because of his choices; then he had to remind himself again that the alternative would always be worse, always be worse. It was a thought process that would go around in circles in his mind many times, reaching the same conclusion with less and less conviction in the years to come, but for now Paul’s fingers gripped the door handle tighter; the Jeep swung, and began to back into the opposite corner once again.
***
They said I should record something on this. I don’t know what the bloody hell they expect me to say.
Testing. Testing. One, two. Hello. Hel-LO.
Part of the therapy, allegedly, helping me to externalise, I think he said, but it all sounds like bullshit to me. Personally, I think they just want it for future reference, part of the big picture or whatever. It’s not for my benefit, that’s for sure. I don’t think they’re really too bothered about my mental health, and I don’t think they really ever have been, to be honest. As long as I can follow instructions, I don’t think they’d give a monkey’s arse if they found me shitting into my hand and wiping it on the wall.
You hear that? You don’t give a toss. I know you don’t. I’m not an idiot. I don’t know why you want this pissing recording, either. The fucking camera gives you enough Big-Brother-is-watching-you jollies, I’d have thought, but apparently not. So I will externalise, but not for you. I’m going to record this, and then wipe it. Stick it up your arse.
Ah … balls. I don’t know. Maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe I’m having one of my bad days. Some days are certainly worse than others. A lot worse. I thought today was one of my ‘good mood’ days—that’s why I finally thought I’d give this a go—but maybe I was wrong.
They don’t have to send the therapist, I suppose. And they didn’t have to make this cabin so nice. It could have just been a bed and a TV. But it’s like a little flat, albeit one on wheels, and I even get to cook my own meals, have my own fridge. I even get beer, and decent beer at that, albeit in limited qualities. Hell, they even managed to soundproof it a bit, so in terms of noise, you wouldn’t really know you were moving.
You can feel it though. You can always feel it. The guys doing the driving are good, really good, and even when they change they keep the rhythm the same. And that can’t be for anybody’s benefit but mine, after all. They know I’m used to the rhythm of it. I told the therapist. They know I’m used to grabbing the handles on the turn, the reverse, the brake; if I’m honest, for some reason I have a bit of a sense of pride in my doing it without thinking, at the perfect time, just before it happens. They send the physio in too, twice a week, to check I’m okay and work the kinks out of my back.
My knees and hips worry me though. I think it was in the twenty-third month when I first noticed the ache in the right, and that’s since started in the left too. I only get it if I’m standing, obviously, when even the grab handles can’t really make a difference to the momentum on your knees. I try to sit down most of the time now, unless I’m working out on the multigym. I’m in the best shape of my life, of course, but it’s typical that I’m stuck in a fucking box. Either way, the new cabin can’t come quick enough. Exactly the same as this one—strangely enough, I hope it is, anyway—but the new one is fitted with some kind of gyroscopic base, super suspension, I don’t know, but basically I’m told it should cancel out eighty percent of the momentum. I’m not holding my breath though. They’ve been talking about it since we passed the one-year mark, when they saw it might be a long game after all. I think it must have taken them all of the second year to decide that it definitely was. Then they started to budget for it. Whatever. As I say, they’re more worried about their ‘research’ than the poor bastard at the heart of it.
They let me get my food orders in though, within reason, and one day a week they go through the same rigmarole; drop off units at either corner, handing bags over, me taking them in before we move again. Usually takes about half an hour to get the shopping in. Even now though, they have a guy waiting at either end with a tranquiliser gun. I think it’s a tranquiliser gun. I’ve tried to get the names of the soldiers I deal with regularly, and they’re friendly—I think they think I’m an all right bloke—but they’ve always politely refused or changed the subject. I think overall, the military trust me more now, but who knows? Maybe they think I’m starting to go a bit twitchy. They could be right, I don’t bloody know. I hope not.
They top up the water for the shower cubicle and the sink, the taps, the lot of it, and it’s pretty impressive how they do it. The drivers are very good, as I say. They hook up the hose to the mini-tanker and drive together as a unit until it’s done. Got to be good at your job to do that, I reckon.
I’m allowed TV on demand, but no news and no live footage. Films are okay as well, but I don’t get the Internet, and that was a major problem for me at first. Now I can barely imagine having such a luxury. They let me request hobby materials, too. It’s almost laughable that I asked for a load of craft stuff first, thinking it would pass the time. It just went bloody everywhere. Maybe I’ll try again once the gyro stuff is built in. That’d be great if it worked. I started on a few language tapes too, but it was hard to stay motivated when I don’t know if I’ll ever get to use it. They send me porn as well, and I don’t even have to ask. That was a pleasant surprise.
The first two weeks were the worst, though. In the jeep. That was bad. Really bad. I couldn’t even sleep. Then they got me into a van with a mattress in the back, and that was almost like heaven for a while. I don’t know why they left it that long to switch me over. Nerves? Expecting something fancy from the big bastard at any moment? I don’t know. It took them a month to get the cabin sorted. Everything was done on the fly, everything, and to be fair to them, I didn’t think they thought it would work anyway. They must have expected it to end out of the blue, and when it didn’t, my needs were low on the list when they were scurrying around trying to see what they could do next. I shouldn’t really blame them, but I do. Ah … do I? Jesus, I don’t know. I used to be able to see it from their point of view easily, but it’s been three years now and it’s hard to keep perspective.
The window is almost a bit of a piss-take though. What the hell is the point? I keep the curtains closed most of the time now. In the early days I used to check—literally, every few minutes—that Caementum … shit … I mean the Stone Man was still following. It took a good seven or eight months before I stopped. Now I just keep the curtains drawn.
I don’t know what they told the media. I don’t know what they’ve told my family. I’ve asked if I can have visitors, but I’m not allowed. The therapist, the physio guy, they’re my visitors, and although the therapy is obviously one way, Tony the physio is a chatty guy. If I ask about stuff I’m not allowed to know about, he tells me straight out that I know I’m not supposed to ask about that and changes the subject. I think he’d tell me more if the guard wasn’t there when he visits, or if the camera wasn’t on. Discussing anything from before my time in here is okay, anything going on in the world after that is out. Apparently it’s better for me, Dr Palmer says—said it several times actually, especially the time I got a bit wound up when he said it, like, and they had to board my cabin and put me out—but I disagree. Especially beca
use … well, never mind. I don’t know how good that camera is. Not that I have to hide things from the ‘Bad Guys’—I don’t think they are the bad guys, they have a job to do and are doing it—I just don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Before I came in, there was a recession on, after all, and jobs were hard to come by. That might still be the same.
Anyway. The people I actually deal with in here are kind, is what I’m trying to say. The rules they’re enforcing are for good reasons, I believe that. They do keep me abreast of some developments, I will give them that. Straub has even visited four or five times, and that was a surprise, even a pleasant one, I dare say. She lets me know what they’ve tried, and learned, and even though it’s usually a thinly disguised story of failure, they have made some headway towards understanding its ‘molecular structure’. She struggled a bit with some of terminology herself (she’s no scientist, after all), but from what I can gather the thing is made up of nothing they’ve ever seen before on earth. They’re only just beginning to get their heads around it because it goes against so much of what they already know, but she won’t tell me if they have any idea about how they can use that info to shut it down. The term ‘classified’ makes me wince whenever I hear it now.
There are theories about why whoever sent them might be wanting to make more Stone Men. The general consensus is that they aren’t amassing any kind of army to invade us with. Why would they need to? After all, they could just send three or four and wait for them to smash our infrastructure to smithereens. One of the more popular ideas, I gather, is that they are some kind of workforce.
Strange to think of them as anything other than murder machines after what I’ve seen, and how I’m living, but there it is. Based on their ‘indestructibility, wedge-like hands and seeming ability to control their own mass’, Straub tells me that lots of people think their main function—other than to come here and reproduce more of themselves—would be as earth movers, perhaps for dangerous work like channelling rivers, or simpler stuff like preparing land for construction. Lots of people have asked how they built the first one if they need parts of us to build more, but more people have replied with the fairly obvious answer; they don’t necessarily need us to build more, but maybe our parts make it easier to build more, or to build the bigger, blue Stone Men that might have other functions that we haven’t seen yet.
The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller Page 41