Skeletal

by Emma Pullar

  ‘Hold on!’

  I stoop and pick up the almost severed hand, press my boot to the guard’s wrist and pull. It rips away. Droplets of blood spray my toecaps.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Bunce asks, a green tinge to his face.

  I step up to the front doors and press the severed hand to the palm-pad. The doors swish open. I cautiously step in to the building, Bunce hurries to follow. I press the oozing hand to his chest. He snatches it and flings it out the door behind him like it’s a hot rock.

  ‘Gross!’

  Below my boots, words spit at me from an embroidered mat: ‘The System Works!’ I hate those words. In my head, I rearrange them into Works the System! and that’s exactly what I intend to do, starting now. The entrance hall is quiet, haunting. I breathe in its strange synthetic air. I can only liken it to opening a box of new plastic containers at the factory.

  Beneath my boots, the blue carpet feels like sponge. I resist the urge to take off my boots and walk across it in bare feet. I gaze around the walls, no surveillance cameras in here either. I don’t get it. I knew Central were arrogant, but to think they can’t be touched, that’s more than arrogant. Disgusting despotic bastards, they actually believe they don’t need security because no one would dare challenge them. How wrong they are. Still, no matter what I think of them, I’m definitely afraid of them; the fear of being caught prickles over my skin and dries out my mouth. I am frightened of the repercussions of being discovered inside this Central haven. The last public display of punishment was a warning to all. There hasn’t been another since. I block the frail and wrinkled body from my mind and try to picture my grandfather’s smiling face, but all I can see is blood running from his grey hair into his grey eyes. Will I follow in his footsteps, humiliated, tortured, and eventually executed in the middle of Market Square?

  ‘Skyla.’

  Unaware I’ve stopped moving, I flinch when Bunce touches my shoulder. My instinct is to place my hand on top of his. I won’t. I can’t accept his comfort. I’ve told him we’re friends but we’re not. I’m using him to better my life. I can’t let him get too close. Present time knocks on the door to my mind. I open it.

  ‘I’m fine, let’s go.’

  I keep expecting to be caught, anticipating a guard or a Central to appear at any moment, but they don’t. I wouldn’t know a Central even if I did see one. Are they even human? Inhuman monsters are all I can picture in my mind’s eye. My ears are pricked for the sound of guards coming after us or the wail of the siren. Nothing. It’s eerily silent as we creep down the stretch of hallway that seems never-ending. The silver-painted walls are lined with framed quotes. ‘We stand united for the greater good.’ Another: ‘Some must kneel so others may stand in glory on their shoulders.’ On glory on their shoulders, I think to myself. The last one I read makes my skin crawl. ‘We the givers, we the takers, we the peace and harmony makers.’ Do they really believe their own bullshit?

  At the end of the hall, we arrive at what looks like a shaft. There isn’t a palm-pad. As we near, the doors automatically open. We cautiously step inside the round, mirrored chamber. The doors swish closed, coming together with a light kiss. Me and Bunce exchange dark looks. This is it. The panel next to me shows a vertical line of round lights. Each has a symbol on them but I don’t know what they mean. I try to remember what Bins told me: third floor? No, third door and my age is the floor, number twenty. I count the lit-up buttons until I get to the twentieth. I push my finger against it. A robotic voice sounds from above. I jump back.

  ‘Clone archives. Please step into the footholds and grasp the handrail.’

  Clone archives? What’s that? Handrail? I see it.

  ‘Shh-iiit!’

  My legs fly up above my torso. I cling to the handrail, fighting against the force pulling my feeble body towards the lift roof. Bunce has his feet in the footholds, and one arm looped under the rail, but his other arm is flapping about uncontrollably. The skin on my face feels like it’s tearing away from my skull. The lift slows. My legs float for a moment and then fall with a thud. I’m a puddle on the floor. The doors swish open.

  ‘Clone archives. Please exit with care.’

  I crawl out of the lift. Bunce offers me his hand. I launch up into his arms. He’s also shaken but manages to steady me. I cling to him for a moment and take in the short corridor. Same blue carpet underfoot, same silver walls, except the picture frames are replaced with doors to the left and right of us. No people around. Thousands live in this city but outside of the Morb complex the place often feels constantly deserted. It’s as if people live their lives avoiding each other. I never noticed it before.

  ‘It can’t be this easy,’ I whisper in Bunce’s ear.

  ‘Maybe Central is a myth? They don’t exist,’ he says out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘No,’ I shake my head, ‘there’s someone in charge of the city, and what about the guards from outside? Where are they?’

  ‘No one has ever done anything like this before,’ Bunce tries on a soothing tone ‘My guess is they aren’t expecting us.’

  ‘I know, but surely there should be someone around.’

  Bunce shrugs and points his finger from left to right.

  ‘Which door?’

  ‘Bins said third from the lift,’ I say, in my smallest voice.

  ‘Third from the left?’ Bunce asks.

  ‘No, third from the lift,’ I reply.

  ‘There are two doors third from the lift, right or left?’

  I bite my nail. No longer perfectly shaped and polished, they’re chipped and dirty. In worse condition than when I worked at the factory.

  ‘He didn’t say.’ I glance from one door to the other.

  Bunce squares his shoulders, and points to the third door on the left.

  ‘I’ll take this one, you take the right.’

  I nod and we edge past doors one and two. I slide my back against the smooth, cold wall next to door three and before I can shout ‘no!’ Bunce presses his palm to the pad. I wait for his screams. They don’t come. It doesn’t burn. Theory tested. Scare tactic only. This means we can open any government door we like! I didn’t need that severed hand. I wait for the metal door to swish closed behind Bunce, then press my hand to the palm-pad for my door. The metal door clicks open and disappears into the wall with a swoosh. The room is bathed in a spring-green light. I step inside, eyes everywhere, heart pounding.

  ‘This is an office?’

  The emptiness doesn’t answer. The large room isn’t empty, exactly, there’s a lot of space and at the far end are towering columns. A room lost in time. Forgotten about, yet still maintained. My boots echo on the black, marble floor and as I approach the columns they become clear; not columns but dozens of glass-cylinders glowing with lime-coloured liquid. They’re at least ten feet high and as wide as I am tall. I walk towards the nearest one. Drawn to something pickled inside it.

  ‘What the hell?’ I gasp, and step back.

  Floating inside the huge jar is a creature I’ve never seen before. White skin bleached green by the liquid lime, huge body like lumpy dough, tiny skeletal limbs; distressed expression on its under-developed face. I move to the next over-sized jar. Same green skin, slits for eyes, skeletal body one side, arms and legs blown up to an enormous size on the other, same painful expression on its distorted face. My stomach churns, the same feeling as when I found bodies hung up like cattle in Rock Vault. Even so, I can’t stop myself from wanting to know – wanting to see. What are these things? I walk across the marble to a smaller cylinder on the other side of the room, to another body, a baby. Cheeks grown over the eyes, an explosion of rolls upon rolls of tissue, skin covered in scales. SICK! What kind of fucked-up experiments were they doing in here? How much suffering did these mutant creatures endure before they died? Mutilation is bad enough. Don’t they have any respect for life!

  Tears roll down my face. I can’t beat their system. What am I doing here? I back away, eyes scanning ea
ch watery grave. Next thing I know my hand is behind my back, on the Galva, I pull it in front of me and grasp it with both hands and aim. My finger trembles on the trigger. No Skyla, don’t. They’ll hear it. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears running down my cheeks in despair.

  I sigh, sling the gun back over my shoulder and run from the room. Heart like a sledgehammer, it thumps pain into my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe … the door automatically slides out of my way and I hurl myself back into the hallway. No one is safe. Morbs, workers, we’re all the same to Central. They’re evil. They’ll turn us all into mincemeat or monsters! I can’t stay here. I have to go. Have to get out! Bunce. I press my palm to the pad on the opposite door, it opens and I fly through it. Thump. I slam into a body.

  ‘Skyla?’

  Someone grips my wrists.

  ‘Bunce! Run! Run far away!’

  Tears sting my eyes. Everything is a blur.

  ‘Calm down.’ he says, pulling me to him. Strong arms almost wrap twice around my slight frame.

  ‘Bunce, get out of here!’ I stammer.

  ‘Lower your voice.’

  A hand strokes my hair. Why isn’t he running away?

  ‘No, no. You don’t understand. No life is sacred to them, not even Morbs.’

  Tears spill from my eyes. I can’t stop them. I wipe my wet face on the strong arm.

  ‘Have you got a death wish? I get you out of Rock Vault and you come here? How the hell did you get past security?’

  I breathe in the faint smell of dirty city streets masked with soap.

  ‘Kian, where’s Bunce?’

  I glance around, I’m in some sort of meeting room. Tables and chairs in rows, vision screen on the far wall.

  ‘Bunce?’

  ‘He should be in this room!’ I say. Standing on tiptoe, I peer over Kian’s broad shoulders. Bunce is nowhere to be seen.

  Kian pushes me away. I stumble backwards into a chair and almost fall down into it. I wipe the tears from my eyes and I stare into Kian’s angry face, puzzled.

  ‘Unbelievable! Is it the thrill of something dangerous, is that what turns you on?’ Kian says, his stare cold, as if I am his enemy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sky. I’m right about you two, aren’t I? You’re fucking him.’

  My jaw drops open, eyes wide with fury.

  ‘What! Kian, he’s a Morb!’ I say, louder than I should.

  ‘Galva, huh?’ Kian crosses his arms and nods to the Galva strap. ‘I only know of one person with those kind of weapons.’

  ‘So?’ I say, defensively. Why is he being such a prick? He’s been acting weird since the day of the lab explosion.

  ‘Fuck Bullet, you’ll fuck anyone,’ he says, casually.

  ‘Fuck Bullet?’ I hiss, fists clenched. ‘You actually believe I’d prostitute myself for a few weapons?’

  ‘How else did you get them? Bullet isn’t charitable.’ Kian shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘Seems you’ll give a ride to anyone … except me.’

  ‘Is that what’s important to you, Kian?’ I say aghast, ‘Who’s inside me, and the fact it isn’t you?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant!’ he says, hurt replacing the anger in his eyes. ‘I don’t want anyone touching you.’

  ‘Too late,’ I say throwing words away, ‘I’ve already fucked my way through the entire city.’ I cross my arms. How dare he!

  ‘I’m serious, you’re special to me.’

  ‘Am I?’ I raise my eyebrows, ‘Sorry, but would you care to tell me how else “you’re fucking him” and “you’ll give a ride to anyone” is meant to be interpreted? Did I mistake those words for I love you?’

  The silence that follows is uncomfortable. I wait. I need to find Bunce but I also need to sort this, whatever it is, out with my ‘friend’ or else he will blow everything for me. Bye-bye cure. Will Kian tell me he loves me? Does he? I know he cares about me more than anyone has ever cared about me, but he has a funny way of showing it. His eyes water. I’ve never seen him cry and I don’t expect to now. Most of Kian’s family are dead, taken by illnesses Central don’t care to treat. He’s had no one to teach him love. His frustrations are ruling his head.

  ‘I care about you, Kian.’ I say softly, ‘but you’re not the only person in my life. You have to accept that.’

  ‘What about Bunce?’ he says, jealously, he’s jealous of a Morb! This is ridiculous. ‘Do you care about him?’

  I don’t know how to answer. I think I do care what happens to Bunce. I’ve never been good at lying and I’ve never lied to Kian. I shrug.

  ‘I see.’ Kian says, miserably.

  But Kian doesn’t see. I’ve never had many friends and I’ve been through so much with Bunce. I am fond of him. Kian should accept that. Instead, he turns his back on me like he does every time he experiences a situation he can’t control, or emotions he doesn’t care to share.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I say.

  ‘To find that Morb and break his fucking neck!’

  Kian strides towards the lift, I hurry after him.

  ‘No! Kian please, I need him!’

  Kian stops, one foot in the lift, one on the carpet.

  ‘What about me? Do you need me?’

  I sigh. Kian is my oldest friend but he isn’t my Kian anymore, he belongs to the city. The city emblem on his shoulder turns me cold, the mark of a puppet. I’m reminded guards are traitors. They do Central’s bidding.

  ‘I need a friend, not a guard,’ I say.

  ‘I need a link.’ He says, ‘We could have been happy at The Hub … now that’s all gone.’

  I’m surprised when a single, angry tear escapes and runs down his clenched jaw. He wanted to be my link, why didn’t he tell me? Kian doesn’t say another word. He steps back and the doors close. I lunge, scratching at the metal, clawing at it.

  ‘Kian! Stop! Wait!’

  I push my fingers into the join and try to prise the doors open.

  ‘Shit! Shit!’

  I slap my hand against the cold silver. Ouch. My palm throbs.

  The doors spring open again. Kian is gone. I step into the empty chamber with a heavy heart. No idea which button to press, wondering if this is all worth it. I count up again and realise I started from one instead of ‘G’ for ground floor. This must be the nineteenth floor. Maybe Bunce realised the same and went up a level. He could already have found the serum and be on his way back to get me. I press the button above the one I pressed last time, the symbol on it resembles a slanted chair. The electronic voice rings out.

  ‘Central Offices. Please step into the foot holds and grasp the handrail.’

  This time I’m quick to comply. The jolt is over fast. I’ve advanced one floor. According to the panel, there are only two more, but stepping out onto the next floor, it doesn’t feel like I’m anywhere near the top of this building. A figure appears at the far end of the corridor and I flatten my back to the wall as the lift doors swoosh closed behind me. There’s nowhere to hide. I’ll be seen. The figure doesn’t notice me. Is it Bunce? I squint. No, too tall and thin. I count three doors on the right, none to the left. I sneak along, the bouncy carpet muffling the sound of my steps. I press my palm to the pad; the door slides open and I slip inside.

  24

  The Serum

  The door swishes shut behind me with a quiet click. I step forward and bump into a leather couch, forcing it slightly to the left. Ouch. I lean against the smooth, rolled arm and rub my stinging thigh. I touch the leather with my fingertips, was this once a human arm? The thought repulses me and I snatch back my hand fast, as if the couch gave me an electric shock. I take stock of the room; leather chairs, leather desk top, leather brief case. People sacrificed. I take two steps into the centre of the office and stand with my arms tight to my sides, not wanting to touch anything.

  There’s a cabinet behind the desk next to a slit of a window. It’s the only item of furniture not covered with skin. I sidestep around the back of the des
k, breathing in, so no part of me touches the leather upholstered chair. Then, fingers trembling, I open the clear cabinet doors and feel around for a secret compartment or a catch. I knock over a commemorative plate, stand it back up and read the fancy gold scroll: For diligence and devotion to duty. I roll my eyes and keep searching. There’s no compartment. Next, I open the filing cabinet. I thumb through files, tempted to peek inside at the documents but I don’t, I have to be quick. Nothing there, either. No secret panel or box, no serum.

  What was that? My muscles lock with fear and I give my hearing priority over my other senses. There’s a murmuring outside the door; idle chit-chat. Hurry, Skyla, hurry! I drop to my knees and search under the desk, the smell of the polished leather chokes me and panic tightens my chest. I find nothing under the desk and crawl out, glance up. What’s that? I get up off my knees and examine a large painting, which is hung on the wall, dominating the room. The picture is split into three panels. I trace my fingers over the top one. An outer space backdrop, the sun in one corner and in the other there are large, silver rectangles with rays of sunlight beaming between them. The rectangles seem to be reflecting the sun’s rays down onto a red planet. The picture beneath is of a desert landscape; blue skies, domed colonies, smokestacks pumping out great plumes, and people in spacesuits. The paint is faded in places, I wonder how old it is and who painted it. There’s no signature at the bottom, and any thought of the artist is suddenly forgotten when I realise what I’m looking at. The last picture is of a city. My city. Gale City.

  I don’t understand what this artist is depicting. I reach my arms to either side of the masterpiece and lift it off the wall. I need to know more. Perhaps there’s a description on the back. I turn it over, stiff board, no signature. I haven’t got time for this, it’s art, it doesn’t have to mean anything. I turn the painting back over and hurry to replace it on the wall. My eyes catch an imperfection in the discoloured square where the painting was hung. I lower the painting, prop it up against the wall then scrape my finger over the mark, plaster falls away. This can’t be, this place is immaculate and an inferior wall would never pass building inspection … no it wouldn’t, because it wasn’t this way when the building was constructed, was it? Someone did this recently.