“This way then,” I declared, turning toward the portrait of Mr. J Sulloman, “I guess.”
With my little brother clinging to my clothes, we marched down the corridor, stepping over larger piles of rubble.
“Damn,” I gasped, reaching the end to discover the turn blocked by boulder sized chunks of concrete and twisted steel.
“Look!” Michael exclaimed, pointing to the portrait against the wall.
“Yeah, I saw it,” I dismissed.
“No, look,” he responded, pulling away from me and approaching the painting.
Reaching up, Michael grasped the thick wooden frame and pulled. Mr. J Sulloman’s face hit the floor with a bang, sending a cloud of plaster dust into the air.
My little brother smiled as the dust settled on every surface, including his face. “See?” he asked, his finger pointed to where the portrait had been concealing a large rupture.
“How did you know that was there?” I asked, flabbergasted.
“I dunno,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “There had to be a way out of here. There’s always a way out of here.”
“Right,” I responded, heavy on the sarcasm, peering into the hole, surveying another clinical corridor on the other side
“After you then,” I declared, straightening up and waving my hand for him to proceed. “Stay close.”
Around the room occupied by a dusty operating table in the middle, green screens on wheels were pushed into one corner while three polished silver trolleys stood in another. A metal sink, devoid of even water marks, took up a large proportion of the rear wall, and a series of lamps, like giant silver flowers, were suspended from the ceiling. Faux robots sat idle on their pedestals alongside the table and apart from the dust, everything was spotless, like it had never been used.
Another wall featured a series of small rectangular windows, and beyond those, down a short corridor, was a set of double doors with round glass portals. A small door, complete with warning sign promising imminent death if disobeyed, revealed, as I had expected, more levers. I was shocked and unsurprised in equal measure the operators would attempt surgery using tools attached to robots operated by this system of strings and cables.
“Look at these,” Michael declared, his head poking through the double doors.
In the next room, tables encased in glass tubes were lined up against the wall. Metal straps lay against the metal table, with two at the bottom and two at the side, spaced to hold a man or woman by their ankles and wrists. A large metal choker, made of what looked like a thick strip of aluminum, rested at the neck of the tube while a leather collar wrapped the top of the glass with an opening wide enough to seal around a man’s neck. Leads of various colors connected the restraints to a junction box at the foot of the table.
Wooden boxes, positioned on stands, sat alongside each of these tubed tables, while Michael flicked open a latch and lifted the lid on the nearest one. Inside, gold colored labels printed onto a black board gave instruction on the use of the various black dials and knobs. A roll of paper was positioned beneath a glass screen, and an arm rested a piece of graphite against the end of a scrawled line.
“What do they do?” my little brother asked.
“I dunno. Looked like they measured heart rates or something like that, but they were connected to limbs rather than across the chest which--”
“What does this do?” he asked, prodding at an arm suspended from the ceiling.
“I dunno,” I replied with a growl, unappreciative of being interrupted. “Why don’t you try hitting it harder?” I sneered.
He smacked the arm with both hands. The metal creaked as it swayed and bobbed about its fixings. A shower of plaster dust fell from the ceiling.
“OK, don’t do that,” I insisted, placing my hand on his chest and pushing him away from it.
I watched the dust cascade from the ceiling, coming to rest on the head of the table and two long metal prongs nearby. One end had a rubber tip, shaped to offer a full hand’s grip, the other came to a point. Blood, which had dried a long time ago, was splattered from the point to the grip. It turned my stomach, and I swallowed my disgust, scanning the room for a way out.
“Let’s try this way,” I declared, pushing Michael toward the next set of double doors. My tone must have changed. He didn’t resist.
Back in the corridor, I could make out the overturned thick wooden frame of Mr. J Sulloman’s portrait through a slither of a gap in the piled concrete and rubble which had blocked our way. We were in the same corridor but on the other side of the blockage.
Four more doors lined the corridor, with one being at the far end; the rest running along the same wall. These were different though. Made of a heavy metal, perhaps iron or steel, these doors looked tough. With little other choice, beyond going back where we came from, I made my way along the corridor.
“What’s in here?” Michael asked, pointing to one of the strong doors.
“How should I know?” I rolled my eyes as I responded.
“Let’s take a look,” he suggested.
“If you want,” I muttered. “There doesn’t seem to be any other way out of here."
My little brother’s A.M.I. socks brushed against the floor as he pushed his shoulder against the door.
“Oh for the love of--” I sighed, “let me help.”
The door was heavier than I expected, but together, with my back to the metal, we pushed it open. Ajar, I could see why it was such a struggle. The door was at least four inches deep with plates welded together to reinforce it.
Michael tried the handle of the first of six more doors inside, as I approached a small hatch at eye-level. A table, much like the ones in the tubes, occupied most of the room inside this small space, no more than six foot by six foot at best guess. Machines, rigged together by a lattice of leads, occupied the other wall while a single chair sat between. I tried the handle on the door, but it was locked.
I approached the sixth cell, as my little brother stood on the tips of his toes to peer through the hatch of another. I grasped the peg, but the hatch would not budge.
“That’s odd,” I remarked, reaching for the handle, slipping the duffle bag off my shoulder and placing it on the floor.
The click of the latch releasing the door caught Michael’s attention.
“Hey, you unlocked it!” he exclaimed.
“No, I didn’t. It was already unlocked.”
“Go on then,” he prompted, “open it.”
The door was as heavy as the previous and as thick.
“Wait here,” I insisted, stopping Michael in his tracks.
“Why?”
“I need you to wait here, just, you know, in case something should happen.”
“Oh. OK,” he grumbled, with a defeated tone, as I stepped inside.
Inside the grey, featureless room, a single grey block sat in the middle. Around it, tall mirrors faced inward as two large boxes with small screens sat at eye-level suspended from the ceiling. Behind, the wall was obstructed by towering speakers.
I felt compelled to sit on the block. It bobbed with my weight like a boat in the bay as the springs inside creaked and I found myself glaring at my own reflection.
“Alex!” my little brother cried, snatching my attention.
The slither of light from the corridor was extinguished as the door slammed shut.
“Michael!” I cried, jumping to my feet. “Open the door.”
“I can’t, I can’t,” he called back, trying to turn the handle, as I reached the door.
I examined the metal surface, but there was no handle on this side. I looked for a weakness or some other way to open it, my eyes drawn to the hatch. I extended my finger to try and open it from the inside. A slither of glass blocked me.
“Calm down,” I instructed, hearing Michael becoming borderline hysterical on the other side.
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“It’s OK. I’ll be OK. You need to calm down.”
/> His sobbing and his attempts on the handle faded away.
“Welcome,” Mr. J Sulloman’s voice boomed from the speakers, his familiar pose on the desk filling the screens. “I have been expecting you.”
“Wait, what?” I gasped.
“You have potential,” he continued. “You have displayed great accomplishment in your physical and mental testing.”
“I have? What tests?”
“You have demonstrated willingness above all others to integrate man and machine.”
“What?” I replied, drawing closer to the screens.
“You have what is needed to become the next Quincunx space man for our great nation.”
“Excuse me?” I responded, my face becoming more and more contorted with confusion.
“Space man?” Mr. J Sulloman asked, turning away from the camera. “Is that the right term? Is that what we want to use here?”
“Yes, Mr. Sulloman,” a woman replied.
“You sure?”
“Yes, Mr. Sulloman.”
“Doesn’t seem right to me,” he mumbled, staring at the floor, “should have astro in there, or something like that.” He cleared his throat and looked up to the camera.
“You have what is needed to become the next Quincunx space man for our great nation,” he recited, pausing. “Will that do?” he asked, turning away.
“Yes, Mr. Sulloman.”
“Good. I hate this crap,” he remarked, dismounting the desk. “Everyone else get out of my office.”
As he stood, I saw him loosen his tie, though his head was out of shot. A woman approached, least I assume it was a woman from the tight pencil skirt and high heels, and handed him a glass. A minor tremor in the camera accompanied the sound of a door closing as the footsteps of the others in the room petered out.
“If we don’t get government funding back soon, this will all have been a waste of everyone’s time,” he grumbled, lifting the glass out of the shot, “especially mine.”
“Yes, Mr. Sulloman.”
“Fools. The lot of them,” he grumbled. “Coming around here, questioning me, poking my machines. I’ll tell you who the criminals are,” he paused to take another mouth full of liquor, “I said, I’ll tell you who the real criminals are here, you listening?”
“Yes, Mr. Sulloman.”
“It’s them, the fools. It’s criminal what they’re doing to my dream.”
“Yes, Mr. Sulloman.”
“Come here,” he barked, walking out of shot, “I want you to write something down for me.”
“Yes, Mr. Sulloman,” the woman replied, as his footsteps faded.
White noise filled the speakers, and the screens flickered to a solid black. I was consumed by the dim light of the room.
“Alex?” Michael asked from the corner of the room.
“What the--?” I gasped, jumping a good few paces back, clutching my hand to my chest. “How did you get in here?”
“I found a way around,” he declared with a gleaming smile.
“Oh, well done,” I replied with genuine enthusiasm.
“I had to crawl through some pretty tiny spaces,” he explained, as my joy faded. “Was difficult to pull Henri through, and the doors were heavy. One of the walls fell in behind me, but I got out OK.”
“Michael.”
“Yes. Alex?”
“The wall fell in behind you?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re telling me, we’re both stuck in here?” I asked, my elation short lived.
“Er?” he replied, scanning the room. “Maybe.”
My shoulders dropped as I sighed.
“You could try the stairs, I guess,” my little brother remarked, his finger pressed to his lip as though he was deep in thought.
“The stairs?” I enquired.
“Yeah. Other side of these boxes. Through a hole.”
“There’s stairs on the other side of this wall? I just have to climb through a hole to get to them.”
“Yeah,” he replied, with a non-convincing vagueness to his tone.
“It is a pretty small hole, and you are kind of fat.”
“Thank you, Michael.”
“You weren’t always fat though,” he remarked, turning to face the wall. “You eat too much.”
“That’s enough now thank you, Michael.”
“And you don’t do enough exercise.”
“Yes, thank you,” I responded, following him out behind the speakers.
Reaching out to steady myself against the side of a speaker, I felt a sharp pain speed up my arm. Like a swarm of bees stinging at the flesh beneath my skin, the pain intensified. Unable to move, I was paralyzed by my own muscles twitching out of control and out of sync, as the light in the room dimmed further, pulsing at a rhythm more akin to my own heartbeat.
I could not breathe. I closed my eyes.
My heartbeat intensified to a deafening din as the light pulsated beyond my eyelids. I could hear every breath I took as I opened my eyes.
Sitting on the grey block, in the center of the room, a figure sat facing away from me, looking at the wall. I couldn’t speak. The light pulsed again, and this time I found myself closer to the shadow. The light pulsed once more, and the figure, bearing a resemblance to my own frame, turned to face me.
The bulb above us burned, flooding the room with light. I could see the words scrawled on the wall, and I glared into my own eyes, drawing closer to my own image. ‘IT WASN’T AN ACCIDENT’, spreads across the walls as the bulb burst, showering the room with glowing embers of the filament. Darkness stole control of the room. Sound was replaced by a ringing in my ear, and I collapsed to the floor.
Chapter 17
Duct! Where?
“Alex? Alex? Alex!” my little brother shouted, shaking my shoulders, his face so close to mine his eyes were blurred circles.
“What happened?” I asked, trying to sit up.
“I don’t know. I turned around because you screamed, and then you fell down.”
“Screamed?”
“Yeah.”
I could see the sincerity in his eyes, he wasn’t trying to wind me up, he was serious. I had screamed, though I’d no memory of it or how I ended up lying on my back on the floor. Pushing Michael aside, I raised my hand to rub my eyes, but instead I look to the wound. Blackened circles were spotted between my thumb and little finger, speckled with what almost looked like specs of exhausted charcoal dust. I looked to the speaker I had steadied myself against and the exposed copper wire running from top to bottom.
Reaching out his hand behind to steady himself, Michael stood.
“Don’t touch that,” I shouted, pointing to the wire.
Turning, he extended his index finger.
“Don’t you dare!” I demanded.
My little brother hesitated, and I glared at him, raising my hand, pointing to the wound.
“Oh cool!” he gasped, drawn to the gore of it.
“Don’t touch it,” I snapped, retracting my hand from his bony finger.
“That’s so cool,” he responded.
“No, it’s really not.”
“You have all the fun,” he protested, pulling back.
Fun? He had a strange idea of fun sometimes. I could have died; probably, maybe. I didn’t know. All I did know was we needed to get to this Gate 13 before something more serious happened.
“This way,” Michael declared, waving his hand forward.
“Way where?”
“To the stairs. Don’t you remember?”
“Stairs?” I asked, bewildered.
“Come on stupid,” he jested, “follow me; and don’t forget Henri.”
I looked at the duffle bag on the floor as my little brother squeezed out through a small hole in the wall.
“I can’t fit through there,” I declared.
Michael didn’t return.
“For crying out loud,” I muttered, collecting up the duffle bag and approaching the hole; taking more care not to t
ouch any further wires.
With a great deal of effort, and some cursing, I squeezed my shoulders through the gap and flopped onto the floor on the other side.
“Over here,” Michael beckoned, reappearing further along the short, dim corridor.
Pulling through the duffle bag and, after a few wobbles, I followed the sound of his persistent hollering.
“There!” he exclaimed, his chest puffed out with pride, as behind him, the twisted remains of a metal staircase drooped from the floor above.
“This is the stairs?” I gasped.
“Yeah.”
“And you expected, what?” I asked, “For us to somehow climb them?”
“Yeah.”
“We are so dead,” I sighed.
“Why? They’re the way out.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because there’s always a way out,” he replied, brimmed with pride at his find.
Lacking an alternative, I approached the stairs, or at least, what remained of them. The piles of rubble on the floor and the hole in the wall of a room above did little to fill me with confidence, as I tested my weight on the first step.
“There’s no way we can climb these,” I declared. “I don’t even know how they’re still holding on; they could collapse at any minute. It’s not safe, we should--”
Michael jumped up onto the second step, darting up the third and fourth.
“Get back here!” I shrieked.
“No,” he replied. “It’s fine. You worry too much,” he called back, jumping up to the sixth, as the bottom step collided with the floor, knocking me off balance.
“Get off there!” I yelled.
Turning, Michael made a sharp retreat as the top of the stairs released from the wall. The metal structure twisted and turned, crashing to the floor, sending a plume of dust into the air.
“Ah,” my little brother remarked, as the metal fell silent again, “you were probably right.”
I glared at him, wiping the dust from my mouth.
“You sure we can’t go back the way you came?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re sure there’s no other way out of here?”
“Yeah.”
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