The last door off the corridor led us into a room resembling a drained swimming pool divided in half. Scorch marks on the far wall of one of the pools did little to ease my concerns, instead they brought back the unpleasant sting in my palm. The walls of the pool were stained with a dirty brown residue, while the other held remnants of the gel we fell into discovering this awful place. I could about make out the hole in the far wall, suggesting it leaked from this spot.
A single trolley stood in the corner of the room with a small screen and another briefcase. Michael prodded at the controls. “Doesn’t work,” he muttered, stepping back.
“Probably because of this,” I remarked, holding up the remains of the charred power lead which looked like it once led into the watery gel.
“How boring,” Michael muttered, making his way toward the door.
“Yes, boring. That’s exactly how I’d describe what I think happened here. That’s perfect,” I remarked under my breath.
Back in the corridor, our path made a sharp turn leading to another appearing to run the length of the ‘therapy’, rooms. On the opposite side, another four doors offered more unwelcomed familiarity.
‘Subject D’, the sign on the first door read. Inside there was a bed, desk, and plastic chair. The walls were decorated with wallpaper more suiting a children’s bedroom, though I’d liken it to a hospital ward. My stomach churned.
‘Subject C’, was the same as the other, but the wallpaper was pink. ‘Subject B’, shared the same decor as the others, though they were granted a single teddy bear which sat on the pillow, waiting for the return of its keeper. I glared into its beady eyes as I became dizzy and faint.
I hesitated to approach the fourth, wanting to move forward, though my legs would not let me. Dropping from my shoulder, the duffle bag crashed to the floor as my knees became weak.
“Come on,” a voice charged down the corridor like the echoes of a memory.
“Get a move on,” another remarked, “you’ll get plenty more treatment tomorrow.”
“Stop resisting,” the first voice demanded, the weight lifting from my feet, as hands grasped my arms. “It’s for your own good.”
The door of the fourth room raced toward me.
“Get in there,” the second voice remarked.
I glared at the letters painted on the door as it opened, feeling myself thrown into the room, though I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the words, even as the door closed. There was a sickening familiarity with them that silenced all other thought. I couldn’t remember why, but I knew those letters meant something engrained within me. There was something more to it than just the words ‘Subject A’.
Chapter 20
A lesson in familiarity
I moved to swipe my fringe from my face, sliding my hand across the lump on my forehead. I must have hit the floor when I fell. Did I fall? How did I get in the room? Why am I on the floor?
I looked up to my unmade bed and my desk littered with my incomplete homework sheets, my walls covered with crayon drawings of Michael and me. This was how I remembered my first bedroom to be, but I knew it was not my bedroom. It was a room within Autonoma, well, a room in the facilities below Autonoma; or is this Autonoma? I was getting confused. Regardless, why had someone replicated my first bedroom here? Why my bedroom? Why me? What the hell was going on?
“Alex?” a voice called from the hallway.
“Michael?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Where are you?”
“In here,” I shouted back.
“Where?”
“In my,” I paused. It wasn’t my room. I didn’t live there, and I never had. “In this room.”
“What are you doing in here?” my little brother asked, unlatching the door and poking his head through the gap.
“I--”
“You left me behind and now you’re in here,” he retorted, with irritation in his tone. “Why are you on the floor?”
I sat up. “I--”
“Doesn’t matter,” my little brother chirped with restored merriment. “There’s some more stairs just around the corner. I bet that lady is up there.”
He scanned the room, pausing, his eyes fixed on something behind me. I twisted to see a torn drawing of the power plant pinned to the wall.
“Stairs?” I asked, snatching Michael’s attention.
“Yeah,” he replied, his focus returning to me. “I found more of these too,” my little brother remarked, presenting a bundle of the doctor’s notes.
…there’s talk of bringing in more children. Sulloman claims it is to help them come to terms with their traumatic experience. I say it is because their minds are less questioning and more receptive of the therapy. Then again, that would suggest he understood the complexities we face. I’d put my money on the money. Probably being paid by Quincunx to take these troubled minds away. New guy informed me of the arrival of a baby boy. Don’t know what he expects from me for it though? A book token or something? Which reminds me, haven’t been paid again. Need to raise that, and a few other things, with Sulloman…
She must have documented everything and written down every thought in her head. I decided I wasn’t going to weigh myself down carrying all these, and who knows how many more. If the doctor wanted them, she could come get them.
I stacked the pages into a neat pile and left them on my desk. No, I meant, the desk.
“I need to get out of here,” I muttered. “Come on.”
Grabbing Michael’s hand, I led him out into the corridor, closing the door, though my hand lingered on the handle for a moment.
“What are you doing?” my little brother asked.
“Nothing. Come on.”
I pushed Henri back into the duffle bag, along with the few other things which must have fallen out when it hit the floor and slung it over my shoulder. “After you,” I declared, encouraging Michael to take the lead.
I glanced back to the name on the door as he moved off. There were so many questions swelling inside my head, it was getting harder to think straight.
“Are you coming?” my little brother shouted from further along the corridor.
“Yeah. Yeah,” I responded, with a distracted tone.
“Come on then,” he insisted.
Breaking my stare, I saw him waving from the bottom step, like a tiny shoe-less gym teacher, complete with matching sweatshirt and pants, beckoning his most unhealthy kid toward the gym. ‘DECK D’, the sign behind him read along with an arrow pointing up the stairwell.
Two flights of stairs later, and we were in another long, boring corridor; three doors along one wall and a set of double doors at the far end.
“Look!” Michael exclaimed, pointing to a piece of paper sticking out from under the first door. “Stuck,” he muttered, tugging at it.
“Leave it, it doesn’t matter--"
“Here you go,” my little brother declared, tearing the paper and handing it to me.
Another page from the Dr.’s diary, though I could make out one sentence.
…doubt it helps his agenda, but at least the subjects won’t be too fat or too stupid to operate the machines…
“What’s in this one?” Michael asked, almost fit to explode with excitement, letting himself into one of the rooms, the door slamming shut in my face, leaving me alone in the hallway.
The sound of a school bell echoed down the corridor. I scanned the walls, but I couldn’t see the source anywhere. The ringing faded, evoking memories of not just the alarms in the power plant, but something more recent, something I couldn’t put my finger on.
I placed my hand on the door handle. I’d done this before. Not place my hand on a door handle, I did that all the time; no, I’d been here before. This exact spot, this door, this handle, this was beyond familiar.
Inside, twenty desks faced a large teacher’s table, and behind it, a black board. Most of the writing on it had been smeared with a dusty eraser, but I could make out a word, ‘confession’.
&nb
sp; At the back of the room, Michael pulled up a chair, prodding the circular keys on the keyboard beside one of the grey boxes. As my little brother willed the machine into life with eager strikes, I took my place at the one next to him.
A roll of paper positioned inside the machine had been marked with typed equations followed by the answer. With little interest in fractions, multiplications, and addition, I stood to walk away.
‘2 + 2 = _____’ typed across the paper.
“How did you get it to work?” Michael asked, flabbergasted.
“I didn’t, I--”
“Four,” he responded, leaning across to press the key.
“Yeah, I know,” I replied, batting his hand away, retaking my seat.
The machine did not acknowledge my response, instead presenting another sum.
‘3 + 10 = _____’.
I pressed the ‘1’key, but it was jammed, and I’d already typed the ‘3’.
‘INCORRECT. TRY AGAIN.’ the machine prompted.
“Thirteen,” Michael chirped.
“Yes, I know. Thank you.”
Forcing the ‘1’, key down, I made sure it registered and hit the ‘3’.
The machine paused. With my interest waning, I pushed back the seat and stood.
‘GATE 13’, typed across the paper.
I slammed my butt back into the chair and scooted it closer. I glared at the paper drum in the machine. Did it write what I think it did?
‘I DO NOT HAVE MUCH TIME’, the machine typed.
‘WHO ARE YOU?’ I replied.
‘THEY KNOW I AM IN THE SYSTEM AGAIN. YOU HAVE TO KEEP GOING.’
‘WHERE?’ I asked.
‘THE TRUTH. GATE 13. FIND THEM. FIND THE TRUTH. GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE. HURRY BEFORE THEY CRACK MY CODE AND PUT US BACK INTO’. The machine stopped.
“Back into what?” I demanded, waiting for the printer arm to budge.
“Who are you talking to?” Michael asked.
“What?” I replied, turning to look at his puzzled face. “The machine,” I explained, gesturing to the paper drum with my hand.
“Machines can’t talk,” he snorted with skepticism. “Well, except the hoverbots, and the robots, and the…”
I turned back to the paper drum, hoping for more, though the printer arm remained unmoved, poised after the last letter. My shoulders slumped as excitement and hope faded.
“This is boring,” my little brother declared, climbing down from the seat. “I wonder what’s in the next room.”
Accepting the machine had fallen silent for good, I stood, leaning over the paper drum to make sure.
Following Michael toward the door, my hand brushed against a desk. I glanced at the wood, its surface stained and inscribed with the same word repeated over and over again, ‘accident’. Feeling compelled to sit down, I glared at the words. I knew a pair of compasses were used to dig out the letters, because I could remember doing it. A blue pair, with a silver hinge.
I lifted the lid, and sure enough, there they were, a blue pair of compasses, complete with silver hinge. I picked them up, disturbing something underneath. Setting the compasses aside, I collected up the paper beneath; a photograph. A man with two children and a dog, I think, it was blurry, taken with the sun behind them, rendering their features indistinguishable.
“Alex!” a man shouted from the front of the classroom.
I dropped the photograph and let the lid slam shut.
Michael glared back at me from the other side of the desk, inches from my face. “Alex?”
“What?” I replied, scanning the room for the source of the other voice.
“Well, are you coming or what?”
“What?” I responded, confused. “Where did he go?” I asked.
“Where did who go?”
“The man.”
“What man?”
“The man that shouted my name.”
My little brother stared back; confusion plastered across his face. “You’re nuts.”
“I know that voice. I recognize it. I’m not nuts. I swear a man, someone I know, shouted my name,” I protested.
“Er?” he replied, backing toward the door. “There’s only me here. Well, me and you. Yeah, me and you, the crazy you. No-one else.”
I furrowed my brow, trying to make sense of it all.
“I’m, er?” Michael hesitated, unable to take his eyes off me as he reached for the door handle behind. “I’m going to go and see what’s in the next room. You coming, Nutter?”
“Yeah,” I replied, distracted and confused.
“I’ll be, erm? Next door then.”
“Yeah, OK,” I responded, looking around the room.
The door closed, and I was alone.
“Hey, wait up,” I called out, jumping from my seat. “Don’t leave me behind.”
Slipping on a piece of paper, I steadied myself and collected it from the floor.
August 4th - Thursday
Lost another subject today.
I turned the paper over, but the other side was blank. Subject, did she mean a person? What did she mean by lost? Discarding the paper, I looked over the room one last time. I thought I’d be happy to be in familiar surroundings, but I did not like this.
The next room brought me no relief. It was a gymnasium; one I knew all too well. From the running track painted onto the varnished floor, to the peg board for climbing. I could remember the circuits we used to do. “That’s right,” I muttered under my breath, as Michael tested his poise on the balance beam, “different circuits for different days. Monday was all about upper body strength, Tuesday it was core. Wednesday was legs and Thursday was, Thursday was,” I couldn’t finish the sentence; not because I couldn’t remember, but because I was starting to remember more than I wanted to. “Thursday was therapy.”
My eyes scanned to the wall of empty coat hooks. “That’s where we got changed into our shorts. Different colors depending on how far along you were in your therapy. White for those at the beginning and navy blue for those who’ve been here for years. Why have they replicated everything?” I muttered.
“What?” Michael shouted from across the room.
“Nothing,” I dismissed, finding another page of the Dr.’s diary. “Just talking to myself.” It felt as if someone wanted me to find these pages, wanted me to know something I didn’t understand. Was someone waiting for us? Were we walking into a trap?
When will the screaming stop? I need sleep too…
I discarded it from my grasp.
“Look at me,” Michael exclaimed, scaling the wooden vaulting horse, looking to see if I was watching. “What’s it for?” he asked.
“Jumping over,” I replied.
“Oh,” he responded, swiping more pages of the Dr.’s diary off it and onto the floor.
Did I want to read them? Did I want to know?
…moving our rooms from Deck D up to Deck E… give the subjects that remain a place of their own. There’s not many of them now… Budget cuts… despite S giving J all new equipment while I work with outdated stolen designs. Time for my own projects to begin, I think.
“I know where she is,” I declared, tossing the papers back where they were.
“Who?” Michael replied.
“Dr. Hartwick.”
“Who?”
“The woman on the phone. The one we’ve been trying to get to so she can help us get out of here?” I responded. “And the one who’s got some serious questions to answer,” I uttered.
“Oh yeah,” he replied, climbing down.
“She’s up there,” I explained, pointing to the ceiling, as Michael looked up, confused.
“There’ll be some more stairs somewhere.”
“What? Up to the ceiling.”
“No,” I sighed. “Her room was moved to the floor above. She’s probably trapped in there.”
“Oh, I see!”
“That’s what she said on the phone, wasn’t it? That she’s trapped in her room?”
Michael shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t remember.”
“Let’s get out of here anyway. I’m not comfortable in here.”
“No,” he replied, “you never were keen on exercise.”
“Yes, thank you Michael, that’s not what I meant.”
“Or going outside.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Or doing anything really.”
“Yes, you can shut up now. Thank you.”
As my little brother reeled off a list of things he was sure I didn’t like, another page fluttered in the breeze ebbing in under the door. We must have stood on it, they sure looked like my footprints on it.
Curiosity got the better of me.
I heard the explosion from here. I fear for J. He lost everything. S said he will move J here to help me. Perhaps I could use my therapies to help speed his recovery, though I fear our Subject may never be able to leave this virtual world again…
Chapter 21
All Good Things
“What is it?” Michael asked, letting the door close behind him as we moved on.
“I have no idea,” I replied, looking at the orange glow radiating through the cracks in the ceiling, “though it’s probably not safe, I mean what with--”
Swinging the duffle bag out of his way, my little brother pushed past me. “Cool,” he gawped, peering through the hole in the wall to the next room.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know; but it looks cool.”
My little brother slid through the gap with ease as I swung the duffle bag off my shoulder and pushed through, squeezing myself between the jagged edges of the ruptured plaster and wooden frame.
The decay and rot had taken over everything here. Paint had flaked and peeled from the walls. The wooden chairs dotted about the floor were rotten and the fabric of the plusher ones had cracked and broken. The floor was littered with debris, including what look like the dried husks of a vine plant, as torn paper filled in the smaller gaps. I felt like a rat in a long-forgotten maze.
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