Above me, I could see two further devastated floors, and beyond those, the flames of the power plant lapping at the ruptured concrete and steel. It looked as if the fire had consumed everything. I wondered if it had spread to the park.
“Come, look at this!” Michael exclaimed, poking out from behind the wall of rubble ahead.
“What is it?”
“I dunno, but it looks ace!”
Rolling my eyes, I collected the duffle bag, and followed my little brother’s excited giggles, coming to a stop where my path was blocked by a wall of fallen cables.
“Come on,” Michael called out, further along.
“But there’s stuff in the way.”
“Climb over it.”
“But--”
“It’s fine, I did it,” my little brother declared, his excited giggles fading as though he was running on ahead without me.
“Wait up,” I called out, ascending the pile. “Wait for me,” I insisted, as the cables rolled and shifted. “Are you sure about this climb?” I called out.
Michael did not reply.
A curse slipped my lips as I scrabbled up, the cables twisting and turning, falling from place. With persistence, and a whole lot more cursing, I neared the foot or two between the top of the pile and a fallen I-beam. Knowing I was going to have to squeeze through, I swung the duffle bag from my shoulder. The cable beneath my feet rolled, throwing me off balance. Flinging the bag through the gap, I slid most of the way back down the pile.
Determined, I struggled back up and crammed myself into the precarious opening, thrusting my upper body through. Reaching down the other side to an albeit rusted, but otherwise stable, metal rod protruding from the pile, I grasped it with both hands and pulled myself through.
I rolled out onto the debris of the floor, panting to catch my breath, shaking out the sting of my wounded palm.
“Are you coming or what?” Michael asked, hovering a few steps away.
“Oh good, you came back to make sure I’m alright,” I replied with heavy sarcasm.
My little brother glared at me and started waving me forward like that little angry, shoe-less gym teacher from earlier.
“Come on,” he griped, breaking into a sprint, disappearing into the maze of rubble walls and holes to the floor below.
Struggling to my tired feet, I collected the duffle bag and followed him.
A ruptured wall gave passage into a slither of a corridor, where again I was forced to pass through another wall, as Michael jumped up and down like an excited toddler at the far end of this stretch of the maze.
“Look,” he declared, pointing to something dangling from the ceiling like a four-legged spider hanging from the remnants of a web, with a fifth leg descended from the ceiling to a strange looking contraption.
“What is it?” my little brother asked.
“I don’t know,” I sighed, “you’re the one who wanted me to come look at it. I thought you knew what it was.”
“No, but it looks cool,” he replied, “doesn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“What does it do?” my little brother asked.
“Looks like a headset,” I responded.
In truth, it looked like a headband with a strap on top. An upturned u-shaped bracket was attached to the front of it which held two lenses at the end of a long tube.
“Put it on,” Michael suggested.
“No,” I insisted, with a shake of my head, glancing to the precarious and heavy looking frame above it. “No chance.”
“Fine, I’ll do it,” he declared, stepping closer.
“No!” I barked, pulling him back. “It’s not safe.”
“But--”
“I said, no. Can’t you see how dangerous this place is? Can’t you see all the destruction and fragility of everything here?”
“No,” he mumbled, folding his arms across his chest. “You just don’t want me to have any fun.”
An exasperated sigh escaped me.
“Really? That’s what you think?”
“Everything you see is dangerous or scary,” he sneered.
“And everything you see is fun and games,” I retorted, narrowing my lips.
“At least one of us knows what fun is,” he muttered.
“What did you say?” I demanded.
“Nothing,” he hissed, swinging his arms out to his side and bringing his knee up to march off like a petulant child, stomping off muttering to himself. “Think you know everything, don’t even know where we are or where we’re going…”
Waiting for him to march out of view, I stepped closer to the device suspended from the ceiling. Glancing up at the heavy frame dangling above me to confirm it hadn’t moved, I inspected the headset. I braced to step aside and prodded one of the protruding tubes. The frame held steady as the suspended device swiveled. Turning the headset around, I glanced into the lenses.
The glass was clear, but for some reason I was sure I expected a 3D wire framed cube or something to be there. I don’t know why.
Stepping from the machine, hoping to dismiss the nagging feeling of familiarity, I spotted another page from the Dr.’s diary on a collapsed desk nearby.
September 8th - Thursday PM
Stealing technology wasn’t enough for them. Stealing minds wasn’t enough for him. He had to take everything. J has stolen my life’s work. Everything. 18 years of my loyal service, gone. I can barely bring myself to breathe though I cannot cry, no matter how much I will it. It is all gone. He took it all. Presented it to S as his own and S lapped it up. My research, my notes, everything, I fear he took my soul with it, for now I feel empty. I have lost everything. Everything but you. You’re all I have left in this pestilent and pathetic world…
Placing the paper down on the desk, my hand lingered. Should I return these pages to her after all? I hesitated, staring at my fingers resting on her words. Picking it up, I folded it and opened the duffle bag. Realizing Henri, the dead weight, had crushed and crumpled the other pages I had deposited in here, I decided to slip the latest entry into the pocket of my pants instead.
A few tight turns through the maze of rubble and I found Michael standing with his toes perched on the edge of a hole stretching across the path. He looked to me and looked back into the hole.
“We were down there, weren’t we?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“The lady’s office?” he replied, pointing to the Dictaphone on her desk.
“Yeah.”
“But, she’s up here?”
“I think so.”
“Oh, OK,” he responded, his merry attitude restored.
“I don’t know how we’re going to get across though,” I declared, approaching the edge of the hole, “I’ll go look if there’s another way--”
Michael stepped back.
“Don’t you dare!” I demanded, as he sprinted forward and landed on his toes on the far side of the hole.
“Easy,” he declared, turning to watch me do the same.
“I can’t do that,” I protested. “I’ll go through the floor!”
“No, you won’t,” he dismissed. “It’s fine.”
“I’m not as light or agile as you are,” I objected. “I can’t jump like that.”
Michael rolled his eyes, turned and walked off.
“Come back here!”
“No,” he replied with a wave of his hand to dismiss my assertions.
“Oh for goodness sake,” I mumbled, testing my weight on the fragile floor, rocking back and forth on my heels. “Will you please stop walking off,” I shouted, as Michael disappeared around the next corner.
Taking a step back, I reconsidered my options, took another step back for good luck and broke into a sprint. I sucked in as much air as my lungs could take and leapt from the edge. With arms and legs flailing like an oversized, unsynchronized, spectacle of a windmill, I cleared the hole. The useless weight in the duffle bag shifted, and I rotated.
Dust burst into the air
as I landed with a thud on my side, sliding a few inches or so across the dirty floor. Bringing my hands up to my chest, I became rigid, closed my eyes and winced, waiting for the floor to give way.
The dust settled, and I opened my eyes to see Michael standing over me.
“You fly like a brick,” he declared.
“Thanks.”
“I think that lady’s room is over here.”
“That’s nice,” I replied, discarding the duffle bag and rolling onto my back.
“I found more of these too,” he declared, offering me more pages of the doctor’s diary.
“That’s great,” I responded, preoccupied by the ache in my side, taking a moment to rest.
“What’s a cheap, a cheapskape?” he asked, reading aloud from the first page.
“Cheapskate?”
“Yeah.”
“Someone who doesn’t like to spend money.”
“What does it mean if you call someone a chicken head?”
“Means you don’t like them.”
“Why would you call someone a cat?”
“It means a man,” I replied, coughing.
“Why not just say that then?” he asked.
“I didn’t write it.”
“What does de, detain, detained mean?”
“Hold someone,” I replied.
“What? Like a hug?”
“Yeah,” I responded, unable to contain a snicker and a smile. “Why not?”
Michael snorted his disapproval, tossing the papers at me. “Doesn’t make any sense,” he sneered, wandering off.
“Now where are you going?” I asked, pushing the papers off and sitting up.
“I think her room is up here, come see.”
“Yeah, alright,” I replied, climbing to my feet. “Can’t be seen sitting down for even a moment, can we?” I muttered.
“This one,” he declared, trying the handle of a door no longer contained within the disintegrated doorframe.
“Let me try,” I responded, pressing my shoulder to the wood, bracing as my eyes wandered to the letters on the door.
“You idiot,” I remarked, turning to face him.
“What? Why?” he shrieked, as I pointed to the damaged nameplate. True, half of it remained, but it was the most relevant part in my opinion.
“Mr. Jo… something, it says Mr.”
“So?”
“Dr. Hartwick is not a Mr. Is she?”
“Oh yeah,” he gasped. “I’m not stupid though.”
“I know,” I replied, smiling.
“Well, what about this one?” my little brother asked, trying the handle of the next door along the hallway. “There’s nothing written on this one.”
“Try it.”
“This looks like a girl’s room,” he declared with authority, opening the door and stepping through.
Inside, apart from perhaps a single silk flower resting in an untouched glass vase, I didn’t find anything screaming ‘girl’s room’, to me. There were dusty bookcases, lots of dusty bookcases, files which had fallen over inside wooden cases, a desk with a Dictaphone, and more rubble. The thing I would say was out of place in here was the tall metal gate with thick white bars, though it looked like it might have been from the floor above.
Michael flicked the switch on the Dictaphone, and doctor Hartwick’s voice filled the room.
“My office!” she shrieked, as in the background explosions peppered her words. “Those idiots have trashed the place with their awful projects. The bumbling idiot and that man are destroying this place. What are they building up there? A munition factory? A liquor plant? Bah! Idiots.”
“I don’t think she liked those other guys very much,” Michael remarked.
“No, I don’t think she did,” I replied with a smile.
“And to think,” doctor Hartwick snarled, her tone bitter and angry, “Sulloman said a girl like me should be grateful to even find work like this. Dismissed everything I said about that man stealing my research. Who can work in conditions like this? Ridiculous. Outrageous. Unacceptable. And don’t get me started on that steep climb up from the docks he’s got me doing now. Awful.”
Leaning across the desk to pick up another page from the Dr.’s diary, Michael knocked the Dictaphone and it skipped forward.
“Oops,” he declared, flicking the switch back to the ‘play’, position.
“Today,” the Doctor declared, her angry tone replaced by one of resentment, “the subject called that man Father. Could it truly be? Would he really stoop that low?” Her voice skipped on, as Michael fiddled again with the controls. “The mind is nothing more than a maze of rubble and forgotten memories.”
“Got it,” my little brother declared, as the Dr.’s voice skipped forward further.
“…detained until Subject confesses. I fear for Subject’s future at the hands of these monsters. Sulloman invited me to leave if I didn’t like it. I’ve decided to stay, for Subject’s sake and, I suppose, to settle my own guilt. It’s the least I can do. We’re being moved upstairs. Sulloman wants to bury this place and so do I. Time to move on, time to set things straight once and for all. Time to do the right thing for the first time in my life. I will stop them, even if it’s the last thing I do.”
Chapter 22
Remember
“What did she mean?” he asked, looking to me, as the switch on the Dictaphone flicked to the stop position and the reels came to a halt. “When she said, if it’s the last thing I do, what did she mean?”
I hesitated, trying to think of the best way to explain it to an eight-year-old. “Erm. She meant, er? She’ll stop people getting hurt before she has to, erm, go home. Yeah, before she has to go home.”
“Is that where she is now then?” my little brother asked.
“I don’t think she’s here, so, maybe.”
“Maybe?” he responded, skepticism spreading across his face, finishing at a raised eyebrow.
“Yeah,” I dismissed. “Why not?”
Michael narrowed his lips, releasing a huff, as I rolled my eyes.
The flickering of lights in the remains of the room above drew my attention as the bloodied handprint, dragged for some six feet along the wall, stole all thought. Another section of the white gate was clinging to the wall by a rusty, twisted bracket.
“What you looking at?” Michael asked, pushing into me, staring upward.
“Nothing,” I dismissed, keen to draw his attention away from the room above. “Hey,” I declared with enthusiasm, “isn’t that another page from doctor Hartwick’s diary?”
My little brother’s attention snatched to my outstretched finger and he stepped off toward the desk.
“Well,” I asked, glancing for a moment to the bloodied handprint, “what does it say?”
“You better be on the next boat out of here. There’s no place in my insti, institoo, instatutoot,” he stuttered, trying to read the words.
“Institute?” I suggested.
“Yeah. There’s no place in my insti, institute for a meddling, twisted, stuck up, ungrateful bit--”
“OK, OK,” I declared, reaching forward and snatching the letter from his hands.
“Hey!” he protested. “I was reading that.”
“I know. I just,” I paused, knowing he’d want to read it if I told him it had bad words in it. “I just wanted to see who it was from.”
“Well, I could’ve told you that. Someone’s drawn a big ‘S’, on it, see,” he explained, leaning forward and pointing to the bottom of the letter.
I hummed my dissatisfaction, slipping the letter into the duffle bag to avoid further questions.
“Well,” I declared, “I don’t think the Doctor is in here. We should probably keep looking.”
“Yeah. I don’t think she’s in here,” my little brother sighed, scanning over the room. “OK. Let’s keep going.”
A narrow passage, obstructed on both sides by more rubble, offered another climb up to the floor above. Although I was hesita
nt, I knew we had no choice. I stretched my arm out for my little brother to take the lead, and together, we scrambled up.
Michael summited the top first and crawled out of view. A familiar smell filled the void left behind. A mixture of cheap disinfectant and burned copper wires wafted downward from the next floor. Carried with it, images of indistinguishable whispering faces in a heavy mist flashed before me like forgotten memories once suppressed, forced into living by the aroma of this place, though I did not recognize the faces or what they were trying to tell me. Was I losing my mind?
“You coming?” My little brother shouted back.
“Yeah,” I murmured, trying to focus on the task of getting out of here, shaking the whispers from my mind with a wobble of my head.
Climbing clear of the rubble, I sat on the floor, taking a moment to gather myself.
“Are you OK?” Michael asked, sitting on the floor beside me.
“Yeah, I’m,” I paused, knocking the rest of the voices from my head with a sharp slap from the palm of my hand, “I’m fine.”
I could sense my little brother wasn’t buying it as he stared into my face, tilting his head from side to side like a puppy unsure of its master’s commands.
“I’m fine,” I repeated, standing.
“You don’t look fine,” Michael mumbled.
“I’m just a little tired,” I explained, collecting the duffle bag from the floor.
“It’s because you’re normally asleep most of the day, and you’re not used to being awake all the time, and--”
The weight of the duffle bag shifted, and I shrieked, releasing it from my grasp. The bag hit the concrete floor with a thud.
“Physical abuse of the custody robots will result in further detainment in the A.N.C.E,” a voice inside the bag remarked.
“Henri!” Michael exclaimed, as bending down, I loosened the string.
“Let him out, let him out,” my little brother chanted, dancing around us.
“I am, I am,” I repeated, struggling with the knot.
“This is most unusual,” Henri remarked.
“Really? You think this is the most unusual thing to happen today? To wake up inside a bag?” I retorted.
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