AntiBio: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (21 page)

42

Being awake and aware in a stasis cylinder is not a fun experience. Especially if claustrophobia lurks at the edges of one’s psyche.

Jersey takes several deep breaths as she hears the clanging and thumping of machinery around her. Without the
real stasis system operating, she feels every movement and jostle, her world turned upside down, rotated, stomach lurching as the cylinder falls quickly then is held in place with sudden force.

She waits and waits, counting out the seconds into minutes then into the quarter hour, the half hour, three-quarters of an hour-

“Oh, thank God,” she exclaims as the seal on the cylinder is released and the top removed. “Worm we have to-”

She stops as she sits up and looks about her.

Thousands and thousands of stasis cylinders line the massive room, stacked ten to a row, ten rows to a group, over and over from end to end.

“Oh, shit,” she whispers.

Jersey finds herself on the top most cylinder on the far left stack of one of the center groups. She calculates and realizes she probably has half a mile of cylinder groups to work her way through before she can get to the wall of the room. She prays there’s a door.

Hooking her legs over the
side, she turns about and tries to find purchase for her feet on the stack, but her shoes keep slipping and she panics, fearing she’ll fall the twenty feet or so down to the solid white floor.

Everything is white, but there is only a small light at each corner of the room, keeping the place from being blinding. She hates to think what would happen if they really lit it up.

Her left foot slips and she almost falls, her grip on the edge of the cylinder all that keeps her from tumbling. She tries again to get a foothold, but the stack won’t cooperate, the cylinders are too smooth.

“Shit,” she says again t
hen shuts up as a small orb flies directly in front of her, its bottom illuminated by hover patches. She watches it closely as it bobs in the air only inches from her nose.

The standoff lasts for a good minute before the orb speeds off down the groups then rockets up into the ceiling. She begins to sigh in relief, but where the orb
went, a large tentacle of metal shoots out, racing towards her.

Desperate to escape, Jersey does the only thing she can think of- she lets go.

As she falls, her arms pin wheeling, legs flailing, she rethinks her life strategy of just barreling into situations. Her relationship with Blaze, her association and position within the resistance, her trust of an AiSP that could easily have her found out and executed on the spot if he chose too. When all those thoughts rush through her head, she is amazed she’s stayed alive as long as she has.

Her body comes to a bone jarring halt and she feels a painful twinge in her neck
as her head snaps back. Then she is slowly lowered to the floor and gently set feet down. She spins around and the metal arm that caught her retracts back into the ceiling several stories above her.

A slight hum behind her makes her look over her shoulder and the small orb is back.

“Worm?” she asks, but the machine doesn’t respond. It just moves a few feet away and waits.

Jersey follows.

Instead of taking a direct line to the wall, the orb leads her through a circuitous route between the groups of cylinders. A left, a right, two lefts, straight ahead, three rights- she loses track of the path and seriously thinks the orb is only trying to make her dizzy.

But as she takes a moment to glance above her she sees a dozen of the metal arms like the one that caught her, moving about the groups as one arm lifts her empty cylinder into the air. She smiles as she realizes the orb isn’t trying to trick her, it’s trying to trick the arms that are obviously looking for the missing person.

She catches up to the orb as it increases its speed, this time leading her directly to the nearest wall. Once there, she turns and puts her back to the wall, waiting for the next move as the orb just hovers close to her shoulder. The arms are systematically getting nearer and nearer. She wonders why they can’t dial in on her PSC and find her immediately, but has a feeling there may be protocols in place that block the PSC signals. A few thousand of those in a tight area could wreak havoc on any system, no matter how sophisticated and powerful.

Twenty groups away, then fifteen, twelve, eight, six, three.

Right above her.

She doesn’t move a muscle and keeps her breathing even and slow despite the sheer terror that pulses through her body. Panic threatens to overtake her, but she fights it. The orb hangs close, but doesn’t intervene.

A half-dozen arms wave around her, moving only inches from her arms and legs, from her chest. Then they leave, withdrawing back into the ceiling, leaving her alone with the orb.

She glances sideways at the orb, waiting for some signal.

The wall recedes behind her and she falls back onto her ass, quickly scurrying away from the room. Once her feet are clear the wall closes and she finds herself in an almost blindingly white hallway, the orb nowhere to be seen.

Jersey picks herself up and turns one way then the other, trying to decide which way to go. She has to find Blaze, and hopefully keep from being detected. Flipping a mental coin, she decides on a direction and starts walking. She wants to run, wants to give in to the terror and panic that taint her body, but uses every bit of willpower to stay calm.

Step by step she goes, focusing on the end of the hallway. But because of the lack of features, and total whiteness, she has a hard time telling if she is even making any progress. An eternity goes by before she gets to the far end. And nothing. The wall before her doesn’t open. It stays solid and white. She waits some more, counting again so she knows the reality of time in the surreal hallway.

Five minutes go by and she still is not set free. Turning on her
heel, she looks at the impossible distance between her and the other end of the hallway.

Step by step she goes.

43

Blaze’s armor and restraints are sliced from his body as a handful of small arms dance around his body, their static blades cutting here and there. In seconds, the material is pulled away and tossed into what Blaze assumes is an incinerator chute, leaving him standing there naked, exposed before Dr. DeBeers.

“On the table, please,” Dr. DeBeers orders as she walks to the wall and presses her hand against it. A sonic slides free. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

Blaze does as he is told and gets onto the metal table as Dr. DeBeers undresses herself, letting her own armor fall to the floor where it is quickly whisked away. She steps into the sonic and her skin pulses as the waves cleanse her. Blaze’s eyes go wide as he studies her body, seeing the mismatched patches of skin across her breasts, her belly, and the tops of her thighs.

She catches him looking and smiles.

“Many more questions just flooded that soldier brain, didn’t they?” Dr. DeBeers says.

She doesn’t
give an explanation as to her appearance as the sonic withdraws and a drawer slides from the wall, offering her a clean uniform. She dresses quickly and walks over to Blaze, rubbing her hands together.

“I need to explain something,” Dr. DeBeers says. “You are now my life’s work. I do not mean this metaphorically. From this moment on, it is you and I. No one else. Forget your girlfriend, forget your squad, forget your Canine Unit. Forget them all. Until the work is completed, this room will be our lives. We never leave, we only stay and complete the work.”

“You’re kidding,” Blaze says.

“As you have already witnessed, Sergeant Crouch, my sense of humor is not sophisticated enough for a joke of this size,” Dr. DeBeers responds. “I am not kidding.”
Her face clouds, changes. “He wouldn’t like that. Wouldn’t like me to…”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Blaze says
, wondering how many Dr. DeBeers there are in the woman’s head. “Keeping me here forever, sure, I get that. Kinda what I was expecting once you tossed me in your transport. But you? Why will you be here with me?”

“Variables, Simon,” Dr. DeBeers says. “You don’t mind if I call you Simon, do you? After
all, we are each others’ world.”

“Call me whatever,” Blaze says.

“Fine, Simon,” Dr. DeBeers nods. “I have already explained about variables. That is what we are dealing with now, the control of all variables. If I leave this room then that introduces a variable. As sterile and clean as Control is, it is still a construct set on this planet; it is still surrounded by, and populated with nature.” Her face clouds once more. “And there’s the rest of Management. They will want a piece of you. They can’t have it.”

“
People. They sure mess things up, don’t they?” Blaze mocks.

“Precisely,” Dr. DeBeers smiles. “But when there are parts of nature involved, such as
them
, then there is chaos. There are variables. I stay here until the research is done and the variables are known. We control the chaos.”

“Control,” Blaze says, shaking his head. “That is all this is about.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Dr. DeBeers says, glancing around the room. “But isn’t everything in life about that?”

“No,” Blaze says. “You should know that
. Chaos is what it’s all about. You can try to control nature, but it doesn’t work. Sure didn’t for the rest of the world.”

He looks around him and shrugs.

“Probably won’t work here either,” he says.

Dr. DeBeers cocks her head, looking eerily similar to a bug hound studying a target, and frowns.

“You honestly believe that,” she states. “Somewhere in there, despite everything you have seen, you think you are still going to leave this room and escape. That’s what you are really talking about, isn’t it?”

Blaze shrugs again.

“Let’s say you do,” Dr. DeBeers says, placing her arms across her chest. “Let’s say, by some miracle, you escape Control. Where would you go? How long would you survive out in the Sicklands? No armor, no Canine Unit, no weapons, no StatShield, no transport or AiSP.”

She waves her hand across his face and activates his IRIS. His view changes from the room to the Sicklands outside the Control dome.

“See how easy that was, Simon? A flick of my hand and I take your sight away, replacing it with what I want. How long will you live outside the dome when you can’t see what’s in front of you?”

His IRIS blinks out and he is looking at the stern face of Dr. DeBeers once more.

“Control is all there is to your life,” she continues. “There is no freedom. Not from this dome, not from GenSOF, not from the Clean Nation cities. You have one purpose from this moment on.”

“What’s that?” Blaze asks, his temper starting to flare. He knows he has to keep his cool, but his gut tells him she is wrong. So very wrong. “What’s my purpose?”

She places her hands on the table and a small spark of static crackles in the air.

“To keep my interest,” she says slowly. “
And His. You will do well to focus on that purpose.”

44

The sense of relief Jersey feels when the wall at the other end of the hallway opens is indescribable.

The despair she feels as she walks into the next hallway is almost just as indescribable.

The walls of the hallway aren’t pure white, but clear, showing the work being done to the subjects on either side. She can’t hear their screams and cries and calls, but she feels them, her gut clenching as each muzzle is raised in a silent howl of agony.

She stops and places her hand against one wall, her other hand to her mouth as tears start to stream down her cheeks.

Dogs. So many dogs.

Strapped to tables, metal arms working on them, changing them, long needles piercing through the blood and pus-matted fur, pumping blue fluid into their bodies, causing what Jersey can only assume is excruciating pain by the way the dogs’ eyes widen and their mouths open so far they look like their jaws will snap.

These are the dogs of the Sicklands, she realizes; the same as the corpse
s she awoke to find piled up by the transport. But did they come from the Sicklands or are they being prepped for release into that hell?

Without realizing what she is doing, she starts to bang on the wall, her hands slamming against the smooth surface over and over, causing blue outlines to light up on each impact.

Why did Worm bring her here? Why didn’t he lead her to Blaze? This is a nightmare that no person should have to witness; a frightening image of untoward cruelty.

He
r hands continue to slam, slam, slam against the wall. Then they meet open air, the solidity gone from the barrier in front of her, and she falls forward. She stumbles into the room and the motions of the hundreds of arms all stop, frozen in place by the sudden intrusion. The screams and pained cries of the dogs are overwhelming and she has to focus not to vomit.

As one, the arms turn their attention from their canine subjects, their various ends equipped with a multitude of tools looking like accusatory eyes, boring into her. Jersey takes a step back, but finds the wall solid again. She presses her back against it and waits, but none of the arms move.

The dogs start barking at her, their black eyes watching, pleading, hoping.

Jersey takes a step forward. The arms still do not move. Another step and all is still. She clamps her hands over her ears to drown out the dogs, but it only dulls the
noise slightly. One more step, a second, a third.

She reaches the closest table and the dog before her, missing most of its coat from its shoulders and neck, cranes its neck at her, trying to push its muzzle forward. A small whine issues from it and Jersey’s heart breaks at that moment. The pieces rattle around in her chest and the devastation is so intense she doesn’t think she can be whole again.

“Is this why?” she asks aloud, hoping Worm can hear her. “Is this why I’m here? Not for Blaze, but for them?”

Of course, there is no answer.

The dog whines again and the rest echo it, begging for her help.

Her hand reaches out and she grabs the metal restraint that holds the dog to the table. It doesn’t budge. She squats down and studies the mechanism, but can’t see how it is engaged or disengaged. Like so many things in the Clean Nation cities, and apparently Control as well, the restraint is solid state. No moving parts, just an extension of a fluid technology that changes as needed.

“Release,” she orders, but it does not. “Restraints down.”

Still nothing.

She spins about looking for a control panel or interface somewhere, but there is nothing, just white, white walls.

The dogs’ whines increase until they become yips and barks then turn back into howls.

“Quiet,” Jersey snaps, waving her hands about. “Stop. Please, stop.”

The noise is so intense she feels like she
will drown in the cacophony. She reaches out again and slowly strokes the slick fur of the dog before her. It continues to whine, but its body relaxes under her caress until it lays its head down, tongue lolling from between its black teeth, and closes its eyes.

Its chest moves up and down, up and down, then slows, slows, slows, stops. Jersey steps away and looks at the other dogs.

“No,” she says. “You can’t want…”

But she knows the answer. In a world where Control rules all, permission is the highest power. Even for death.

Table by table she goes, taking as much time as is needed, in order to soothe the suffering animal that lies upon each, giving them the permission they need to slip into death and be free from the prison of pain that was their lives.

When the last dog passes, the wall where Jersey came in slides open and she looks across the hallway at the industry of cruelty that still commences within the room on the other side. Her body is wracked with sobs and she is barely able to put one foot in front of the other as she cries uncontrollably. Jersey walks from the room, unsure if she has the strength to do it all again, but knowing that if she doesn’t then who will.