Strangers in the Night (7 page)

He waited for the sharp, puncturing pain.

* * *

For the first few hours following the dosage, Mitts could hardly sit in one place. He felt too restless to do anything other than tread back and forth, burning off energy.

It felt like his blood was fizzing.

He could almost hear it gurgle through his ears.

Heinmein had asked Mitts to think of a fire, to think about the difference between a blazing fire and one which smouldered along; quietly crackling every now and again.

Mitts had felt like he was back in school.

As if he’d been kidnapped for some elementary chemistry lesson.

But he had paid attention to Heinmein.

Put those smells of rotten oranges and cheesy feet out of his mind.

The point which Heinmein had been trying to make with the fire was that when fire burns more strongly—
more brightly
—it uses up a larger amount of fuel.

Before Heinmein had gone, he had made it quite clear to Mitts—said it in so many ways; and so many different terms—that what he had administered him was not a cure. That there was no hope of Mitts getting better. And that, now Mitts had been given this injection, he would have another week’s worth of full strength life.

And then, one day, sometime next week, he would drop dead.

Heinmein had clicked his fingers to get across
that
point.

Mitts recalled looking across the room, at that precise moment, and seeing his father flinch at Heinmein clicking his fingers.

For all he knew, Mitts had flinched too.

Mitts lay on his side, a position he never found comfortable to sleep in. He rubbed at the spot on his spine where Heinmein had given him the injection. He could feel a welt there; a seemingly ever-growing lump. When he placed his fingertips over the form of it, he could feel his heart beating through an obtrusive vein.

He almost thought he could feel the serum—or whatever Heinmein had called it—billowing through his bloodstream.

Heinmein had told Mitts to expect to feel weak for a long while. For perhaps several hours. As the serum took hold, Mitts would feel as if someone had blown air into his lungs.

As if he had been brought back to life.

Right now, though, all Mitts felt was the need to sleep.

He could still sense his father, slumped over on the plastic container in the corner, reading the book by torchlight. His eyes mechanically wandering over the black lines, processing them all—and even Mitts could see this—without so much as a single one entering his consciousness.

When Mitts came around again, he felt an odd prickling sensation, all through his body. As if he had a battalion of sewing needles all attempting to poke themselves out through the surface of his skin. He itched at the welt on his spine, felt that the swelling had diminished a good deal. He unfurled an arm. Reached out for his wristwatch, lying beside his bed.

It’d just gone three a.m.

That would explain the darkness.

Mitts glanced about the room, taking in the shapes. He stared over into the corner, where the plastic container sat, and he waited for his eyes to adapt to the gloom.

Soon, he saw that his father was no longer there, that he had left his book lying, face down, its pages splayed, on the container. The narrow outline of the torch was there too.

Mitts turned his attention back inward, to that prickling sensation.

He itched at all the places on his skin which felt like they needed itching.

But new itches would spring up elsewhere.

No matter how much he scratched.

It might’ve been an hour before Mitts finally felt the sensation leave him. When he no longer felt that prickle frustratingly just below the surface of his skin. He peeled off his blankets, used his bathroom, and then trod about his bedroom, experimenting.

Just as Heinmein had said, the dizziness—the
nausea
—had gone now, and Mitts could see perfectly straight, albeit only into the darkness.

When Mitts thought about it, he realised that the prickling sensation had retreated, but hadn’t entirely disappeared. It had been replaced by a throbbing. This sense that something, within his blood, was now giving him warmth. It was resonating with a sort of
energy
, pouring it directly into his skin.

Mitts had the urge to run.

He wanted to burn off some energy.

He felt so alert.

After brushing his fingertips over the welt on his spine, Mitts eased himself out through his bedroom door. Bare-footed, he gazed up and down the corridor—lit with an eerie, imitation-twilight glow.

He picked a direction.

Beat one foot after the next.

He took paces larger than he ever would’ve thought himself capable.

* * *

Mitts returned to his bedroom. He felt the sweat ooze out of his skin. His heart wouldn’t sit still. It continued its merry jig against his ribs. Not content to allow him any rest.

He sniffed at the air.

There . . . there it was again.

That odour.

Disinfectant.

The one which he had reported to Heinmein earlier . . . the one which his father had
forced
him to report to Heinmein.

Mitts thought back to how Heinmein had administered the dose. All things considered, he had really been quite caring. Perhaps Heinmein wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

Maybe, because Mitts was dying, their relationship had thawed.

If Mitts cropped up in the doorway of Heinmein’s office, maybe Heinmein would acknowledge him.

Ask him what the matter was.

Just because Mitts was dying, didn’t mean he could forget about protocol.

Protocol was what had kept his family alive thus far.

But what would Heinmein do?

Even if—and that
was
a big if—Heinmein deigned to come and check out Mitts’s bedroom, it would only be for him to bring along that device of his, the one which emitted the electronic
groans
and
whirrs
.

Heinmein would screw up his eyes, staring at the dial. And then, a few minutes later, he would trudge on out of Mitts’s bedroom, leaving Mitts none the wiser.

Not even bothering to tell him whether or not there was anything to be worried about.

Mitts turned his attention up toward the ventilation hatch.

He glanced down at his wristwatch.

Saw that it was a few minutes past half four in the morning.

His father would be knocked out—
comatose
.

He had been up caring for Mitts for so long. He wouldn’t stir until the lighting system gently woke him. Mitts had until sometime between seven and seven thirty.

So Mitts had the time, and, he believed, the strength, to investigate for himself.

He had to take his chance now. He would be dead next week.

Mitts turned his attention to the plastic container on the other side of the room. He looked to his father’s book, its pages all splayed.

Then he glanced to the torch.

He snatched it up. Slipped it into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

Then he dragged the plastic container across the floor.

Left it beneath the ventilation hatch.

He stood back from his work, thought about what he was doing.

Wondered if it
was
the right thing.

But then, what was he meant to do now?

There was nobody to tell him either way.

Right
or
wrong.

Mitts cracked open the lid of the plastic container.

He dug about inside.

He cast aside clothing, books, other assorted oddities he had dragged along with him to the Compound. He located the screwdrivers.

They were where he’d left them.

Stuffed into a pair of socks.

The fact that they were still there, in his container, suggested that no one had uncovered them.

Or, at least, nobody had thought there was anything untoward about him having them.

Mitts leaped up onto the plastic container, feeling invigorated now.

As if his whole body might shudder from the shock of the new energy burning through him.

Flipping on the torch and then laying it at his feet, Mitts reached up, undid the loosened screws from the ventilation hatch, one by one. He dropped each, in succession, onto his camp bed.

Taking extreme care, Mitts peeled back the ventilation hatch itself.

He laid it down on the laminate flooring, just beside the plastic container.

It would be easy to find when he returned.

That done, Mitts gazed about his bedroom, half expecting to see either his father, or mother, or Heinmein standing in the doorway.

But nobody was there.

He was all alone.

In the dark.

* * *

Mitts lay on his front. He could feel the cool metal, even through his fleecy top, and through his pyjama bottoms.

As he crawled his way along the air vent, he could hear his hands and feet making muted
booms
against the metal.

It smelled strongly of ammonium—what Mitts had
learned
was the smell of ammonium.

It caught at the back of his throat, leaving an almost fishy taste.

But even the smell of ammonium was overwhelmed by the odour of disinfectant now.

Mitts was still surprised that he had managed to haul himself up into the air vent.

When he had seized hold of the tube, he had been convinced that there would be precisely zero chance of him being able to sustain himself.

And then there’d been the doubts about whether or not the tube would hold.

But it had.

Mitts could still recall his distant surprise as he had brought himself up level with the opening of the air vent. And he bet that it was that same surprise which had given him the kick he needed to
keep on
tugging himself on into the vent.

And so, here he was now.

After about five metres, there had been a junction in the air vent.

He could’ve chosen left, or right.

When he had shone the torch off down either route, he had observed the gentle bend of the vent to the left, seen that it was headed back toward the Restricted Area.

That wouldn’t be any good.

No good at all.

At the back of his mind, he wished it’d been raining hard. Like it had been several nights ago.

When he had smelled that strong scent of disinfectant before.

So he would know which way led to the surface.

But, as it turned out, Mitts had had to make a snap judgement.

To turn right.

And so, here he was now.

He was heading up a gentle incline.

When he’d first come up against the slope, he had worried that it might become so acute as to prove impossible to navigate.

That, as he climbed up—further and further—he would lose his grip and slide back down.

Then all this would’ve been in vain.

But Mitts kept on going.

And the slope held steady.

Mitts supposed that he’d been crawling for about fifteen minutes when he first felt the change in air temperature.

Hot.

So
hot.

Almost instantly, it caused him to sweat.

His palms, as they crawled their way along the air vent, slipped out from beneath him.

Unable to grip any longer.

But he pressed himself forward, hoping the temperature would fluctuate.

That the gentle air conditioning which he was so accustomed to might return.

But, if anything, the temperature rose.

Mitts, though, had no intention of giving up.

He hauled himself along, feeling every single kilo of his body.

Only when he thought to turn his torch off did he realise that he wasn’t in darkness.

That there was light entering the air vent.

Daylight
.

Mitts glanced about him, seeing the different vents, branching off into different rooms within the Compound. Above and beyond the Restricted Area.

He peered through a few of them, saw the deserted offices.

The cleared desks.

The unoccupied furniture.

For some strange reason, it made him feel sad.

This ebbing,
rippling
sadness which seemed to hollow him out from within.

Turn his guts to a cool, revolting goo.

There would never be people in these offices.

Never again.

His parents might think that Mitts was nothing but a dumb kid.

But he had caught onto more than they might’ve imagined.

He carried on his way, telling himself where he needed to go.

There was only one acceptable destination.

He wanted to see where the rain came from.

After five minutes more of crawling, he got there.

To a much larger ventilation hatch.

One with several more screws keeping it held in place.

Mitts hadn’t brought the screwdriver along with him. In any case, he doubted his ability—even with his renewed strength—to loosen all those screws before his father got up out of bed.

Let alone pry the hatch itself off.

But Mitts could see out through the fins, the ones which angled downward, to the ground. He pushed his face up against the hatch. He peered through. Trying to see something.

Anything
.

Some remainder of the world.

Of the
real
world.

All Mitts could see, though, was grey.

Beaten-up asphalt.

Abandoned parking bays marked out in white paint.

Puddles of grey rainwater.

Undisturbed.

Mitts listened hard.

Tried to hear
something
.

He wished to hear birds chirping.

Perhaps a peal of thunder, announcing a coming storm.

Something to remind him that he inhabited a living, breathing—
bleeding
—world.

But there was nothing at all.

Not a sound.

Just the eerie, ever-lasting stillness.

Mitts breathed in deeply. He tried to catch some of the smell of disinfectant.