Jack in the Box (27 page)

The man who had previously spoken laughed again. "And this has worked? With just that?" he pointed at the tube which I held in my hand.

I walked to my left towards the door.

The group's eyes stuck to me.

I opened the door. A man who looked just like me stood in the hallway. Two large men held his arms securely.

"I'd like to introduce you to Jack number two."

His eyes widened. "You. . ."

The men dragged him into the room.

Everyone had to do a double-take. A few people in the back rose to see better. They all were intrigued, to say the least.

"I would say, the likeness is uncanny." I examined the copy. "Except for the eyes. For some reason the eyes are a different color. Either way, though, a Jack Colson who isn't actually Jack Colson."

"You," he struggled to free himself from the large arms that held him. "Why do you look just like me?"

"You can go now."

They pulled him toward the doorway.

"Hey! Who are you?" he turned his head to the group. "What is this
?
I'
m
Jack Colson!" he broke one arm free.

The left guard grabbed the arm with both hands.

He thrashed around furiously. "He's lying!" he shouted. "I'm Jack Colson! I'm Jack-"

I shut the door behind them as they left.

And the room returned to pin-drop silence.

"My parents never had twins," I went back to the head of the table. "That right there was the world's first copy."

The lady put her glasses back on. "He thought. . . He thought that he was you?"

"Yes, well, that was the next part I was going to bring up. The first part is physical continuity," I held up one finger, "The second," I held up another finger, "is mental continuity."

The people in the back slowly lowered back into their seats.

"The mind-set that the test promotes is the mindset we want to continue through future generations. Not only that, but it is also easier to prevent rebellion if everyone has the same understanding of things. We implant them with the originals' memories during the ten-day growth. "Of course, as we found with Jack number two, these memories were not immediately in his conscious thought. He had to regain them through sleeping. Through dreams."

"So. . . The world will just be filled with copies of one person?" another man at the table asked.

"No," I placed the tube in my pocket, "Whoever passes the test will be copied. Then the copy will test. And the process will continue."

I received a mixture of expressions. At the same time, though, they all seemed as if they wanted to believe me, but the plan was too odd for them to jump on board so quickly.

"So, what's the other project?" someone spoke up.

I smiled. Bent over.

They all watched me. Much more closely than before.

I came up with a small case. As I opened the case it made a small click. I pulled out the single item it contained. A glass syringe. Inside was a clear liquid. "What's next is the most important part. Project B. Project C. They are only a means to this end." I held out my hand. "Do you ever wonder what it'd be like to live forever?"

→

The dream changed. This was it. No fuzziness. Not even the slightest lack of color. It was the realest dream I'd ever had. And I felt as though it would be the last. At least, it would be the last dream I'd have of Jack Colson.

I sat in my office. Working on some diagram.

A light on my desk phone turned on. Someone spoke onto the line, "Mr. Colson?"

"Yes," I said, more focused on my work than the phone.

"We just let your father in, he'll be up to see you shortly."

I stopped. Dropped my pen. "What?"

The man on the line cleared his throat. "Your. . . your father. Brian Col-"

"Do you think I'd appreciate jokes the day before Project Box?"

"No, sir, I just thought since he was your-"

"That man is going to kill me, Daniel, and you just let him in." I stood up and put on my coat.

"Sir, I-"

"That is all, Mr. Fulde." I folded up the paper and put it in my coat pocket.

He hung up.

I started for the door.

My father opened it.

I stopped.

A solemn look on his face. With sad eyes, he said, "Hello, Jack."

twenty

"Sit down."

I did.

My father dragged a chair from the wall over to the front of my desk. He sat down.

The hollowness of the room created an acoustic effect. It was almost as though the ocean was creating waves in my ears.

My father looked into my eyes.

I stared at the desk.

He took a deep breath.

I bounced one leg compulsively.

"They let me in," he said.

"They didn't tell me," I kept my gaze on the desk.

He leaned back.

I felt his eyes on me.

About ten more painful seconds passed.

"It's my birthday tomorrow," I said softly.

My father leaned back.

"Tomorrow's. . . Tomorrow I turn twenty-nine."

He looked over to the clock on the wall. "You're right."

I folded my hands, stared at a knot in the wood.

"In fact, your birthday is in ten minutes. It's eleven-fifty."

I twirled my thumbs around. Every sentence. Every word we spoke was slow. We knew something was coming up. A conversation neither of us wanted to have. So we talked in slow motion. We moved in slow motion. Everything happened steadily. I scratched the back of my hand.

He leaned forward. "I never forgot."

I looked up.

He took out a very small box from inside his coat.

I looked at him.

He smiled sadly. "Happy birthday."

I tried to curve my lips upward. Tried to smile.

He put the box on the desk.

I picked it up. Removed the lid. A watch. A very nice watch. I smiled and took it out. Looked at the back. Engraved on the metal were my initials
.
J.C
.
"I love it."

"I'm glad. Your mother and I picked it out."

My hands fell onto the desk. Still holding the watch. They trembled.

"And we'd like to be able to see you for your thirtieth, too."

I slowly put the watch onto my wrist. "You still can."

He exhaled. "In a world with Project Box?"

I lifted my eyes. "It's the only way. . ."

His eyes shook. "But it'
s
no
t
the only way," he said.

"You will convince me of nothing. Too much time, too many resources, and too many people were invested in this to just stop it. There's an army of the world ready to enforce this. You can't stop it."

"Yet with all that power behind it, here I am, the father of its leader. Sitting with him face-to-face."

My chest rose and fell overtly with each deep breath.

"You started this. You can still end it."

I put my palms flat on the table. "No. Even if you kill me, it will go on. The entire world is in this."

He shook his head. "It's not about killing you. It's about you picking up that phone and contacting everyone you need to contact in order to stop Project Box."

I clenched my jaws together.

"But I came here ready to do what needs to be done. If it comes to that.”

He and I gazed directly at each other. We both shook, as if the temperature of the room were below freezing.

I quickly reached underneath my desk.

My father beat me to it. He reached under and came back with a gun.

We both stood simultaneously.

My father pointed the gun at me. "Neodymium magnets underneath the desk. Keeps the pistol attached, but doesn't disrupt the mechanics of it." He raised his eyebrows. "I taught you this, Jack."

I raised my hands slowly.

"Pick up the phone."

I shook my head.

"Don't make me do this, Jack." He tightened his grip on the gun.

"Why? Why can't you let me pursue this goal?"

"Because it will ruin the lives of the entire world! In pursuing your goal, you'll take away the chance for people to eve
n
hav
e
a goal to pursue."

I tilted my head. "Then pull the trigger."

His chest rose and fell quickly.

I kept my hands raised.

"There's nothing you can do, Jack. Don't think I won't do this. I know you're my son, but I can't let you-"

"I a
m
no
t
your son."

He closed his mouth. His jaw bones came tightly together.

Now I was breathing quickly. "You stopped being my father the second you walked out that door last time."

He shook his head, "Son, I-"

"No!" I reached behind my head and pulled out a gun.

My father jumped a little. Kept the pistol aimed at me.

We held the firearms with both hands. Kept them pointed at each other's heads.

Shaking. Breathing quickly. Breathing heavily. The room was cold. But sweat rolled down our faces. My father's eyes were red. Not just sweat. Tears. I blinked. I had them, too. I sneered and wiped my face with my sleeve. "A pocket sown into the upper back of the coat. Holds a gun just where you can reach it even with your hands up." I pulled back the hammer. "There are some things you didn’t teach me."

My father cocked his gun. "Please, son. Please."

"You can't stop me. . ." My hands shook. I held the gun more tightly.

"Son, please. Your mother. . ."

"No. Stop. Stop talking."

"She can't sleep." The tears rolled down more. "She cries every night because her son. . ."

"Shut up!" I screamed. "I told you neither of you will take it!"

"Then we will die everyday knowing that you're doing this!" He came back with just as much volume. "Please, Jack, we miss you. We love-"

"I've gone too far, Brian! I'm not stopping, now. Project Box-"

"Jack. . ." He said loudly.

"No!"

"Jack!"

"You can't stop me!" I cried out.

We screamed at each other simultaneously. We drowned out each other's words. Our bodies shook violently.

"Jack!"

"No!"

"Son, I will do this!"

"Dad!"

White. My eardrums felt as though they'd been punctured. My head hurt. People think they feel pain in dreams. But I really felt it. And then the pain left just as quickly as it had come. White. Nothing but white.

And then black.

Black.

It was all I saw. In the dream, I didn’t really understand what it meant. But I assumed it must’ve been what I was seeing, which now I know was in fact, black. I moved my eyes all around. Saw nothing except nothing. My emotions were going crazy, but with no words behind them. My mind felt like a blank slate, and I didn’t know what to do. Then I remembered those things that keep me from being able to see. Eyelids. I opened them, and my surroundings began to come into focus. This was the first time I remember waking up, but apparently it wasn’t.

Wait, what? I'd felt this before.

"Good morning!"

And there was my father. Except it wasn't my father. It was the man I knew as Brian.

I was dreaming of the first day I woke up in the test.

Which means I had dreamt all there was to dream of Jack Colson's memories.

The white returned. And then black again.

I opened my eyes. I was in a room. A room with four doors. A door for each wall. A light in the center of the ceiling. I wasn't dreaming. I was awake. On my stomach. My cheek against the floor. I had slept without a bed.

I slowly sat up. The only other thing in the room was a pool of blood on the floor. I looked around, feeling groggy. But it hit me. I looked around the room again. And I let out all my breath.

"I'm still here."

→

I was breathing heavily, just as I had been in the dream. I felt my face. I had been sweating. I closed my eyes
.
That's why I had his memories. That's why I'm in the test. I'm not Jack Colson. I'm not just some test subject.

I'm a copy of Jack Colson.