Oculus (Oculus #1) (2 page)

My housemate is not a morning person, and has been known to throw boots at me if I wake her up before the sun comes up. I live with my handler, a woman named Anna. She used to be a scientist for the Talpa Corporation, a member of the genetics team that created me. Anna knows all my secrets, and how dangerous I really am. Yet, with her I can be who and what I am without fear of judgment. From the beginning, Anna has never lied to me. No matter how difficult my questions, she has always been willing to answer me. Anna is the reason that I have had the chance to be more than just a weapon. We have a bond of trust and understanding that is my only link to the normal world.

Since the beginning, she was never really on board with the experiments The Corporation had been conducting. During the turmoil, while mankind was fleeing the cities in search of food, she had been collected by the Talpa Corporation. Skilled workers, scientists, and valuable personnel had been grateful to them at first. Droves of people were dying in The Dark Lands with limited, if any, food, water, decent shelter and medicine. Early on, The Corporate compounds seemed like a saving grace to those who were deemed valuable enough to be given sanctuary there. Only when she was completely dependent on them had they shown her what her work would be. Genetic development of superior organic assets or in layman’s terms, ‘go build us some super slaves.’ By then, she was more of a slave herself, indentured to The Corp for all the resources they had expended on her. Disappointing Talpa Corp would have meant exile if she was lucky, a bullet to the head if she wasn’t. In those days, she probably would have gotten a bullet.

She told me that she might never have acted if not for a fateful decision by the project leader. There had been an argument brewing between the teams working at the lab of genetics versus behavior enhancement. I was made part of the behavioral enhancement test. An old, white-haired scientist handed me a pure white, blissfully soft, young rabbit. The feel of that warm, gentle animal in my hands gave me a feeling of pure wonder. I remember grinning like a fool and talking to the animal as if it understood my words. I couldn’t have been more than three years old.

They left me alone with the bunny for nearly an hour. By the time they returned, I’d named it Hoppy. The white-haired scientist approached me, his expressionless face unreadable. He thrust the handle of an army knife at me.

“Kill it.” He demanded.

“No!” I cried. I was trembling so badly I nearly dropped the tiny creature.

When I refused, they used cattle prods to administer electric shocks to my body. They tortured me until I finally gave in. In the end, I killed the rabbit with my bare hands, breaking its tiny, fragile neck, in one swift movement. I then used a knife they gave me to cut it into pieces at the white-haired scientist’s request. Something horrible awoke in me that day and killed the innocent young child that had stood in its place.

When he praised me for my fine work, I sat numbly staring at my blood-soaked hands. Of the horrible things I’ve done in this life, strangely nothing bothered me as much as the death of Hoppy. When the rest of the team departed for lunch, Anna stayed behind. Wetting a warm washcloth she gently cleaned me up. Kneeling down so she was at eye level, she had made sure I looked at her before she spoke to me.

“It’s not your fault you know?” Her voice was gentle, but firm. I nodded, but looked down at the ground. Cupping my chin, she gently drew my face up so she could look me in the eye. “When someone makes you do something against your will, they’re to blame, not you.”

Drawing myself up to stand tall, I shook my head angrily and fought the tears back that threatened to fall. “No! I had a choice. I should have let them kill me!”

She stared at me in horror, shaking her head silently. I thought at the time that I had angered her, but later she told me that this blunt truth had shocked her to the core. From the mouth of a child barely able to talk. A child that had already endured so much horror in his young life. It was the moment when she decided to change her own path, and subsequently mine.

The light was well above the horizon when a noise from the kitchen interrupted my reading.

“Sic,” Anna called from the kitchen. “Come and eat. We have a job.”

I look up from my perch on a pile of contraband books, where I’ve been engrossed in one about the War of 1812. The author has such a romantic view of warfare that I’m having trouble putting the book down.

Books are one of the few things that bring me joy in the world. Through them I get to see the world as it used to be, and as people used to wish it would be again. They also provide me with hope that I will one day be able to understand humanity enough to fit in among them. Learning about the human condition through literature is less embarrassing than talking to Anna about it. It’s also a lot easier than trying to actually interact with normal people.

Rising, I take the novel with me to the kitchen. Anna’s green eyes glance up at me from behind titanium framed glasses, then down at the book in amusement. She shakes her head, her more gray than blonde hair rustling against her homespun shirt.

“Just don’t get anything on that, okay?” Her voice hasn’t changed over the years, and still holds a dry quality that often makes me wonder if she is making fun of me. “I want to be able to trade it back for equal value when you’re done reading it.”

I nod. “What are we having?”

Without preamble, she pushes a can of beans in front of me. I grimace, but dutifully take the can and shovel the fuel into my mouth. It takes a lot of protein to keep up with my high metabolism, and meat is hard to come by. I eat three more cans before cleaning off my fork and putting it back in my pocket. As I finish, Anna pulls out a stack of papers and motions me closer.

“This is our next target. Hector Benson, Supervising Manager of Sector 36. Fenra. His favorite thing to do is make families trade young children to him for medicine. A real sick fuck. The Resistance is paying a premium for this one to be messy.” My expression is normally hard to read, but she must have seen my surprise. She gives me a knowing look and nods.

“I know, it goes against rule number 1-Make it look like natural causes. But, this one is different. They want to send a message so that the next Corp jackass that comes down the pike realizes that this shit won’t fly. They’re paying triple.” I stare at the picture of the man in the stack of papers, committing his face to memory, and nod.

“Triple…how messy?” I ask, hearing my own husky tone, I swallow hard. I’m not squeamish about causing havoc, quite the opposite. I just want to know the parameters I’m operating under.

“The exact wording was ‘take the bastard’s manhood and stuff it in his mouth.’” When I laugh in response, Anna’s crinkled eyes shoot to mine sharply. “You think that’s funny?”

I blink and nod. “Well it’s not sad.”

After all the assassinations I’ve done where it had to look like they dropped dead on their own, it’ll be nice to put some of my other skills to use. And that kind of order comes from a lot of rage. I can relate to that.

Anna gives me a guarded glance and then looks down at the picture of the target with a heavy sigh.

“Look, even though this one is supposed to be obvious, I don’t want you taking any chances. Find a place outside the grid, away from the cameras. Far enough out that no one will hear him screaming.” She pushes the stack over to me and gets up from the table.

I pick up the papers and start reading. There’s a lot of fragmented information about Mr. Benson’s schedule. One thing stands out, he often visits a remote shed on the edge of the compound, in an area without surveillance. My initial attack might take place there. If he’s alone, it might prove an ideal place to finish the entire job.

I brief Anna on my working plan and then grab my gear. Everything I need, I keep stowed in a backpack light enough for me to run with over long distances. Lacing on a pair of heavy boots, I wave to Anna before heading into the woods. Our current shack is pretty far off the beaten path, and has served us well for the last month. We built it from scrap we’d found around the area. It keeps the rain off, but we will need to move on before it gets much colder with fall settling in. I run the perimeter of the property, making sure it’s still secure before leaving Anna alone.

Travelling to The Corporate compound takes about two days of running on forest trails, and the occasional roadway. The travel is hard, but I don’t mind. Exercise has always been something that I feel compelled to do, and running is one of my favorites. Anna told me the desire to work out is something that had been designed into me. After all, what good is an out of shape weapon? Since I was very small, I remember training whenever I was left alone. I’d circuit through push-ups, sit ups, anything that raised my heart rate and moved my muscles. Despite my irritation with this compulsion, my conditioning gives me an advantage in the new world. In the Dark Lands, vehicles draw unwanted attention and those that do take the risk of operating a motor vehicle usually don’t have it long. If someone has something worth having, they never have it very long. If the corps doesn’t seize assets that are considered contraband, the dregs of the Dark Landers certainly are not above thievery. While a good portion of Dark Landers merely want to not just survive, but thrive without The Corps interference, there is also a good portion of Dark Landers who are bent on raising hell for the sake of raising hell.

Once I arrive near the compound, I keep to myself, not bothering to attempt contact with the local Resistance. As a stranger, I’m not welcome, even among the general population. The Resistance would just as soon shoot me as talk to me, and The Corporations would do worse. I remain a ghost, camouflaging myself so people pass right by me without noticing my presence. I remain hedged between the two entities, working for one only out of my great disdain for the other.

I’ve cultivated patience, and at times like this it serves me well. Living off dried meat and fruit in my backpack, I silently bide my time until my target shows himself. The intel, as usual, is lacking. Mr. Benson shows up, not alone, but with a thick bodyguard who busily scans the area in an unsettlingly competent way. One bonus is that the bodyguard doesn’t follow Benson to the shed, nor does he check the interior.

Interesting, Mr. Benson. What do you keep inside the shed that you don’t want even your trusted protector to see?

After they leave the area, I slip through the trees and creep up to the building. The locks on the front are serious and there is a heavy-duty security system on the door. Whatever is inside, Benson wants to be the only one to have access. Intrigued, I check the building for any weaknesses. On the back wall I find what I’m looking for. A panel bolted to the wall where an A/C unit can be connected. Taking a small toolkit from my pack, I have the opening cleared in minutes. Leaning the panel against the wall, I slip inside.

The smell is what hits me first, a dank mildew mixed with the distinct scent of urine. As my eyes adjust, I see an old mattress near the far wall with a huddled form curled up on top of it. A whimper escapes the figure and I feel a surge of rage. Moving forward slowly, I verify my first impression. The shape on the bed is a young boy. As I approach him, he immediately shrinks away in fear.

“No! I don’t want to!” Bursting into tears, the boy tries to scurry away from me, but he’s held in place by a collar around his neck that is chained to the ceiling. Putting up my hands as a sign of peace, I speak in a low, firm voice.

“Quiet, kid. I’m not here to hurt you. Benson is gone, and I’ll get you out of here. But I need to know a few things first. How long does he go between visits?” The boy stops crying and looks up at me in wonder.

“You’re here to save me?” The hope I see etched on his face pulls at my heartstrings, and I focus on my rage to maintain mental balance. I hate it when emotion interferes with my work.

“Yes. But first, you need to tell me what I need to know. How long do I have before he comes back?” Sitting up, the boy wipes his face.

“I don’t know…I just got here today. My mom’s sick. He told me if I went with him, he’d make sure my mother got the medicine she needed. Then he brought me here and…he wanted me to do things…when I said no, he got mad and hit me. He told me that my mother was going to die if I didn’t do what he said. He said he’d give me some time to think about it.”

I can feel my heart pound in my chest as the fury builds within me. Using my lock pick, I undo the lock on the boy’s collar. Once he is free, I leave the collar on the chain.

“What’s your name?” I lead him away from the mattress, toward the opening in the back wall.

“Felix. Felix Miller.” His eyes are red from crying and as he looks at the soiled walls, he seems like he is on the edge of another hysterical fit. I want him to be safe, but I also have a job to do. Slipping my hand into my pocket I pull out a small vial.

“Night-night, Felix.” I break the vial under his nose and hold my breath as vapor rises from the broken vial. The boy’s eyes widen, and then he slumps bonelessly. I catch him easily before he can hit the ground.

Sorry, kid. I need to stow you away until I’m done.

I feel bad for betraying his trust, but I’m left with no alternative. I don’t want to traumatize him, and I’m not assured I’ll have the time to get him safely away before Benson returns. Benson is my objective, everything else is secondary. Besides, The Resistance might even like that a kid saw someone show up to kill this prick.

Taking the boy outside, I spend a few minutes securing him in the boughs of a tree with some rope from my backpack. The sedative will keep him out until well after midnight, and the rope should keep him safe enough. I don’t want some wild animal coming and dragging him off. After making sure the rope won’t end up around his neck, and that he is out of sight, I return to the shed. Covering the hole, I make the interior as dark as possible. Next, I flip the mattress up, as if the boy is using it to hide behind. Then I wait.

An hour later, the sound of a key in the locks brings my senses to high alert. I still my breathing as the door opens and closes. Heavy footsteps come through the dark, and then with a small click, I see the beam of a flashlight turn on. The light shines onto the overturned mattress and the person holding it sighs.