Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1) (7 page)

“How do you know him?” he
asks again, yelling this time.

“I don’t!” I snap back. My
voice sounds weak and raspy.

He seems to consider me for
a moment, staring at me with those cold and penetrating eyes. Eventually, he
lets go of me and takes a step back.

“You will,” he promises. He
turns his head slightly, directing his next words to the others in the room.
“Take the subject back to her quarters.” His eyes never once leave mine.

The same orderlies from before
seem to appear out of thin air. Their hands fumble with the restraints, but in
less than a minute, they’re lowering my limp body from the metal table.

Once again, I’m showed no
compassion or mercy. They drag me from the room like a lifeless doll. Not a
person, but an object—garbage to be disposed of now that I’ve done what they
wanted.

The sweat dribbles from my
skin, and I can feel myself falling into the welcome depths of unconsciousness.
However, in the last few moments before I succumb to my weakened state, my eyes
focus only on Dr. Richter. His reaction before was startling, but not quite as
much as the way he’s acting now. The rage coursing through his body is evident
in his frantic movements, as well as in the threatening tone of his voice.

“Contact the authorities,”
he growls. “I want a red alert sent out on the fugitive.”

I don’t understand. What’s
caused this reaction in him? Why does he want the man I saw arrested?

Is it because he’s a known
member of PHOENIX?

Or is it something else?

I lift my head, struggling
to release a single strained word. “Why?” I whisper.

He doesn’t hear me, and
within seconds, I’m surrounded by darkness.

I GRUNT WHEN MY BODY hits the hard
floor, the impact propelling me back into consciousness. The air tears from my
lungs with a strangled gasp, and black spots dance in front of my eyes.

My fingers clutch at my
throat as I try to breathe. The whole time, I’m all too aware of the orderlies
around me. I hear the pitfall of their heavy footsteps as they return to the doorway,
just as I hear the locking mechanism clicking back into place behind them,
trapping me once again in my drab prison.

My arms shudder beneath me
as I weakly lift myself off the floor. I collapse again within seconds, an
abrupt stabbing in my temples crippling me in the same way as those
manufactured magnetic pulses.

With each stab, I’m
assaulted by an image. By a piece of the familiar vision as it works its way
into every facet of my thoughts. Finally, I’m hit with the last stab. I wince
as my body convulses against the floor.

Hazel eyes stare back at
me, and the silence is filled with those same three words.

“I’m sorry, Wynter.”

I press my cheek against
the cold concrete and take a few deep breaths. Thankfully, my lungs seem to
have opened up again, and the pain running through my temples is beginning to
recede.

My eyes flutter open. I
glance up, catching sight of the table at the end of the bed. Suddenly, all I
can think about is the dryness in my throat. It’s like a raging inferno,
scorching my insides whenever I swallow.

Despite the pain
overwhelming my body and the fact that I’m probably going to die soon anyway,
all I care about right now is easing my thirst. Pushing myself up, I claw my
way forward, dragging my limp body behind me. The drugs they sedated me with
are still working in full force, leaving me paralyzed from the waist down.

I clench my jaw and fresh
beads of sweat rise up across my skin. The exertion is exhausting, but I
convince myself to keep going. Reaching the table, I grab hold of the bed,
using the last of my strength to hoist my hand up just enough to touch the
screen. It’s a struggle, but after several failed attempts, the robotic arm
descends with the very thing that will be my salvation.

I reach for the water, and
my body slumps against the side of the bed as I down it in one go. The glass
clatters against the floor the instant I’m finished, the sound as it rolls
across the concrete echoing through the small room.

Exhausted, I lean my head
back against the mattress. I close my eyes, desperate to sleep, but I’m kept
awake by the thought of everything that’s happened. The events of the past few
hours ring through my mind, haunting me.

I find myself thinking of
the man in my vision. Who was he? How does he know me?

Or rather, how
will
he know me?

Above all, I’m curious
about Dr. Richter’s reaction. It’s frustrating that everyone else here seems to
know more about what’s happening to me than I do. They know more about my
condition. They know more about what causes it. They even know more about the
mysterious man—or at least who he is.

We’re all clueless in one
respect, though. Why I saw him in the first place.

How will I meet him? I’ll
never leave this place, so it seems highly unlikely that our paths would ever
cross.

I think about PHOENIX. I’ve
never seen the face of a single person in that group. Their executions are
never broadcast. But from how the State portrays them, I’ve always assumed that
they’re nothing more than monstrous terrorists who would do absolutely anything
to see our society collapse. I guess I always figured its members would look
the part.

But that man, Ezra Laramie,
his name was. He just looked like a
normal
person.

My head aches with a
combination of confusion and fear, but at the same time, I can’t deny the spark
of curiosity lingering behind them. It’s enough to make me wonder how much of
what we know is actually the truth, and how much of what we’ve been force-fed
by the State is a lie.

It occurs to me, almost at
once, that I want to find out. Not only what’s happening to me, but the truth
about the world we live in. The truth about PHOENIX.

I have a feeling I know
where I’ll find those answers.

The only way forward is to
find the man from my vision. There has to be a reason behind why I saw him, and
besides, I can’t go back in there. Not after this. Whether or not they plan to
kill me or simply run more tests, I can’t take any more.

But what can I do about it?
I need to escape, that much I know. But how? No one leaves the DSD, so it’s
impossible, surely. Plus, there's the other issue. Even if I
did
manage
to escape, how would I begin to find Ezra Laramie?

Within seconds of this
question crossing my mind, the answer seems to come to me in the form of
another vision. I double over in agony as it explodes inside my brain, but I’m
too weak to scream. I bite my tongue. The overwhelming taste of blood pools in
my mouth, although I can hardly register it through the pain.

After a few moments of
this, my suffering begins to fade, and I glance up to find myself standing in
an alley. It’s nighttime, and I can see the shine of halogen lights reflecting
off my skin. A dingy bar stands a few feet away from me, with a sign overhead
reading,
The Vega
. It flickers as the bulbs buzz with an eerie hum.

I turn in place to take in
the surrounding area. The faint glow encompasses a signpost at the end of the
street, which says B42. It also has a symbol on it, which represents Zone 7.

A scream tears from my
throat as a fresh wave of pain overwhelms my body. As it does, a strange pressure
descends around me. It builds up, attacking my insides like a vicious cancer,
until I can’t take it a second longer. I scream once again, only vaguely aware
of the loud shatter in front of me.

I reel back. My head hits
the hard mattress, startling me, and suddenly, I realize that I’m back at the
DSD. I look around frantically, panting as my heart races. Sweat covers my skin
and more black spots flash in front of my eyes, blinding me.

When my vision finally
clears, I’m alarmed to see the pieces of glass scattered across the floor.
Glancing up, I notice that only a few remnants of mirror still hang above the
sink, but I can’t wrap my head around how it broke in the first place.

My body still shaking, I
lean forward and grab a large shard lying a few inches from my feet.
Hesitantly, I look into it. The whites of my eyes are entirely blood red. My
pupils are dilated to the point where the irises are nothing more than a thin
rim encircling black.

I gape at my reflection in
fear. How long have I looked like this? Days? Weeks? Or is my current state
simply a result of this most recent experiment? In which case, what the
hell
is happening to me?

What have these people done
to me that would cause this sort of reaction?

Time passes in a daze, but
I never take my eyes off the girl staring back at me from the glass. I register
the feeling gradually returning to my legs, but I don't bother to move. There's
no point. Instead, I allow myself to drift in and out of consciousness, the
hours rolling by in a dreary blur.

My entire body tenses when
I hear a sound outside my door, jerking me fully awake. The familiar beeping of
the keypad expels a dull echo through the wall, alerting me that I only have a
few seconds, if that.

I peer up at the security
camera. The little red light is still blinking.

If I’m going to escape,
it’s now or never.

Making a split second
decision, I curl up into a ball, trying my best to make the movement seem as
natural as possible. But what they can’t see, what I
hope
they can’t
see, is the glass shard my fingers are forcing beneath the mattress.

The door springs open the
instant my hand leaves the bed.

I lean back and focus my
attention on the attendant standing in the doorway. Her expression is
emotionless, just like the rest of them. Yet, I can sense her confusion when
she glimpses the pieces of mirror strewn across the floor. Nonetheless, she
doesn’t mention them.

“Dr. Richter would like to
speak with you.” She gives me the once over, her upper lip twitching in
disgust. “I will allow you a moment to get dressed,” she adds.

I pick myself up from the
floor, my legs shaking unsteadily beneath me. The woman stands there,
scrutinizing my every move. I grimace as I turn away from her and my hands
tremble as they reach for the pants folded on the bedspread. Carefully sliding
them on underneath the soaked paper-thin gown, I deliberately take my time so I
can figure out my next plan of action. When I try to change into the shirt, my
body involuntarily spasms, still aching from whatever they did to me before. Taking
a deep breath, I slide my feet into the shoes positioned beside the bed.

My eyes dart up to meet the
woman's.

“Follow me,” she murmurs.

She holds my gaze for a
long moment before walking out the door. I hesitate, glancing down at the
mattress.

Now or never,
I remind myself.

Dropping to one knee, my
hands graze across my shoe as I pretend to adjust the ties. I have maybe five
seconds before the woman notices my absence, so I move quickly, yanking the
shard out from its hiding place and tucking it inside the left sleeve of my
shirt.

I time everything
perfectly. As soon as the glass is concealed, the attendant reappears in the
doorway—lips pursed and her annoyance plainly visible.

I immediately stand up and
follow her out into the corridor. The path we follow is familiar, even though
I’ve only walked it one other time. When we stop beside the closed door, she
enters a series of numbers into the adjoining keypad. The door opens at once,
revealing the room with the long mirrored wall.

Dr. Richter is already inside,
waiting for me. His expression is hard, and he no longer bothers with that
forced smile.

“Take a seat,” he orders.

I look back at the woman,
but I only catch a glimpse of her before she exits the room, and the door locks
behind her. I turn toward Dr. Richter. Taking a deep breath to settle my
nerves, I make my way over to the opposite side of the table. The silence is
laced with tension as I weakly slump into the chair.

“You look like hell,” he
says after a moment.

“What have you done to me?”
I growl.

He removes his glasses,
breaking eye contact with me for the brief moment it takes him to clean them on
his coat.

“I haven’t done anything
that your body wouldn’t have naturally embraced on its own. I merely sped up
the process.”

I glare at him, taken aback
by his words as well as the terrifying message behind them. “What do you mean?”
I breathe.

He looks up at me now,
carefully replacing his glasses before folding his hands on the table.

“You are
evolving
,”
he answers. “Developing abilities that other humans can only dream of. Although
I was uncertain of it before, this last trial confirmed my suspicions.” He
pauses and a sly smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. “You are exactly who I
imagined you to be,” he purrs.

“You said I wouldn’t be
harmed,” I whisper. “You said I would be treated with civility.”

“Yes,” he admits. “But
certain sacrifices need to be made for the advancement of science.”

Sacrifices?
I nearly scream at him.
How can he act as if what they did to me was anything short of inhuman? It was
torture, plain and simple. Not that I shouldn’t have seen it coming. After all,
that’s what the DSD is known for.

I gape at him in disbelief,
feeling even more horrified than I was before. But I know that no good will
come of arguing with him. They have the upper hand—my complaints won’t change
that. Hell, they won’t even be recognized.

My eyes drop, and I wonder
why this had to happen to me. Is what he said true? Would this have occurred
anyway, even if they hadn’t encouraged it? Was this always inevitable? I think
of the man in my vision and Dr. Richter’s reaction to seeing him.