Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1) (9 page)

The cool evening air hits
me like a slap in the face. I breathe it in. It’s like a welcome sigh of relief
after everything I’ve been through—fresh in comparison to the stale, odorous
air I’ve been breathing for weeks.

The feeling of freedom
doesn’t last for long. Because, despite the fact that I’ve escaped and I’m now
running from the State itself, I know this isn’t simply a case of luck.

I was only able to leave
because they
let
me leave. Because
Dr. Richter
let me leave. And
there’s only one reason I can think of as to why he would do that.

He thinks I’ll lead him to
the man from my vision.

He thinks I’ll lead him to
Ezra Laramie.

MY EYES LOCK ON THE sign in front of
me. The insignia for Zone 7 seems to loom over me like a shadow, alluding to
the daunting nature of the task ahead. I have no other choice except to move
forward. I know that. After all, I can’t go home. I couldn’t even if I wanted
to. There’s nowhere else left for me to go.

Not if I want to survive.

Peering down at my arm, I
tug up the sleeve until my wrist is exposed. Even though I can’t see it, I know
the chip is there. Just as I know they’ll use it to track me—that they’re
already
using it to track me.

I breathe in deeply, more
aware than ever of what I have to do. The only reason I haven’t taken care of
it already is I figured, this way, they’d be more inclined to back off. If I
left it in, they’d keep their distance until I led them to PHOENIX. However, if
I tried to remove it prematurely, they’d realize what I’m planning and just
take me back to the DSD.

That is something I simply
can’t allow to happen.

My fingers tremble as I
slide them inside the deep pocket of Dr. Richter’s coat. Cautiously, I wrap
them around the jagged edges of the broken mirror. My nerves waver, but I
tighten my grip, reminding myself that there’s no other option.

“It ends here,” I breathe.

Casting agitated glances
around the empty street, I slink into a nearby alley to avoid detection. It’s
almost pitch black, but I figure that’s for the best. I don’t want to see what
I’m about to do anyway.

My hand twitches as I use
the broken glass to cut a long strip from the hem of the coat. Rolling the
material into a ball, I jam it inside my mouth, biting down hard.

I take a long breath,
readying myself.

Carefully, my fingers point
the mirror against the flesh on my naked wrist. I hesitate for a moment,
temporarily overcome with fear. One single slip is all it would take. One
mistake, and I’ll die here in this alley, covered in my own blood.

I shake my head to escape
the horrific images that surround me. The chips are located in this exact spot
for a reason—to avoid people doing what I’m so stupidly about to do. But it has
to be done.

There’s no other way.

I clamp my teeth over the
cloth, and before I can talk myself out of it, I push the tip of the shard into
my skin.

A grunt passes through my
lips, but my screams are muffled. Dark red blood pools from the wound and drips
onto the pavement. My fingers work the glass, turning it around inside my arm.

Black spots flash in front
of my eyes, and I feel dizzy from the pain. All the nerve endings in my body
seem to come alive in response to it—a sort of sickening sensation that goes
hand in hand with each movement. I jiggle the mirror, trying to maintain my
hold on consciousness. But the darkness is overwhelming, calling to me from the
depths of this self-inflicted torment.

Finally, I feel the edge of
the mirror scrape against the chip. Sucking in quick breaths, I attempt to lift
it free. I bite down even harder on the cloth, struggling not to succumb to the
pain.

My body goes limp as I
slump back against the brick wall behind me. My jaw slackens, and the material
previously muting my screams unravels across my outstretched arm. Looking down,
I see the glint of gold protruding from my wrist.

For a brief moment, I do
nothing except stare at the chip. Pinching it between my fingers, I hold it up
to my eyes. The minimal light surrounding me reflects off its surface, and it
amazes me how so much fear can revolve around such a small object. It’s
pathetic, really.

I consider what to do with
it, wondering if I should just crush it here and now. Something deep inside of
me seems to counter that idea, and instead it coaxes me to throw it into the
dark shadows of the alley.

Keep it active,
I tell myself.

It’s the best thing to do.
Fortunately, the chips are only good for identification and tracking. They
don’t keep any record of vital signs, which means, if I leave it here in one
piece, Dr. Richter and his team will just think I’ve stopped to rest for a
while. They won’t have any way of knowing that I cut the damn thing out. Not
until they find it at least, at which point, I’ll be long gone.

Hopefully
.

Ready to make a move, I
wrap the strip of material around my wrist to control the bleeding. I know it
won’t stop it, but it’ll have to do until I can figure out how to close up the
wound properly.

My fingers awkwardly work
with my mouth, tying the cloth as tightly as possible. When it’s as good as I
can get it, I pull down my sleeve to hide what I’ve done—both from myself and
from any wandering eyes.

Dropping the bloodied glass
back inside my pocket, I straighten up and proceed forward. My body feels weak
without the wall for support, and the extreme lightheadedness from my blood
loss is crippling. I exit the alley, stumbling every few steps, despite my
attempts to walk normally.

I’m not sure how much time
passes. The night is thick as I search the area for the sign from my vision,
the haziness clouding my eyes making my task that much more difficult.

The streets are empty,
creating a sort of ghost town. I’ve never been this far from home, and the
difference between this zone and the one I grew up in is staggering.

Unlike where I’m from, Zone
7 marks the border of the city—the outer edge before passing into other areas
of the country. However, travel between cities is strictly prohibited. Special
clearance is required for any exceptions, and even those are hard to come by.

It’s very rare for people
to
want
to leave, though. Most don’t tend to stray very far from their
residential zone, except for work, although I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe
it’s the fear of winding up in a place like this.

I glance around. The
buildings are derelict and the roads are filthy. It’s obvious the State doesn’t
bother with upkeep this far out. I can’t even spot any security cameras, which
is strange to say the least, especially since that’s how the State keeps a
handle on crime. It’s enough to make me question who would be unfortunate
enough to live here.

My stomach turns as a
sudden and overpowering nausea crawls up my throat. Fresh sweat beads along my
skin as a dizzy spell skews my vision. I trip forward, reaching out my arms to
break my fall. My fingers clutch at the nearest object to prevent myself from
landing face first on the pavement. They wrap around metal—the frame of what I
assume must be a signpost.

I take a few quavering
breaths as I steady myself. My eyes blink multiple times, trying to clear the
muddled haze preventing me from seeing clearly. When I can finally focus, I
notice the emblem for Zone 7 staring back at me, along with the name of the
road.

B42.

This is it,
I realize.
I’m here. I
made it.

For some reason, the idea
shocks me. Maybe because, up until now, I was still convincing myself that none
of this was real—that the visions were nothing more than bizarre
hallucinations, concocted by my unhinged brain for one reason or other that
remained a mystery to me. Yet, seeing this sign in front of me now, as well as
the familiar surroundings of this dreary street, is enough to tell me this is
all actually happening.

Staring down the length of
the road, I follow the path I'm able to recall from the vivid images in my
head. There’s no one around, but that doesn’t surprise me. It’s late and
probably past curfew. I can't imagine that anyone takes that risk, not even out
here. Everyone usually abides by the law that’s been put in place.

Everyone, it seems, except
for me.

I wince when a strong
halogen light blinds me from one side. I turn toward it, both terrified and
relieved to see the setting from my vision laid out in front of me.

It’s exactly as I remember
it. The lights flicker. The bulbs buzz. In many ways, it stands out far more
than the other buildings, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll really find him
here. On the other hand, the area
alone
is enough to dissuade anyone
from going closer.

Perhaps that makes it the
perfect hiding place, after all.

I take a deep breath and
trudge forward, trying to avoid the rain-filled potholes littering the road. My
hands are shaking, and my persistent nerves are flipping my stomach. I lick my
lips as my fingers reach for the rusty handle on the metal door. My lungs
inhale once again before I finally pull it open.

I’m greeted by the musty
smell of smoke and a general staleness. The stench is so powerful, it’s
practically tangible, but I clench my jaw and bear it, stepping blindly into
The
Vega’s
clutches
.

Upon entering, every eye in
the room turns to look at me, and I stop short, thrown by the abrupt
realization of what I’m doing.

I glance between the many
suspicious faces, getting the distinct impression that strangers aren’t seen
here all that often. I linger in the doorway, not quite sure how to react.
Having just come of legal age, I’ve never even been in a place like this
before.

I try to act naturally, or
as close to that as possible.

I impulsively plop down on
a seat at the bar and peek up at the bartender, who eyes me curiously as he
dries the glass in his hand with a dirty rag. A toothpick sticks lazily out of
one corner of his mouth.

“What can I get ya?” he
asks in a gruff voice.

“Water,” I croak, realizing
just how thirsty I actually am.

The bartender laughs,
shaking his head as he picks up another glass. “Yer in a bar, sweet cheeks,” he
says with a grin. “You’ll have to order somethin’ a bit more toxic.”

I’m taken aback by his
relaxed and overly informal manner. I’ve never heard anyone speak like this. I
don’t even speak this way to my own mother.

I hesitate, unsure what to
say. Alcoholic beverages aren’t all that common in Zone 2, or in our society at
all for that matter. Drinking is seen as a degrading habit, and it’s not even
legal in many places across the city. Plus, I have no way to pay for it.

As I consider my options,
my eyes glance around the bar, and suddenly, my heart skips a few beats in my
chest. A shudder runs up my spine as my breathing becomes erratic.

For a long moment, I’m
completely unaware of the bartender—standing silently, still waiting for me to
answer. Instead, I gape at the man seated two stools down from me. Every detail
about him is identical to the ones lodged in my memory.

It’s him,
I think to myself.

My eyes widen in disbelief
as I stare at Ezra Laramie.

“Well?” the bartender asks.

His voice startles me, and
I quickly look back at him, clearing my throat.
I have to buy myself some
time. Worry about payment later,
I tell myself.

“I’ll have what he’s
having.” With a nod of my head, I gesture toward the man who, up until a minute
ago, I wasn’t even certain was actually real.

The bartender gives me a
strange look, obvious distrust burning deep within his gaze. But whatever
doubts he has about me, he doesn’t voice them.

“Sure thing,” he grumbles.

Within a matter of seconds,
a pint of some strange amber liquid is placed in front of me. I stare at the
glass, trying to keep my eyes focused ahead. However, I can’t help but peer
over at the man beside me. It’s an unusual feeling—like déjà vu, as if I’m
seeing someone from a distant dream impossibly brought to life.

I swallow, feeling both
uncertain and afraid. I have no idea what to say or do from this point. I
hadn’t planned any further than simply finding him. Maybe because I didn't
think I would make it this far. Or maybe because I know he won't believe me.
And why should he? A woman he’s never met before tells him she was kidnapped by
the DSD after experiencing a vision of the end of the world? A vision that,
conveniently enough, he just so happened to be in? I wouldn’t blame him for not
believing me. Hell, I wouldn’t blame him if he tried to kill me as soon as I
mention the DSD.