Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1) (2 page)

Another computer. Another
security check.

Each person in front of me
scans their wrist across the machine, and I do the same once I'm at the front
of the line.

Another beep. Another green
light.

Except at this checkpoint,
the scan triggers the screen to display a diagram of the room and indicate
which desk I’ve been allocated for the exam. After studying it for a moment, I
walk through the door, finding my seat within a matter of seconds.

I sit down and hang my bag
on the back of the chair. More people are beginning to file into the limited
space, and one by one, the seats around me fill up. The room is oddly quiet,
despite the number of people present, but the silence only makes me feel more
unsettled than I did before.

I take a deep breath.

It’s going to be okay,
I remind myself.
You
can do this.

I glance down at the desk
and run my fingers across the computerized top. The screen remains deactivated.

I reel back. My eyes trail
across the surface until they land on the small scanner sitting in the top
right corner. A small red light under the glass blinks every few seconds.
Without another thought, I wave my wrist in front of the device, and as the
light changes to green, the entirety of the desktop purrs to life. I stare down
at the screen where I notice my name printed in large letters across it:

Today’s date is flashing in
the top left corner: October 14, 2061. There’s also an ID number printed below
my name, which reads 73956241. A number I instantly recognize since it’s the
one I was assigned at birth. Other than that, the screen is blank.

I look up just in time to
see a colossal screen at the front of the room turn on. A man’s face
appears—the CEO of the company.

I can’t help but feel
unnerved by the way he looks back at us. His expression is unwelcoming, and his
gruff authoritative voice booms through the air, sending a chill of fear down
my spine.

“The examination will begin
momentarily,”
he says.
“You will be given three hours to complete it. Anyone who finishes
before this time may press the call button to submit their exam. Once you have
submitted your exam, no revisions will be allowed. Good luck.”
As soon as
those final words leave his mouth, the screen at the front of the room shuts
off.

My head snaps to the side
when the doors behind me begin to close, and I know the moment I’ve been
dreading has finally arrived. There’s no turning back, even if I wanted to.

This is it.

The locks on the doors set
into place with an audible click. The sound is like a threatening omen, as if
to say there’s no escape from my impending fate.

An automated female voice
comes over the loudspeaker.

“The exam will now
commence,”
she announces.
“You may begin.”

I look down as the desktop
begins to change, revealing the first part of the exam. My fingers twitch as I
reach over to grab the electronic stylus that’s been provided. Taking one more
deep breath, I dive headfirst into the series of questions that will inevitably
determine my future.

The automated voice returns
every fifteen minutes, echoing through the room as a reminder that the clock is
constantly ticking.

“Two hours, forty-five
minutes remaining.”

“Two hours, thirty minutes
remaining.”

“Two hours, fifteen minutes
remaining.”

It’s irritating, and I try
my best to ignore it, centering my attention on the questions in front of me.
For the most part, I seem to be doing all right. All of that studying has paid
off. However, there’s still the occasional question that seems out of place, as
if the test makers have purposely included them in order to throw me off—to
confirm whether or not I actually belong in my projected sector.

“Two hours remaining,”
that annoying voice
reminds me.

I can feel a bead of sweat
trickling down the side of my face, and suddenly, I don’t feel well. I try to
swallow, but my throat is painfully dry, and even my eyes seem to be losing
focus.

I squint at the screen
below me as I shake my head, trying to suppress the nerves that are beginning
to overtake me. But nothing works.

My symptoms grow worse.

I try to inhale, but oxygen
seems lost to me. For whatever reason, even my lungs are acting up, tightening
to the point where it’s becoming difficult to breathe.

A panic attack?
I wonder.
Not now,
I
beg.

“One hour, forty-five
minutes remaining.”

I squeeze my fists tightly
together and bring my face close to the screen, determined to finish this
exam—terrified of what will happen if I don’t.

“Don’t stand out. Blend in.
Remain invisible,” I mutter through clenched teeth. A desperate reminder to
keep myself going.

I begin to read the next
question, but only one word in the entire sentence is clear.

“End,” it silently says to
me.

End . . . .

Spasms erupt throughout my
body, and it feels as if, at any moment, I might explode from the extreme
pressure that seems to be pushing at me from the inside. Every breath I take is
heavy as I gasp for air.

I know without having to
look that the other people in the room have become alerted to my strange
behavior. I
want
to stop it. I
want
to continue the test. I don’t
want to fail.

I don’t want to stand out.

A cry of pain escapes my
lips and passes through every inch of me until it gets to the point where I can
no longer bear it. It’s too much.

I can’t take it.

A tremor rolls over my
hand, weakening my grip on the stylus. It falls clumsily from my fingers,
clattering loudly onto the tiled floor—the sound acting like a trigger as
everything around me instantly goes black.

WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, I’m no longer in
the classroom. Somehow . . .
impossibly
. . . I’m someplace else
altogether.

I turn around in my seat.
The pain that I felt before is now gone, however, it’s been replaced by
emotions I have no hope of controlling.

Fear.

Confusion.

Disbelief.

My eyes widen as they all
attack me at once, overpowering the part of my brain that might actually be
able to comprehend what’s happening.

Is this a dream? A
hallucination?

Whatever it is, I’m
frightened—that much I can say with certainty.

My legs quake as I rise to
my feet, my fingers clutching at the chair to hold me to the one thing I know
is real in all of this.

A strong wind blows past
me, and I can feel bits of debris as they graze across my skin. The air is full
of dust. Yet, in spite of the impairing fog, I’m able to recognize where I am.
I
know
this place. After all, I’ve lived here my whole life. Except the
city that I’m so familiar with is drastically different from the one I see
before me now.

The scene of destruction
that surrounds me is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. There are no people.
No lights. There isn’t a single sign of life. There’s only me, standing here
all alone as everything crumbles into nonexistence.

The panic that hits me is
overwhelming. I can practically feel it boiling beneath my skin. It consumes
every inch of me until it feels as if my sanity will abandon me at any moment.
I want to close my eyes—to shut out the havoc taking place around me. But no
matter how hard I try, I’m forced to watch every passing second.

To see what I can only
assume must be the end of the world.

I swallow as I fearfully
take a step forward. The gravel and debris crunch beneath my feet, but some
unseen force stops me from taking a single step farther. Hesitantly, I reach
out my hand.

A loud gasp bursts from my
lungs when I’m suddenly ripped away from my body—torn from my ruined
surroundings until I’m seeing the city from overhead. The air whips around me
as the buildings steadily grow smaller, shrinking.

Shrinking.

In less than a minute, I’m
floating above the entire planet. Except, I’m not here. I’m somehow outside of
myself, witnessing the end of all life, including my own.

In the blink of an eye, the
destruction I saw up-close seems to explode, devouring everything in a single,
obliterating mouthful.

All I see is a blinding
flash before I find myself back in the safety of the classroom. Sweat trickles
from every uncovered inch of my skin, and I can hear a horrible screaming
sound, which I realize, after many moments, is actually coming from me. The
sound of it is inhuman, and it takes everything I have to stop it and regain
control over the parts of my body that are unable to separate reality from the
horror I’ve just seen.

Clenching my eyes shut, I
try to steady my breathing. My lungs seem to be working at double speed, and
every breath is physically exhausting to the point where it’s nearly painful.

In. Out. In. Out.
I repeat those words to
myself until I no longer have to consciously monitor each breath. However, when
my eyes eventually open, that crippling feeling of panic all too quickly
suffocates me once again.

Every eye in the room is
focused on me. I turn in place, taking in the one expression that seems to
cover each face.

My lungs constrict as the
sweat continues to bead along my skin. I feel hot, as if every molecule in my
body is on fire, and I immediately recognize the metallic stench in my nose as
blood.

My hand shakes as I lift it
to my face, and my eyes twitch nervously when I see the red coating my fingers.

My heart rate increases. My
breaths seem deafening.

I can’t stay here
. That realization is
enough to finally force me to move. Lunging forward, I slam my hand against the
submit button on the top corner of my desktop without a plan or even a thought
as to what I’m doing.

Without registering the
consequences that will surely follow me because of it.

Ripping my bag off the
chair, my legs dart toward the exit. There’s a small scanner in the doorway,
which is cold against my wrist, and the doors instantly spring open once that
little light turns green.

The locks click back into
place behind me. I can hear the sound as it echoes in my head, just as I can
still feel the stares of every single person in that room.

Their confused gazes seem
to follow me, even as I rush down the corridor. I try to ignore the feeling and
concentrate on the path that will lead me out of here.

I come to a grinding halt
in front of the elevator. My palm stings painfully when I slap it against the
call button. Luckily, the doors open at once.

“Excuse me, miss!” the
woman with short hair calls after me.

Ignoring her, I hurry
inside, only feeling distanced from all those eyes the moment the doors close
behind me. I take a long, deep breath. However, I can’t escape the reality of
what I imagine is about to happen.

I bite my lip and glance up
at the elevator doors, where I find my distorted reflection staring back at me
from the steel. My skin is ashen and glistens sickeningly with sweat. My hair
is plastered to my head. My eyes are so bloodshot that I can’t even see the
white. Red smears stain the bottom half of my face.

Pulling at the sleeve of my
coat, I press the material against my nose in an effort to staunch the
bleeding. My eyes dart back up to my disfigured reflection.

The seconds seem to drag,
and the silence is foreboding, reminding me of the unknown fate that awaits me
the moment these doors open. I don’t know what to expect. Truthfully, I wasn’t
even thinking when I ran out of that room. I should’ve composed myself and
finished my exam. Second chances aren’t given, and I know, without a shadow of
a doubt, that my behavior before will come back to haunt me. Second chances
don’t exist.

This won’t be forgiven.

The light above the
elevator doors begins to glow. I brace myself. Yet, when the steel doors open,
I’m surprised to see that the reception area is empty. The man from before is
still sitting behind the desk, but other than that, he’s entirely alone. He
doesn’t say anything to me either. In fact, he doesn’t even look up when I
begin to walk past him.

I hesitate, unsure if it’s
smart to go any farther and wondering if I should just turn myself in now.

Peering out through the
glass doors, my eyes lock on the one thing standing between me and the way out.

I glance back at the man.
When he still doesn’t speak, my feet instinctively pull me forward. I burst
through the double doors, my body racing toward the turnstile where all I have
to do is prick my finger. A little blood, that’s it, and then I can escape.

I don’t even register the
pain. It’s fleeting, and I’m too focused on getting out of here to really care
about anything else.

I can sense the security
guards watching me as I run out of the building, but no one does anything to
try to stop me. I’m not sure why. Perhaps we’ve grown so accustomed to our conformity
that we don’t know how to react to anything unusual anymore.

The cold air hits my face
the moment I’m through the revolving doors, but I’m too preoccupied with my
fear to be able to enjoy it. It doesn’t escape my notice how everyone is
looking at me either. I can only imagine what they’re thinking.

Squeezing the sleeve of my
coat, I press it even harder against my face. I can still feel the blood as it
drips from my nose, but I’m too scared to pull my hand away and assess the
damage.

The thought leaves a sour
taste in my mouth.

Fear. That’s the one reason
I’ve always tried to play by the rules. So I could avoid the inevitable
punishment that would arise if I didn’t.

Don’t stand out. Blend in.
Remain invisible . . . .

Unfortunately, it’s too
late for that now.

The damage is done.

I hurry down the main road
and swiftly retrace my steps into Central Station. The turnstile beeps when I
scan my card across the machine. I thrust my body through the gate as soon as
it opens.

I don’t have to wait long
for the next train. When it arrives, I rush onboard, trying to draw as little
attention to myself as possible.

Easier said than done.

I shrink into my seat to
hide from the lingering stares of the other passengers, only daring to move
when the train approaches my stop.

For the first time in my
life, I don’t politely wait my turn. I push through the crowd around me,
ignoring the disgruntled complaints as I make my way onto the platform.

In. Out. In. Out.
My breaths are haggard,
and although I know that’s only because of the coat against my face, I'm too
afraid to move it away. I try to breathe through the thick material, telling
myself to concentrate on this one simple task until I’m safely back home.

I encounter fewer people on
this leg of the journey. It’s a huge relief since maybe that means there won't
be any more witnesses to this whole ordeal. I keep my head down as I walk,
moving as fast as I can without attracting any unwanted attention. Fortunately,
no one says anything or seems to notice me at all.

When I finally turn onto my
street, I’m overjoyed to find that it’s completely deserted. I glance up. I can
see my family’s designated living quarters just two blocks down. It’s a welcome
sight after everything that’s happened today, and I find myself instinctively
picking up the pace, hurrying toward the sanctuary it seems to offer.

Our home is one in a row of
terraced houses. We’re fortunate enough to live in Zone 2—one of the wealthier
areas of the city—but our quarters were downsized a number of years ago due to
the shrinking size of my family. I don’t have any siblings and my father . . .
. Well, he’s not around anymore.

It’s just Mother and me
now. We only have each other.

I sprint up the steps,
skipping two at a time, and sweep my wrist against the locked panel awaiting me
at the top. It unlocks as soon as it registers my chip. Throwing myself inside,
I immediately slam the door shut behind me.

My heart is racing in my
chest, and my hands tremble where they remain planted against the glass and
steel frame. I close my eyes as I lean back against it, allowing myself a
minute to catch my breath.

It’s strange. I know I’m in
trouble—or if I’m not already, I’m going to be very soon. Yet, now that I’m
home, I can’t help but feel better about everything that’s happened. Almost as
if the outside world can no longer touch me.

I inhale deeply, and after
a few moments, I take a step forward. However, an unexpected feeling of dread
suddenly freezes me in place.

Something isn't right.

The hallway is dark, which
I find unusual. Normally, the lights are all on.

“Mother?” I call out.

My footsteps reverberate
off the tiled floor as I creep down the corridor. Despite the surrounding
emptiness, I can’t escape the feeling that I’m not the only one here. After a
few more careful steps, I notice a faint glimmer coming from the end of the
hall.

I abruptly stop walking
when I hear the muffled sound of voices.

“Mother?” I call again.

“I’m in the reception
room,” she answers.

I’m relieved to hear her
voice, and any doubts I have seem to instantly vanish. I scramble forward,
first having the sense to check in a mirror to see if my nose has stopped
bleeding. It has, although I still look ghostly pale.

Hopefully, she won’t
notice.

I scrub my sleeve across my
face to erase the last remnants of blood. Then, without further delay, I turn
the corner into the reception room.