Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1) (6 page)

I can’t trust him. I know
that. But what other choice do I have?
And, if I do cooperate . . . ?

I nervously lick my lips.
They’re cracked and dry beneath my tongue, trembling along with the rest of my
body. Dr. Richter smiles once again, waiting patiently for me to speak.

“If I cooperate . . . will
you let me go?” My voice is soft, just above a whisper, and my eyes are wide
with unrestrained hope. I watch him, eager to hear that single word. That one
simple word that will mean I can go home.

He looks away from me as he
rises from his chair. The metal legs screech against the tiled floor, and he
doesn’t bother to replace it before walking over to the door. He pushes a small
button on the wall. Within a matter of seconds, the middle-aged man from before
reappears in the doorway.

Dr. Richter turns and
smiles at me again, and I know without having to ask that our conversation is
over. He inclines his head toward me before exiting the room.

As I watch him disappear
around the corner, I come to terms with the answer he refused to give me.
Because, the fact is, he didn’t have to say it. The silence said it for him.

They will never let me go.

I TAKE A DEEP BREATH. My heart is
racing, and every inch of my body is shaking. I blink nervously, watching as
the two female attendants strap me back down to the metal table. The reluctance
coursing through me is overwhelming, and I have to keep reminding myself that I
agreed to all of this. I agreed to let Dr. Richter run his tests.

Any sane person would ask
me why. I’ve asked myself that very question more times than I can count. But
the truth is, even if I had a choice—even if I
could’ve
walked away, I
wouldn’t have. Because, deep down, I want to know what’s happening to me even
more than he does.

I exhale. Out of the corner
of one eye, I notice Dr. Richter walking toward me. He stops about a foot away
from the right side of the table, and his eyes are fixed on mine the entire
time. He only looks away long enough to dismiss the two women with a single nod
of his head. They make a few final adjustments to the straps holding me down
and then move away, leaving me alone with him.

“Are you ready?” he asks
me. His gaze is overpowering.

I take another deep breath,
preparing myself. “That depends,” I murmur. “What are you going to do?”

“I want to recreate the
experience you had at W. P. Headquarters. Hopefully, that will be enough to
prove whether or not you are who I believe you to be.”

And if it isn’t?
I want to ask, but I can’t
find the words.

“How do you plan to do
that
?”
I ask instead, trying to distract myself from the troubled feeling in my
stomach.

There’s an indecipherable
emotion in his eyes. It seems to shine, glistening with anticipation. It’s
obvious that he’s enthusiastic about the possibilities standing before
him—about the advancements in science he might soon discover. Still, I can’t
help but wonder if he’s even remotely concerned about me. Or if he cares about
the potential price for him to meet those very possibilities face-to-face.

A price, I alone will have
to pay.

“We’re going to inject you
with an inhibitor that will slow down the normal functions of your brain,” he
explains. “Once the inhibitor has set in, we’ll send magnetic signals to a
localized part of the occipital lobe, where we believe the visions stem from.
If all goes according to plan, that will stimulate a response, which will
replicate what you experienced before.”

And if it doesn’t go
according to plan? What then?
But I’m too afraid of the answer to ask.

My eyes lift to meet his. I
barely understood a word of what he just said, but I grasped enough to come up
with one final question.

I swallow, suddenly feeling
nauseous. “Will it hurt?” I whimper. My voice is practically nonexistent.

He smiles down at me as he
gently places his hand on my shoulder. “You’ll feel a minor discomfort at most.
Nothing to be concerned about.”

I’m not consoled by his
words.

He seems to realize this
because a moment later he adds, “You’re doing the right thing, Wynter.” The
squeeze he gives my shoulder is a bit firmer than necessary, and his eyes
linger on mine for an uncomfortably long moment. Then, he turns away, directing
his attention to a nearby computer.

I try to ignore my pounding
heart and concentrate on the ceiling above me instead. I count the lights and
tiles, but every attempt to distract myself only ends in failure. All I can
truly focus on is my increasing apprehension.

Leaning my head back, I
take another long breath to try to steady my nerves. I almost manage it until
one of the female attendants appears beside me once again. She grabs my hand
and proceeds to wipe something cold and wet across my skin.

“You’ll feel a slight
pinch,” she says.

I wince when she inserts a
needle into my vein. A second attendant stands next to her, setting up an IV
near my head. It only takes about a minute in total. When everything is hooked
up, the first attendant grabs a large, ominous-looking syringe.

She glances over at Dr.
Richter. “Everything is ready,” she tells him.

He doesn’t say anything. He
doesn’t even make eye contact with anyone in the room. I watch him carefully,
wary of his silence. A moment later, he turns to face me, and a shudder of
panic rushes through my body when his fingers pull down the front of my gown. I
begin to struggle against the restraints, but they refuse to budge. He doesn’t
seem to notice. Either that or he simply chooses to ignore my resistance as he
attaches a few circular pads to my chest.

My body relaxes as soon as
I realize what he’s doing. Within a matter of seconds, the sound of my
heartbeat projects from the monitor beside me.

Dr. Richter returns to the
computer. I exhale, feeling his excitement in every long drawn-out moment and
hearing my unease in the unsteady palpitations of my racing heart. It sounds
frantic, and the tempo increases further when a large metal halo lowers around
my head. A number of small bars extend from the inside of the ring and press
forcefully against my skull in two-inch intervals.

A loud gasp flies from my
lungs when the cold metal touches my skin.

It holds me in place. I can
now only see Dr. Richter out of my peripheral vision, and I try to watch what
he’s doing as much as I’m able to. He seems to be entering information into the
computer. After tapping a few buttons, a panel in the countertop to his right
begins to open.

A large hole appears in the
glass-like surface, and from this hole, a handful of small silver objects
ascend—not that unlike the metal bowl from before. They rise into the air as a
soft but brilliant glow illuminates around them. The light grows brighter as
they begin to move, orbiting around each other like tiny planets.

Dr. Richter nods his head.
“Introduce the inhibitor.” His eyes lock on the female attendant beside me.

I glance at the woman
holding the syringe. Suddenly, I’m not sure I made the right choice, after all.
She pushes the needle into one of the tubes in my hand, and a light blue liquid
flows into my vein. The sensation is strange—cold like ice and leaving behind a
bitter chill. Yet, it’s also hot like fire, burning its way through every
molecule in my body.

The feeling is horrible,
and I want to scream out, but I’m distracted by the expression on Dr. Richter’s
face. The wild hunger in his eyes only further fuels my fear.

“Thirty seconds until the
inhibitor will enter the subject’s brain,” a man announces from across the
room.

I try to look around, but I
can’t move my head. The panic sets in when an automated female voice pierces
through the air, echoing in the backdrop.

Counting down.

“Twenty-five seconds
remaining,”
the voice says.

My breaths speed up, and
I’m abruptly overcome by an intense feeling of regret. It takes everything I
have to remind myself that this would’ve happened either way. Even if I hadn’t
agreed to it, Dr. Richter would’ve run these tests—these experiments. In the
end, I never really had a choice.

“Twenty seconds remaining.”

My heart is racing. I can
feel it. I can
hear
it.

“Ten seconds remaining.”

I don’t want this. I’m
scared.

“Five seconds remaining.”

I look over at Dr. Richter,
ready to beg him to abort. But he isn’t looking at me, and I can’t find my
voice.

“Four . . . .”

I watch as he presses a
single button, and the floating objects stop moving—almost as if time has
frozen around them.

“Three . . . .”

The silver objects pulse
outward now, glowing even brighter.

“Two . . . .”

I clench my eyes shut.

“One . . . .”

When the countdown hits
zero, I cry out. My eyes snap open, but everything around me is white, blinding
me.

It’s as if a thousand
lightning bolts have all struck me at once, hitting me in the same isolated
place in my head. I gasp for air, trying to breathe through the pain and hoping
it’s over.

My vision clears just
enough to see Dr. Richter. I follow his gaze, only to find that the silver
objects are moving once again.

Now they’re still.

Pulsing.

And—

“Again,” Dr. Richter says.

I scream out when they hit
me. My body goes limp, despite the fact I’m held down.

“Her heart rate is
dropping.” The woman’s voice is foggy. Distant.

“Continue until there’s a
response,” he bites back.

No more . . . . No more . .
. .

But I can’t speak. My voice
is gone. I’m too weak.

Over and over again, the
lightning hits. It always strikes in the same place, tearing through my head
like a wave of fire. I scream until I can’t scream any longer, and then I just
lie still, silently wishing for it all to end. The pain is too much. I just
want it to end.

The white surrounding me
fades until all I can see is black. Then finally,
thankfully
, my body
gives into unconsciousness.

THE TORTURE CONTINUES FOR SEVERAL
months. Or at least, I think it’s been months. It’s hard to tell when all you
know is pain. After a while, you just shut off, hoping the numbness will
suffice until the torment finally ends.

Every day, I’m dragged back
into that damn laboratory and strapped to the same metal table against my will.
The events that follow after are exactly as they were that first time. It goes
on until I pass out, and when I eventually come to, I’m back in this prison, where
all I can do is wait for it to start all over again.

In the few moments of
clarity I have where I can focus on something other than the pain, I think of
Dr. Richter. I think of the promise he made me back when we first met. His
claim that no harm would come to me during my time here.

I realize now how gullible
I was, believing not only that lie, but also the very idea that my time here
would ever actually end.

I’m not leaving this place.
I know that. Just as I know, in the eyes of the good doctor, I’m nothing more
than a science experiment. A guinea pig. I don’t know how I ever convinced
myself it would turn out any different.

People don’t leave the DSD.
Not unless it’s in a body bag.

I stare at the puddles of
liquefied food lying scattered on the floor around me, and the part of me that
can still feel something is consumed with bitterness. They won’t kill me, and
they won’t let me die of my own accord. I’ve tried. At first, I gave in,
believing there was going to be some end to this madness, and I’d need my
strength in order to survive it.

I know better now.

When I stopped eating
altogether, they simply forced that upon me in the same way they force
everything else—even resorting to more invasive methods to provide sustenance.
They always find a way, no matter what.

There’s nothing I can do to
stop this.

My entire body cringes at
the memory of what these people have done to me. I can recall one episode in
particular, as vividly as if it’s happening again now.

I can’t remember when it
first started—a few weeks ago maybe. It was another typical day. Another failed
experiment. Weak and inundated with the now familiar agony, I had finally
decided that I couldn’t take anymore.

Enough was enough.

Upon being brought back to
this room, I had dragged my nearly lifeless body into the corner beside the
door—the camera's one potential blind spot—and attempted to remove the last of
whatever life I had left within me. I remember the feel of my fingernails
scraping the inside of my throat, and the desperation as I tried to regurgitate
the little nourishment my body was still clinging to.

In spite of my best
efforts, there was no hiding from them, and it wasn’t long before the camera
caught sight of what I was doing. Within a matter of seconds, the orderlies
were back in the room. First, pinning me to the floor, then forcing a long tube
down into my stomach and pumping me full of whatever it took to keep me alive.
To keep me in a physical state where they could continue to run their
experiments.

I tried to scream, but I
couldn’t. I tried to reject it, but I
couldn’t
. Their hands held me down
as my body convulsed. In the end, I couldn’t fight it.

This method has now become
a daily occurrence.

My eyes flicker open and
closed, fighting sleep. The floor is cool against my cheek, and it would feel
good if I wasn’t in so much pain. There’s an obscene smell perfuming the air
that I know is coming from me, but I lack the energy to bathe. I haven’t done
so in a long time now. I guess because I don’t see the point.

I’m going to die anyway.

Eventually, I allow my eyes
to close, giving in to my body’s crippling fatigue. However, I soon hear a
familiar beeping, which rips me back into full consciousness. The sound seems
to reverberate in the background of my mind, and for a brief second, I wonder
if I’m simply imagining it. Then, I hear the door open, and I know that I’m
not.

This is real. It’s
happening again.

No!
I want to scream.
Certainly, it hasn’t been a whole day already?

The hands that wrap around
me are rough and violent as they peel me off the sticky cement floor. They pull
me to my feet, grabbing onto me for support, since I’m no longer able to hold
myself up. In the beginning, they had to pin me down when they did this. They
don’t bother anymore.

They don’t have to.

I lift my eyes to meet
those of the orderly standing in front of me. His face is an expressionless
mask, his gaze equally as empty. I stare at him for a moment, silently
communicating my loathing for him—for this whole place. However, before I can
even attempt to speak, I feel the syringe pierce the skin on my neck.

It doesn’t knock me out.
I’m still conscious, albeit just barely. My body, on the other hand, is
completely limp.

It’s as if I’m paralyzed,
unable to move, fight, or run. Unable to do anything except feel pain. The one
thing they conveniently decided to keep intact.

They drag me through the
halls, leading me back to my place of torture. The fluorescent lights burn my
eyes, and I can feel my feet and toenails scraping against the floor. The
orderly doesn’t bother to lift me and spare me this one discomfort—even though
he could easily do so. Just goes to show what they think of me here.

Once again, I’m reminded of
Dr. Richter’s promise.

No harm will come to me?

If I had the strength, I’d
laugh.

I hardly even notice when
we enter the room, having spent the last few moments trying to tune everything
out. But when we pass through the doorway, it’s as if something buried inside
of me rises to the surface in response to my surroundings.

Fear takes over, bringing
me back to reality the instant I’m strapped down to the table.

It all happens just as it
did that first time. The IVs. The monitors. The group of doctors in white
coats. The metal halo situated around my head. Dr. Richter looks at me now with
a sick and inhuman detachment—devoid of any concern as to the harm his
experiments are causing me.

I can’t find the will or
the energy to cry, even though I’m broken on the inside, maybe because it feels
like giving in. Maybe because, in spite of how desperately I crave death, I
don’t want them to have the satisfaction of knowing they’ve won.

I don’t want
him
to
have that satisfaction.

“Proceed,” I hear Dr.
Richter say.

I know what’s coming next.
The
slight
discomfort he warned me of initially.

A shrill scream rips from
my lungs as pain consumes my body. The bolts flash through my head, strike
after strike exploding into my brain. I grind my teeth together in an effort to
overcome it, but the agony is unbearable. There’s no suppressing it. Just like
there’s no escaping the reality that this will eventually kill me.

But when? When will I be
spared this pain and finally be allowed to die? When will this stop?

Please,
I beg my body.
I don’t
care what you do. Just make it stop.

For a brief moment, the
strikes end. I slump to the side, gasping heavily and gagging up the minimal
contents of my stomach. Sweat drenches my skin, plastering the paper-thin gown
against my body. I blink, but my vision is obscured. All I can make out are
indistinct figures.

I notice a male voice
somewhere on my right side, but even that seems somewhat clouded.

“There’s been a neural
oscillation of her central nervous system.”

I don’t know what that
means. I don’t even care.

“Again,” Dr. Richter
commands.

No!
I try to scream, but my
voice fails me.

All too quickly, the
lightning returns. It passes through the halo before shooting straight into me
in fast repetitive jolts, disabling me further. I shout out with each
excruciating stab.

End this!
I plead with myself.
End
this!

Another stab.

End this!

I release a strangled
scream, but it’s almost instantly silenced by the rapid change in my
surroundings. Without warning, I’m ripped away from the laboratory and into the
depths of my own mind, where I find myself back amidst the scene of destruction
from before.

It’s exactly the same. The
harsh wind. The murky air. The debris. I turn in place, astounded by the
realistic nature of what I now know is actually a vision.

I immediately realize,
although begrudgingly, that Dr. Richter’s experiments seem to have worked. He
wanted me to relive my episode, and here I am.

But what now? What can he
possibly take away from all of this?

My eyes scan the length of
the horizon, but something feels off compared to the last time I was here.
Different
.
I can feel the variation in the air around me, almost as if—

My body goes rigid, frozen
with apprehension when I become conscious of the fact that I’m not alone.
Slowly, I turn around, reluctant to see what this vision has in store for me
and what it’s undoubtedly been leading me to.

A stranger stares back at
me. A man in his mid-twenties, if I had to venture a guess. He has blond hair
and hazel eyes. However, the warmth of his gaze is tinged with sadness. Dirt is
streaked across his cheeks, and his clothes are just as filthy.

I stare back at him,
alarmed by his presence, and even more so by the weapon enclosed in his right
hand. But he’s not pointing the gun at me. Suddenly, his eyes fill with tears,
confusing me further. His lips begin to move, but I can’t hear what he’s
saying.

“We can’t get a clear
picture, Doctor.”

“You have my authorization
to use the alternative method we spoke of earlier. Do whatever you feel is
necessary. I
want
that picture.”

Despite the continuing
vision around me, I can still hear what’s happening back at the DSD. Just like
I can feel what they’re doing to my body.

I shriek when the hot
needles pierce my eyes, inserting straight into my pupils at a slow and hellish
pace. For a few seconds, the scene around me is skewed, as if the entire world
is covered in static.

“There! Stop! We have a
clear image now!”

Everything goes still. The
agony cuts off, replaced instead with an insane level of clarity. If the vision
was distinct before, what I see now is the epitome of detail. But none of that
matters. Not once I hear his voice.

“I’m sorry, Wynter,” the
man whispers. Tears begin to roll down his cheeks.

“End the session.” Dr.
Richter’s voice booms around me, echoing through the vision with an unexpected
anger behind it.

Strangely, I don’t care.
How can I with what I’ve just seen?

My eyes water excessively
when the needles are abruptly removed. The excruciating nature of it all is
enough to make me black out. For many long moments, I’m encompassed by darkness
and aware of little else other than the pain. I only come to when I feel a
sharp sting across the surface of my cheek.

“How do you know him?” Dr.
Richter barks at me. His voice is muted but harsh. Hostile even.

I wince. My eyes open fully
as the force of his slap pulls me back into consciousness.

A weary breath passes
through my lips. “What?” I ask.

“The facial recognition
server has brought up a match.” A female voice enters my ears from across the
room. “The man in question is Ezra Laramie, age twenty-six. Blood type: A
positive. Suspected member of PHOENIX.”

PHOENIX?

I have trouble processing
this information, finding it hard to believe I could ever be associated with
one of
them
. After all, I’ve always played by the rules. I’ve always
followed the letter of the law.

Dr. Richter lunges forward
and grabs me by the collar of my gown, pulling me upright with an aggressive
tug.