Premise: In this young-adult dystopian novel, people can no longer die. But they still feel pain, and suffer--and it's maddening. Because of the chaos that ensued, the US Government created a program to figure out how to kill people. When Garrett, a teenager, falls into a coma for weeks as a result of an experiment, the Program sets its malicious sights on him.
This is the third chapter for the novel, Mortal. Click here for the beginning of the story. Or, click here for Chapter 2.
I feel the prick of the needle in my arm, and know the experiment has started. I watch the scientist who sits beside me, replacing the tubes whenever they fill up with my blood. His green eyes are composed. His lip twitches. It’s a methodical process, something a serial killer might enjoy.
“Have you done this test before?” I ask him, craning my neck to see his face.
“Quite a few times, actually,” Dr. Long replies, corking another vile.
I swallow as my head begins to buzz. “Why are you doing it again then?”
The scientist laughs, “You haven’t been here too long, have you? We repeat several experiments for one could affect someone more so than another.”
“I don’t understand,” I say with cold anger. How could taking all of someone’s blood be more affective for someone else? This was just a sick game to these people.
“None of us do, my boy,” Dr. Long says, “That’s why we’re here.”
“No,” I say, clenching my teeth, “I don’t understand why you torture us.” My face tingles with the loss of blood, and I wish I had counted how many vials he’s taken just for the morbid curiosity of it all.
Dr. Long is silent for a moment, licking his lips, “Torture you? We’re all being tortured! We’re trying to find a cure, and this is the only way we know how.”
A cure. Life was now a disease, it seems.
“Do you know how old I am?” I ask him hoarsely, my throat dry.
“I don’t have my clipboard in front of me.”
“I’m seventeen,” I say, irritated. “I’ve been here since I was sixteen and the rest of my life…I can’t even consider it life. All I know is this.”
The scientist moves his head towards me, his eyes huge. “Listen. This is all we know too. Pain and suffering, and no way to escape it.”
“Let me escape it,” I reply bitterly. “Let all two-hundred of us escape it. End Project Eden. It isn’t working.”
“You can’t escape this pain, Garrett.”
I rest my head against the chair, feeling the energy leave me. My skin sags against my skull and my tongue feels like sand-paper. The room spins around me, making me dizzy, so I close my eyes.
“Why did the President lie?” I want to know. I don’t like how the rest of the world gets to be oblivious while we’re suffering, begging for death.
“That last thing we need is more panic and chaos out there. You should see it, pure madness.”
“And what will happen when people find out?”
“They won’t.”
I shift uneasily in my seat, my stomach clenching as a wave of nausea crashes into me. I inhale deeply through my nose, trying to soothe my stomach. Blasts of heat stab at me as my whole body trembles.
“Deep breaths, Garrett,” Dr. Long orders calmly.
“How…how much longer?” I stutter, my teeth clicking together. My shirt is wet with sweat. With shaky hands, I grip the arm rests and squeeze, hoping to still myself.
“About halfway there,” Dr. Long says.
I lay there silently, scrunching my eyes shut, enduring the horrible feeling of losing everything. I gag and my voiced cracks, “I need to throw up.”
The scientist does not have time to respond. I lean my head over the side of the chair, away from him, and empty my stomach’s contents.
Dr. Long curses. I rest my head back against the chair, uncaring of the stench or what the scientist thought of me. My body tingles all over and grows numb. Staring up at the swirling ceiling hurts my head, a sharp pang, in the back of my skull. I close my eyes, and my mind slips into darkness.
*~*
My eyes flutter open. I can’t move. I see the scientist looking over me, a grimace upon his lips. I hear the faint buzzing of the ceiling light, followed by the scribbling of a pen.
“The test failed,” Dr. Long says, his voice sounding muffled in my ears. “I’m sorry.”
A large weight falls into my stomach. I don’t know how I feel about failing. I can live. But living’s death in this place. When the scientist glances back at me, my lips mouth, ‘What happened?’
Dr. Long shakes his head. “A couple of hours after you fell unconscious, I finished. So I waited, recording everything I saw. Not much. You were still alive. Still alive without blood,” he turned to look at the crucifix hanging on the ceiling, “What a sick joke you’re playing,” he says to it. The scientist turns back to me, “And now your body is producing blood. Somehow. Just like the previous experiments. You should regain most of your strength in a few hours.”
I swallow and let out a few ragged breaths, before gasping out, “Why can’t you just give up?”
Dr. Long laughs at this, a hard, sickening laugh. “That’s what we’re trying to do.”
I know what he means. I close my eyes and feel myself drifting off again.
I awake to the sound of the door shaking against several, furious thuds.
“What is it?” Dr. Long complains, walking over to the door and opening it.
The assistant that took me here stands outside, nervously. “Did he survive?” he asks, looking into the room.
“It would seem so, I’m afraid,” Dr. Long sighs.
“The Secretary wants him in his office immediately,” the assistant responds.
My heart flails weakly against my chest, wondering why the head of the project would want to see me.
“Why?” Dr. Long demands, stepping aside so that the assistant could fully enter the room.
“Edward Gild is here.”
Dr. Long places a hand under his chin, “So? What does he want with him?”
“Apparently the President let him know about Project Eden a few weeks before the public. Gild is here to get the story for his magazine, and he wants to speak with and see uh…a volunteer. The Secretary wants 673601 to meet with him.”
“Wha—“ Dr. Long cuts himself off, “He can’t. He just lost all of his blood a couple of hours ago. He is nowhere near presentable. Especially not to Edward Gild.”
The assistant bites his lip, “The Secretary knows this, but he thinks that he is the most presentable of the lot. He’s the youngest, the newest, and the most unharmed.”
The scientist frowns, “Look at him!” he beckons the assistant forward to look at me. “He looks like a corpse,” his tongue strums against his lips as he considers his ironic words. “Certainly, now, there must be a better candidate!”
Anger boils through my veins instead of blood. Man has lost all compassion since the problem. They care not for my well-being, but for their own and their wretched program.
“You’re crazy if you think so, Abe,” the assistant disagrees.
The scientist sighs, glancing towards me. “And he will not change his mind?”
“No.”
“Fine then,” the scientist relents, “Give me a few minutes to prepare him.”
Dr. Long grabs the telephone, holding it to his ear as he presses a button on the machine. There’s a long pause before he speaks, “Send two men down, please.” He says before hanging up.
The doctor presses the button, lifting my chair into a sitting position. My head spins. My ears ring. I’m frightened.
“Now listen here, Garrett,” Dr. Long begins slowly, “Mr. Edward Gild wants to interview you, so that the public can get an understanding of the program. The Secretary chose you.”
I fumble for words, my breaths short and ragged, “Don’t—Can’t—Shouldn’t you—“
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Long says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “But I’m sure you’re fine. None of the other patients received any internal trauma from this experiment. After the meeting, I’ll send for you to be sure.”
Not that it matters to him if I could no longer think right— or move. The scientist would be proud of himself, maybe even brag to his peers.
Two guards enter the room, and the scientist clasps his hands together, “Ah, thank you. Please take young Garrett here, to his interview in the Secretary’s office. Be careful with him.”
Dr. Long turns to me, “Can you stand?”
I barely manage to shake my head.
The assistant and the scientist pull me off the chair, and lift my arms over their shoulders, supporting me. My vision blurs as a sweltering heat bursts through me, awakening my pores.
“Now, hold yourself,” Dr. Long orders smoothly, as he and the assistant slowly abandon my weight. “Steady now…”
My knees buckle, and I collapse to the floor, my palms slapping into the cool tile. A pained grunt escapes my lips as my body convulses. I cough up saliva, sputtering for air.
“See. He can’t go. The poor boy can’t even stand,” Dr. Long informs the room of the obvious.
“I-I-I…told you,” I struggle to say between quivering breaths.
“He doesn’t need to stand,” the assistant explains sourly.
“No, but he needs to talk to the man, for God’s sake!”
The phone rings, silencing the room.
Dr. Long answers the phone, “Yes?”
There’s a pause. The scientist sucks in heavily, “Sir, the patient just woke up…you see, he—“
Another pause.
“Yes, Sir, but he can’t even—“
Another.
“No, Sir, I wouldn’t want you to do that. I’m sorry. I’ll send him down right away.” Dr. Long drops the phone onto its cradle.
“It appears the boy will have to be escorted there. No other option. The Secretary has made this clear,” Dr. Long informs solemnly.
I am then lifted up by my armpits, with strong, burly hands. I cringe as the dizziness slams into me, and the tops of my feet rest gently on the floor, my arms being stretched across the two guard’s shoulders.
“Hurry, please,” Dr. Long says, “And bring him back afterwards.”
My eyes clamp shut as my feet drag along the floor and through the hallway. Movement is too much. It takes all the strength I have not to vomit.
“Wake up, kid,” one of the guards shakes me as they continue to move. I open my eyes only to be bombarded with quick, slurred images. Entering the sophisticated lobby with marble flooring and brass adornments, a door being held open for us, another hallway. “He’s going to see you when we enter. Just act like this is a piece of cake.”
My stomach lurches at the word.
What seems like an eternity later, we arrive at the Secretary’s mahogany double doors. The guards prop me back on my feet—one holds my shoulder and places a hand on my back. The other opens the door.
I swallow hard as I stare into the office. The room is elegantly furnished, but to such an effect where you know absolutely nothing about the person it belongs to. Grayish green walls crowned with mahogany wood. Brown carpet with splatters of black and gray. A shelf holding books and a metallic world globe sits in the corner. The man behind the desk watches me, his head cocking to the right as if he is only distracted by the other man’s voice. The bright light from the window casts a shadow over the man, but it’s evident enough that he has dark brown hair, and even darker eyes.
I’ve never seen the Secretary before.
He nods absently to the man shielded from my vision, then his lips lift slightly, “Hello, Garrett. Please come in and take a seat.”
The guard holds me upright as he slides my feet against the floor, pushing me in. My shirt clings to my back with sweat. I can’t think. Every amount of my energy gone to make sure I won’t pass out. The guard sits me down in the cushioned chair in front of the desk. I inhale deeply through my nose and close my eyes for a short moment, hoping the room would stop shaking once I open them again. It doesn’t.
My eyes shift to the man sitting in front of the potted plant. Blue eyes pop from his brown suit and reddish brown hair that curls around his face. His pen taps against his slightly bristled chin.
“Well, Edward,” the Secretary says smoothly, gesturing to me with a strong hand, “Ask away.”
I rest my back against the chair feeling sick and feverish. I know nothing of this man, well, neither of them. I do, however know that the Secretary is a monster. I glance at the man, Edward Gild, who begins writing in his notebook. I recognize him as the editor of the astoundingly popular magazine, The Gilded Age. But we hardly ever got a magazine in here, much less from him. I do not know if he spat lies, or lies disguised as truths.
The Secretary makes an odd noise and I return my attention to him. I flinch as I examine his darkened face. Every muscle tightening in his face, every illumination of light and color in his eye, tells me to lie. Lie or else. There is no fear in this unknown, for it is perfectly known. I lower my gaze and wipe my clammy hands on my pants.
“Mr. Gild,” the Secretary clears his throat, “Neither Garrett, nor I, have the time to sit here all day.”
Edward Gild looks up from his notebook and flashes a smile, “I’m well aware of it, Arthur.” The words are warm, but hollow, and I gather that this man is a master manipulator.
Edward clasps his hands together and looks to me, “So, Garrett. Where to start? How old are you?”
The Secretary’s face is engraved on the back of my skull. Lie. “Nineteen,” I say shakily, my mouth dry.
He narrows his eyes slightly, and scribbles something down on his book. While he writes, he asks, “How long have you been here— how long you have been involved with Project Eden?”
“A year or so,” I struggle to shrug. I had been here a year, but the process was much longer than that. My parents were committed when I was twelve, and the suits came to the hospital, and told me how it was going to be.
“Okay,” he says slowly, “Why did you join the program?”
Right. The President has told the world we wanted to do this. My head rushes with lethargic thoughts and I attempt to cling to one, “I…joined because I wanted to help the world.”
Edward looks at me with smirk and unbelieving eyes, “Help the world? You’re a teenager.”
I guess his words were supposed to be funny because both he and the Secretary laugh.
“You’re a good egg, I guess, Garrett,” Edward Gild says, still chuckling.
I smile slightly, “Yeah, well, both of my parents went insane because of the problem. That certainly played a factor in my reasoning…” I know as soon as I had said it, that it was a mistake. Perhaps too much truth, or the fact that my decision making skills were clouded by my grief…but I do notice the Secretary’s heavy eyes upon me, weighing me down.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Edward Gild says, glancing slightly to the Secretary who nods in agreement.
Sorry to hear it. Not sorry that I had endured it, that my parents abandoned me to this hell. Forgive me for forcing your ears to hear such inappropriate things. I exhale deeply, loosening the stiff muscles in my body.
“So do you regret your decision?” Edward asks. He’s smart. But I was expecting.
“No. I realize my parents are too far gone. But my loss has increased my hope to end the problem, so that no one else must suffer.”
The editor nods slowly, contemplating my words. “And are you suffering?”
Yes. I jerk my head slightly, trying to look confused, “Suffering?” my voice cracks, “No, of course not…why would you think that?”
He looks at me, wiping his hand down his face, “The point of Project Eden is to end the problem. Garrett…do you even know what the problem is?”
My stomach twists. Yes, I knew what the problem was. But this man has lured me into a trap. How could we not suffer when the point of the program is to learn how to die?
The Secretary answers, “Yes, we are all aware of what the program is. Our goal is to end the life of the immortal, and start the life of the mortal. We study the body. We’re learning more and more on how the body works. We do not torture our volunteers if that is what you are asking…We are scientists from Harvard and Yale and Stanford, not from a concentration camp.”
Edward Gild smiles genuinely, “Right, right. Of course. Then Garrett, please tell me all about your luxurious life.”
I tell him, sitting on my hands, afraid he might see them tremble. I tell him about the movie night and the delicious food. I tell them about the swimming pool and the tennis courts. I tell him about the immaculate sanitary conditions and the large bedrooms, and the kind employees. I tell him all the lies the Secretary wants him to hear.
Edward Gild writes for a long time. I gratefully take that time to regain my breath. My arms and legs tingle as somehow, blood fills me. Finally he speaks clearly, “Arthur, I’d like to speak with Garrett alone, if that’s all right.”
The Secretary licks his lips, “Certainly. Let me know when you’re finished.” He rises from his seat and walks towards me, towards the door. As he passes, he digs his neatly cut fingernails into my shoulder in a strong clasp, a threat. He releases me, closing the door behind him.
Dread floods through me. I breathe raggedly, wondering if Gild knew my lies, wondering if the Secretary would punish me for it. The scratching of a pen rings through the room. I focus on the desk, looking at the meaningless objects upon it. An ordinary pen, a pad of paper, a telephone.
Edward Gild rises from his seat and walks towards the desk. Clearing his throat, he leans up against the wood and places his notebook behind him. “So. Garrett, right?”
“Uh…right,” I respond, frowning.
He shrugs, raising his eyebrows. “And do you know who I am, Garrett?”
“You have a magazine.” My voice is stiff in my throat. I have to get out of here, the only problem was that I can’t move my legs.
“I have a magazine,” he repeats. “You seem like a smart boy, what do you think that entails?”
I lower my gaze. “Like…interviews and research and stuff,” my tongue moves sluggishly in my mouth.
“Mhhmm…most importantly, my job is to figure out if someone’s lying. And frankly Garrett, you just slobbered out a shit ton of lies.”
Stunned, I can only shake my head, “I wasn’t. Why…why would I?”
Edward Gild laughs in my face. “I’m losing respect for you. Why would you lie? Well for starters, Mr. Secretary is listening to everything you say.”
“If I was lying because of him, shouldn’t I be confessing right now?” I ask him darkly.
He smiles, shaking his head. “Okay, okay. I’m not blind,” he passes a hand in front of his face as if to prove his point, “As soon as you opened your mouth, I knew it was all a lie. I’d expected it. I found out about the program a few weeks ago, before anyone else. So I could only assume that it’s been going on a lot longer than…what, a year?”
“You’re crazy,” I mutter.
“Apparently I am,” he sighs, “The public is like a deer about to get run over, and I turn the headlights on. With me, they can at least know that they’re screwed before well, they get screwed.”
I look at my shoes. Saying nothing was the best thing to do.
“Just tell me one thing,” he says after a long moment of shared silence, “Why did Arthur Paracot chose you for the interview?”
I glance up at him warily, “I don’t understand…”
I watch him walk over to the wall and pull off a framed mirror and rest it in my lap. I stare at him, not wanting to see what he saw.
“Go on,” he says as he looks through his briefcase.
Reluctantly, I look down to see someone broken. Someone wrong. His skin is pasty white except for the nearly black shadows under his eyes. The brown eyes are dull and lacking of the charming shimmer they use to possess. The brown strokes of eyebrows tremble as they behold the gaze. Dark hair clumped to the face with sweat. The horror of realization is strikingly evident. This person is me. I am this person, and I feel stupid for thinking I could fool Edward Gild with this appearance. I hear a soft beep behind me, and when I figure out what made the sound, it is too late. He has my picture, staring down at the mirror. He just flashed the headlights in my eyes.
“Now…” he begins, walking around the chair to face me. He cradles the camera in his hands. “Tell me one reason why I should not publish the truth.” He takes the mirror from my lap and sets it on the desk.
“What truth?” I say through gritted teeth.
He shakes his head with a flat smile, “The truth of this camera,” he says lifting it up slightly. He chuckles when he sees my eyes trained on it. “The truth that Paracot chose you because you’re the best he’s got. Why else would he chose you to interview with me?” he motions towards me, “The truth that what he actually denied is true. That they torture you; that they are Nazi scientist hell bent on murdering every single one of you. The whole dozen. The truth that not only are they torturing adults, but they’re torturing children too… Don’t look at me like that. You are not nineteen. How big is this car they’re sending the public? A sports car or a Semi?”
“Why must you talk in metaphors,” I ask him bitterly.
He raises his hands up, “You have to in a world like this. That’s the only way people can understand a damn thing.”
“They’re obviously hurting you,” he adds gently, “But you clearly don’t want that to be known. I want to know why.”
My jaw knots as my mind wanders through his words. I can’t lie anymore, it would be stupid. He would know. My stomach knots at the thought about what I am about to do. I am going to tell him something that was forbidden. “You can’t publish it…” I plead, my voice shaking.
“Why?” he asks eagerly.
“They’ll…” I don’t know what to say. They want to kill me, sure, but now, if I fail the Secretary, they’d hope I’d survive it all. And care less about my age, and more about their revenge. “They…” I can’t help but wonder if the Secretary is listening to everything we say. But only I would get punished. I look around the room, searching for a video camera. I shake my head, the fear overwhelming me. “I can’t…” I breathe.
Edward Gild looks disappointed, but nods slowly, his eyes calculating. He opens a pocket in his brief case and pulls out a small business card.
“Call me if you change your mind,” Edward says and gives it to me.
I nod even though we aren’t allowed to use phones. But I pocket the card anyway, tremors shooting up my arm.
Edward walks past me and opens the door, “I’m done,” I hear him say to the hallway and Arthur Paracot returns.
“I hope Garrett and I were helpful to your article, Mr. Gild,” the Secretary says, shaking the editor’s hand.
“Oh, plenty,” Edward Gild says with a smile. His blue eyes wander and find me staring warily. “Mr. Paracot,” he begins brightly, lifting his camera, “Would you care to see the front cover of tomorrow’s magazine?”
My eyes widen in horror, and my hands grip limply at the arm rests. There is nothing I can do. I shouldn’t have expected anything from the man. I hang my head in resignation, so I can barely see the Secretary’s brow raised with honor, perhaps surprise.
“I would love to,” he says breathily.
Edward lifts up the camera to his face, moving his finger across the screen repeatedly. He catches my eyes, and his lip twitches. He winks at me. “Have a look both of you,” he holds out the camera, and I lean forward, squinting my eyes.
It’s a photograph of a lush forest. A ferocious waterfall severing the trees near the center. Rays of sun danced upon the dew-filled leaves, the calm sky mellowed with splatters of clouds. Relief punctures my heart and fills my veins. Edward Gild saved me. He didn’t have to, he definitely should not have, but he did. I stare at him, wondering if I should be grateful or suspicious. I’ve lived long enough to know no one means well.
“Divine,” Paracot says with a gasp of awe. “A great choice, Edward. You’ll be a rich man after tomorrow.”
“After?” Edward raises an eyebrow.
Both men laugh. It is easy enough to tell that one of the voices clangs in strained harmony. They shake hands once again, and Edward Gild soon leaves.
I look at the watch upon the Secretary’s wrist as he slowly walked towards his desk having closed the door behind him. Only one hour before dinner.
“I’m impressed, Garrett,” he says smoothly as he takes a seat behind the desk. “It seems you’ve fooled him.”
I shrug, glancing down at the odd carpet.
He sighs and I hear the scratching of a pen, but I dare not look up.
“I was afraid of what would happen. What would happen when the President told the public. The whole government practically begged him not to. But of course he does it anyway,” the Secretary makes a disgusted groan, “So we have to deal with the aftermath, not him. I’m just glad you and I were able to stop the program from crashing down.”
Eden crashing down. Sounds too good to be true.
“Your parents would have been proud.”
His assumption that he knows me, that he knows my parents forces me to jerk my head up in anger, and his daring face with an eyebrow raised only makes it flare. But then I remember, my mind examining his face with thoughtful tendrils, scoping every angle and line in his face. And he would know me. For he was there, five years ago at the hospital, a no name grunt telling me my life was over, and that they were starting another for me in a couple of years: Project Eden. Saliva congeals against my throat, and it’s difficult to speak, “Why did you send me here?”
“Why?” he asks, noticing the connection I have formed, “You had nowhere else to go. No parents, no siblings, no—“
“There are orphanages,” I gasp out. My body shakes with emotions I cannot understand.
The man smirks, “Right. So where would you sleep? There wasn’t room for you. I’m not a social worker, Garrett. It was not my job to find you a good home. It was my job to find recruitments for the program.”
I rub my eyes, sniffing, “What did you tell my parents?”
The Secretary turns his head slightly with amused eyes, “What did we tell them? Well, we told them nothing.”
“You told them…nothing?” I ask incredulously.
“We didn’t see the point.”
My eyebrows scrunch in confusion, “You didn’t see the point in letting my parents know that I would never see them again?”
Arthur Paracot rubs his hands together with a crooked grin, “We have a policy that applies to this case: If they say nothing, we say nothing.”
Grief stricken thoughts slam into me so hard, I can barely breathe. “They…never…asked about me?”
“Not once,” he says. “I check with their nurses monthly, so if they do, we can prepare a story to tell them. But as of last month, we’ve had no reason to.”
“But…” my mind’s clouded, and my body grows still. I never actually thought they would demand a search party for me, not in their mental state, but to never even mention my name is too much to bear.
“But you’re their son?” the Secretary finishes my sentence. “You think that means something? You’re just a sin in their minds. Another endless life brought into this world. Life hasn’t been a precious gift for a long time, Garrett.”
“Stop,” I say softly.
“A mistake, Garrett. No person would wish this fate on anyone, so why would they destine you themselves? It makes sense why they went insane and erased you from their lives; they don’t need a constant reminder of their sin. They—“
“I said, stop,” I growl, clenching my fists. I grasp enough courage to look at him. He’s smiling. And I realize, of all the apathetic ass holes I’ve encountered in this world, I hate him the most.
Without blinking away from my stare, he reaches for the phone and dials a short number. “Yes, you may take him back to Dr. Long. Thank you.”
In moments, the guards enter the room, and lift me out of my chair. As they slide me towards the door, my mind whirling, the Secretary clears his throat, “Keep in mind, Garrett, that the last thing you want is me as your enemy.”
“Of course,” I muster the most understanding voice I can without turning my head.
Of course.
For it would be obvious then, that I am his.
Thank you so much for reading! It means so much to me! xo, Liv
About the Creator
Liv
Massive Nerd. Pursuing my MFA in Screenwriting!
IG and Twitter: livjoanarc
https://www.twitch.tv/livjoanarc
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.