Mortal - Chapter 5

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 fifth chapter of the novel, Mortal. Click here for the beginning of the story. Or, click here for Chapter 4.

  “Abel. You need to eat,” I urge before I make an example of myself and force down a piece of toast.

He smiles slightly, scooping up his oatmeal, and then dumping it back into the bowl, “I’m not hungry. I’m really not.”

“I wasn’t questioning that,” I say, “But you still…” I get distracted when I hear the door slam shut. No assistants should be here this early. I look past Abel to see a couple of them carrying in magazines. My stomach flips. Everyone watches as they drop the large stacks upon a table.

No one moves until the assistants leave the room, and then it’s chaos. Everyone knows what it is and leaps forward, pushing passed people to grab a copy. Excited shouts spike through the crowd. I stay where I am and take another bite of my toast. This piece presses against my throat, and I mask my gag as a cough.

When most everyone is back in their seats, hastily flipping through the pages, I stand up and retrieve two copies. I am too nervous to even glance down at the cover before I hand one to Abel and take a seat.

Finally, I jerk my head down. The cover is the picture Edward Gild showed the Secretary and me the other day. Relief rushes through me. I read the title carefully, examining every letter, thinking Edward might have somehow buried the truth in them: THE GILDED AGE: THE REALITY OF PROJECT EDEN.

I blink before quickly turning to the cover story. There is a picture of a tree with apples and a man and women who I guess as Adam and Eve. My eyes scan over the words.

I stare at the pages as the words register in my mind. A part of me wants to laugh because Gild managed to tell something without actually telling anything at all. Another part of me is ashamed. I am no better than the President, than the Secretary—I lied to the whole world. And then the dread creeps into me, like a poison zooming through my veins, and hits my heart, where its deadly potency is released. The Secretary and Edward Gild have made me a target. Instinctively, I want to run, go back to my room and hide from everyone.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I close the magazine. I force myself to glance up to see my peers. Some are still reading. Others are staring blankly into the walls. A few are looking at me. A man who I don’t know rips the magazine in half. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abel reading casually. He has moved on from the cover story, and is looking at a small article about economics.

I try to read the article sideways, but the words mean nothing to me, my mind buzzing from thought, so I ask instead, “What’s that article—“ my voice halts when I feel a firm grip on my arm. It holds there for half a second before it jerks me around and lifts me to my feet.

I stare at the dark-skinned man, recoiling from his touch. I want to pull away, but my gut tells me otherwise. His name is Jonah. Or Joe. Or Jonah is his name, and Joe’s his nickname. He was kind to me on my first day, introduced me to Abel, but that warm glaze in his eyes is now gone. Other men gather around him, including John and Francis. I see Therese far off behind them, but nevertheless, watching warily.

“Garrett,” Joe says. I don’t know what it is, but he has some kind of accent—my ears prickle at his emphasis on the ‘t’s. “Is this true?”

I glance to Abel who is no longer looking at the magazine, but watching Joe. He’s popping his fingers absently in an odd pattern I have no care to figure out—a nervous habit of his I have learned.

“He told me he lied to Gild last night,” John growls from behind Joe. “For some reason,” John shrugs, “He wants us all to rot here for eternity.”

My gaze narrows on John. I was indifferent about him, like everyone else but Abel and Therese, until now. Joe begins to speak, and I can’t help but look back to him, “You like it here, Garrett?” I want to plug my ears at the sound of his tongue pressing so forcefully against his mouth. He smiles, his teeth a gleaming yellow. I am too petrified to speak. He begins to laugh, his eyes gleaming, and I notice the bulge of his tongue sliding against the skin of his cheeks. “You enjoy pain? Well…I’d hate to ruin that for you.”

I have no time to react before his bony fist meets my stomach. I double over, gasping for breath before a body slams into me, and I’m on the floor, too stunned to struggle as the man gets off of me, and is replaced with Joe, who presses his knees against my chest as he sits, looming over me with that hideous grin.

“Joe,” I hear Abel say warningly. My chest heaves as I try to inhale narrow breaths. The fear of not being able to breathe sets in, and I struggle to break free, twisting my body, lifting up my arms in weak hopes that I can somehow push him off. The man who tackled me pulls my hands above my head and presses them tightly against the floor.

“Shut up, Abel,” Joe growls, “I’ve been in this place for fifteen years. Garrett had the opportunity to leave it at fifteen. I…I can’t do this anymore.” His strong face softens, and I see my chance, a moment of weakness.

“Joe,” I rasp out, “Please, I didn’t mean to—“

“Are you not satisfied yet? Well, please, let me redeem myself,” he explains calmly before his fist connects with my jaw, and I yell out in pain. And then another, this time my nose and I hear a sickening crunch and sticky liquid trickles into my mouth, shutting me up.

Therese shrieks, and I see her now only feet away from me in the red haze, “Stop it!”

Another blast of pain erupts in my skull, and I scrunch my eyes shut, trying to hide from it all. I hear the shatter of glass, and my stomach knots in fear of what he might do next. I struggle madly against the other man’s grip while spitting blood from my mouth. I open my eyes when Joe shouts at me, his accent is so thick and his voice so loud I can’t understand most of it, except for… “I’ll kill you first.”

            I can hear Therese sobbing quietly, and it sickens me, more so than this man trying to beat the crap out of me. I’m about to return to my sanctuary of darkness when I see an arm wrap around Joe’s throat, a curved piece of glass grazing against it.

            Joe coughs and jerks his neck in an attempt to see his opponent. Through my tilting vision, I see that it is Abel.

            “Joe,” he says quietly, but it is loud enough, for everyone else is silent, “You leave this boy alone or you will live the rest of your life headless.”

            My meager breakfast crawls up my stomach at the thought. Is that even possible? I have never heard of someone living headless, but I suppose it could happen. If the scientists could amputate legs and arms, couldn’t they amputate heads?

            I see Joe’s temple pulse as his eyes dart down to me, but he slowly rises, and I inhale deeply, the pressure on my chest gone. The other man releases my hands soon after, and I pull myself up to a sitting position, and wipe the blood from my lip with the back of my hand.

            Therese kneels beside me, and grips my other hand tightly. Tears wet her scaly skin, but her eyes do not lift to meet mine. Abel still has his makeshift dagger pressed against his throat, but it is now nearly at his chest, for Joe is at least half a foot taller.

            Assistants rush in and pull Abel away from Joe, and yank the shard of glass from his grip. Some of them lead both of them out of the room. The others do not move to help me up until they are gone.

            “Are you all right?” one of them asks me once I am standing upright. Therese still holds onto my hand.

            My whole head throbs, but I stare at him blankly, and strip my words of emotion, “I’ve had to deal with worse.”  He lowers his eyes.

            “Where did you take Abel?” I demand, clenching my fists. I shake my head, trying to get rid of the weariness I felt. “He was trying to protect me. He did nothing wrong.”

            “We took both men to Mr. Secretary,” the assistant replies.

            Dread fills me, and I cannot speak. Another assistant comes over to me and presses an ice pack to my chin. I wince, squinting my eyes and turn my head away slightly. She hands me a wet rag and I press it to my nose tenderly, trying to stop the blood.

            “We’ll have to take you there too,” the first assistant says, “But we wanted them to cool down first, and we wanted a look at your injuries.”

            I force myself not to laugh. Instead I mutter, “I’m fine, but I don’t need to see the Secretary. It was just a misunderstanding.”

            The first assistant raises his eyebrows, “A misunderstanding? Clearly, you have misunderstood. Fights do not belong in Project Eden. The Secretary is appalled.”

            A grimace falls upon my face as I glance up at the closest camera I see on the wall. They could have stopped it before it got…bad. The Secretary is appalled? The assistants only came in after the fight was obviously over!

            The Secretary wanted me hurt. Not so much physically, but psychologically, definitely. People who suffer just like I do, trying to hurt me, stiffens my chest. I wish Joe had killed me. Then I could at least think of it as an action of mercy, and not revenge.

            Therese moves in front of me, her gaze still not connecting with my eyes. The woman assistant pulls my jaw towards her and begins to examine my nose, poking at it with her long fingernails the color of sapphire.

            “Are you all right?” Therese asks me softly.

            “No,” I say hoarsely. I am afraid. I am sick. And I can tell her the truth, for Therese has been hurt more than nearly everyone.

            “I don’t think he broke the bone,” the assistant says, retrieving her hand from my face. “There might be a cartilage fracture, though.”

            I grunt in response, and turn away from the woman.

            “I’m sorry…” Therese says, finally meeting my eyes. “You’re right. I can’t expect you to act differently. I shouldn’t have gotten mad at you.”

            I can see the spark in her eyes, and I respond slowly, “You would have done it.”

            She nods in jerking movements, “Yes, I would have. But,” she stares at me, her eyes narrowing, “I have nothing to lose. They can’t hurt me anymore.”

            I frown and something twists in my stomach, but I can’t understand why. She lets go of my hand with a slight smile, and walks away.

            “We need to take you now,” the woman with the long fingernails explains, “The Secretary would like to sort this out quickly, and make sure it never happens again.”

            “Never happens again,” I repeat, the rage inside me making me tremble.

            “What’s the matter?” the man asks, “You want to be attacked again?”

            “No,” I smile morbidly, shaking my head, “It’s just that you had the opportunity to make it not happen at all.”

            The two assistants look puzzled.

“What do you mean?” the woman asks.

            I point to the video camera in the crevice of the wall. “Don’t lie to me. No, actually, go ahead and lie if you want, because it won’t matter. You were watching the whole thing, and there’s no way you can convince me otherwise.”

            The color in the woman’s face flees. But the man remains composed and says, “We don’t watch the screens 24/7, boy.”

            I lift my hands in false surrender, “I don’t expect you to. Just when people are actually in here.”

            The man twists his lip distastefully. He clears his throat, “Look, if you don’t want to believe us, don’t.”

            “Okay,” I agree bitterly.

            “But,” the assistant frowns, “The attack happened during five minutes, right? The man watching over the screens took a small break, and when he came back, well, he alerted us as soon as possible, and we got here as soon as possible. Now, please come with us to the Secretary’s office.”

            “I haven’t even finished my breakfast,” I complain sarcastically.

            The man sighs exasperatedly, “We’ll leave something out for you.”

            I sit down on one of the table’s stools. The woman groans. I ignore her, “Why do I have to go? I didn’t do anything wrong, but do what the Secretary asked.” I reach over and grab a magazine from the table.

            “So you’re Garrett,” the woman’s eyebrows raised, and her green eyes glint with understanding.

            “Huh.” The man sounds, bobbing his head.

            “What?” I ask tiredly, placing my head in my hands for a moment, before deciding otherwise, cringing from the pain.

            “Then you definitely need to come if you’re safety is at risk since…” the woman trails, not knowing what to say.

            I do. “Since I lied, you mean?”

            “Because you were selfless,” the man responds quickly.

            Anything but. I stare at the assistant a long time with a blank expression before I finally sigh and stand up. There is no point in resisting, I tell myself as they lead me to the door. And maybe I can save Abel from harm…maybe I can save Joe. My feet slide against the murky cement of the hallway. I bite my lip. I cannot blame Joe. I cannot be angry at Joe. All I feel is guilt and the dull throb wracking my skull.

            We leave the wide hall with the testing rooms, and pass into an adjoining corridor. I notice a lot more about the way there than the day before. The halls are just as vacant-looking and disgusting as all the others until you pass through two metal doors where there is a miraculous change. There is paint. There is carpet. There is the smell of pine and rosemary, and not blood.

             I observe through the narrow window in the door that the lobby is empty except for a woman formally dressed. I begin to recall the blurry images from before, and the beautiful disguise of the place makes me angry. I decide to keep my mouth shut.

            When we arrive in the Secretary’s room, there is an empty chair placed between Abel and Joe, all three positioned a few feet in front of Paracot’s desk. He sits there with a slim smile, his wrists resting on his notepad, his hands clasped.

            “Ah, good morning, Garrett,” he greets crisply, “Nice of you to join us.”

            I take a seat, and swear I can smell the tension in the room: thick air tainted with sweat.

            “So what seems to be the problem?” the Secretary asks, cocking his head. “Based off the tapes, you, Jonah, started the confrontation. What made you act the way you did?”

            Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him shift uneasily. His dark eyes swerve all over before he begins to speak, “I…it was a mistake,” he turns to me, licking his blistered lips, “I’m sorry, Garrett.”

            “Thank you,” I respond with a curt nod, though I know he is not at all sorry. But if Arthur Paracot thinks I believe it, maybe he will too.

            “Now, Jonah,” Arthur sits back in his chair and flicks his wrist at the man, “Mistakes don’t happen without reason. Why did you attack young Garrett here?”

            Joe grimaces, his jaw clenching, “I didn’t like what he said in that article.”

            The Secretary chuckles, and it bothers me so much, I pull the cloth from my nose and stare at the large stain, trying to distract myself.

            “You didn’t like what he said?” Paracot asks, “But Jonah, all he did was tell the truth.”

            I notice a small blood clot on the rag. I hope my nose won’t start bleeding again.

            “He said he was a volunteer,” Joe continues slowly.

            “Indeed…are you saying you’re not?” the Secretary asks curiously.

            My whole body tenses. I lightly press my fingertips to my jaw, sliding them over the swollen flesh. There is a flash of anger in Joe’s eyes, but it soon condenses into fear. He then lowers his gaze.

            “Now,” the Secretary says, leaning forward, “There might be a slightly delusional part of your minds where you don’t understand the point of the program. That you think we find this amusing, that we enjoy the situation we have been given,” his eyes look to me, “What Garrett said in the article is completely true. We are trying to help the world. You would not know what it is like out there, and I can assure you, you don’t want to know. I understand that we have beat-around-the-bush a little when it comes to informing the public about our system, but it is only as dishonest as it is necessary.

            “People might question the ethics of Project Eden, but in the end, you know as well as I do, once it’s done and the cure is found, no one will care how we got there. We are doing the world a favor. So stop acting like martyrs because no one will remember what you tried to do for yourself and your beliefs, but what you did for them.”

            I blink at the Secretary, surprised by the sudden honesty, but his hypocrisy and the lionizing of the program only make me sick with rage.

            “No more fights,” the Secretary says with a strong emphasis on each word.

            “Why?” I ask, squeezing my hands into fists, “You want us dead, maybe it could work.”

            The Secretary narrows his eyes, “Variables, Garrett. Variables. We have no control of any of the variables that would result in a death from that kind of spontaneous beating. There would be no hope in ever repeating that exact experiment.”

            I remember the assistant who told me something similar the night before. “Maybe that’s just what it takes…” I think aloud, “Something spontaneous.”

            The Secretary looks at me a long time, “Perhaps. But I would have figured that with all those attempted suicides and murders years back, someone would have ended up dead if that theory were true.”

            I shrug in response.

            The Secretary makes a clicking sound with his tongue and turns to Abel. “You are older than a century,” he tells him slowly, “Surely, you do not want to live a century more.”

            “I do not,” Abel responds coldly, and I flinch because I’m afraid that the Secretary will not approve. That he will attack Abel.

            “Good,” Arthur smiles, and his dark eyes meet both men sitting beside me, “So, I’m sure you can understand why I must pick another sort of evaluation for you two today. To make sure this never happens again.”

            The color flees from Joe’s face. Abel is as composed as ever, but I am not. I want to scream, lunge at the man’s throat and evaluate him.

            “Of course,” Abel says smoothly, never retracting his gaze.

            “I appreciate that,” he says before standing up. Abel and Joe stand too, Joe a little more reluctant than the other men. I do not budge.

            “Garrett…?” The Secretary stares at me with false concern.

            “What are you trying to do?” I ask through a clenched jaw.

            Arthur Paracot frowns. “Well, I believe I just told all three of you…”

            I dig my fingernails into the armrests. “You could have stopped the attack.”

            “Could I?” he looks confused, then glances to Joe, “I don’t think I could defend you against him.”

            “You know full well what I’m talking about,” I say softly, only because I’m afraid if my voice was any louder, I might burst into hysteric screams.

            “Actually,” Arthur’s lip twists, “Not quite, but I don’t have time for games…Guards!” he calls and two men enter the room.

            “Please take Abel and Jonah to their testing rooms, and take young Garrett here to somewhere he can get cleaned off,” the Secretary orders calmly.

            “Come on, Garrett,” Abel pushes against my shoulder as he slides between our chairs to meet the guards.

            I finally stand when they are leaving the room, and I slowly begin to follow them. Although I am angered by this terrible man, relief fills me and I pray that I never have to see him again.

            “Garrett.”

            I look over my shoulder to see him still standing. He looks anxious like there’s something conflicting he wants to get off his chest. Instinctively, I’m wary.

            “It wasn’t spontaneous,” he says.

            A smile joins the features of his face.

            I jerk my head, not fully comprehending, and I leave the room as fast as I can, before the overwhelming dread of his words suffocate me.

Thanks so much for reading, it means the world!

xo, Liv