Mortal - Chapter 7

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 seventh chapter of the novel, Mortal. Click here for the beginning of the story. Or, click here for Chapter 6.

Abel is still missing.

I have scanned over the entire recreational room to no avail. He is gone. It might be understandable, that he is still missing, some tests that experiment with sleep or isolation take a while, but this is different. At least, it is now.

Because Joe is here.

His face is swollen and disgusting. The tight skin of his face now resembles oily blubber. My stomach constrains. Although I know I should be relieved, because Joe is well enough, so Abel is probably just as fine, if not better, I am worried. 

After all, it seems that Joe is in fact working for the Secretary.

Therese is still ignoring me, which I am fine with because after I grab my bowl of oatmeal from the cart, I take a seat in front of him. The rage and fear slithering up my throat.

Joe glances at me with disdainful eyes. He chews his granola bar thoughtfully, his flabby skin trembling with every bite.

“What happened to you?” I ask with a crisp smile.

His words avoid me, but his eyes are anywhere but.

“Well.” I say, pretending to be offended, but my smile remains.

“It doesn’t concern you, Garrett. Are you here for another test?” His yellow smile appears.

“Not quite,” I say, tapping my finger against the table.

“What a shame,” he replies, crunching the granola wrapper into his fist. “The results would have been much more sufficient since your little old man isn’t here.”

I want to say something sarcastic because he just made himself sound pathetically weak, but his words bother me because Joe and Abel were friends. Not that close, but they endured fifteen years of this place together. But Abel is my top concern. “Where is Abel?”

Joe shrugs, “Dunno. Are you stupid enough to think we would have gotten the same test?”

I look away, trying to remain composed. “I’m just trying to figure things out,” I say after a moment, “Only a few of us don’t return the same day. I just thought the odds were then pretty interesting given what happened yesterday.”

Joe grunts, and rips open another granola bar, “Finished?” he asks, annoyed.

“No,” I say, resting my elbows on the table, and I lean my head closer to his, “Are you working for Paracot?” I ask in a hushed whisper.

Spit hits my face as he laughs, “Right. That makes perfect sense.”

I dry my face bitterly with the back of my hand. I stare at him coldly, “It does.”

“How?” Joe asks with a smirk, “My face is almost as ugly as yours.” He chuckles.

My whole body tenses as I fight the urge to punch him. Never has this man been so cruel. Never has this man been so relentless. Never has this man been such an idiot. “The Secretary said it wasn’t spontaneous,” I respond through gritted teeth.

“What wasn’t?” he asks.

I clench my fist, “Your attack on me. You’ve been working with the Secretary all along to…I don’t know what, but it has something to do with me.”

This time, I pull away when he laughs, avoiding his flying slobber. I examine his face, calculating where would be the best place to hit him. The nose…or right under his chin where that soft patch of skin and muscle is.

“You?” he asks incredulously, “What’s so special about you? And why would I be working with him, just so I can get tortured?”

I cross my arms over my chest, my jaw knotting. “I don’t know…” I admit reluctantly, then add, “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

Joe leans forward, so that his face is only inches from mine. I scrunch my nose as his warm breath the smell of a murky fungus tickles my face. “And why would I tell you, Garrett, if I am indeed working for Mr. Paracot?”

“Because,” I say, “Why would you work for him? You’re just a pawn in his game. Only a moron would work for him.”

His thick eyebrows furrow in a snarl, “Listen, kid. I don’t work for the Secretary. If anyone worked for him in this whole damn prison, it’d be you.”

I stare at him critically, my eyes narrowing, waiting for him to continue his accusation.

“You decide to be his little pet,” a crooked smile severs his blubbery-stone face, “You do tricks for that Gild man and you lie to the world. You do the most difficult thing in that situation and you lie just so you can get a little pat on your head. Why, you must be his bitch.”

Before I can control myself, my fist slams into that soft patch I’d been eyeing, and yanks his head upward. His whole head jiggles as that yellowish, thick drool flings from the man’s mouth and onto the table. I quickly leap away from my seat as Joe’s hand clasps around his jaw and howls in pain.

“Garrett!” I hear Therese scream in protest, but I don’t listen, my chest heaves as I watch the man recover from my blow.

Joe curses, and he glares at me with bulging eyes.

Rage boils inside me, and I want to lunge at him after what he did to me. He made me prey. He made me a fool. Abel is missing because of him. He made me see Arthur Paracot one more time than I had ever wanted to. He’s a traitor. My body jolts before a strong latex glove grips the nape of my shirt and pulls me back. An assistant.  Dread fills me as I remember what day it is: my day.

“673601,” the assistant says with somber eyes, and I recognize him as the man from yesterday who helped me to my feet after the attack. His voice is chiding, and I know that it is only the beginning of my punishment. “Confrontation is forbidden. Please follow me.”

I don’t have time to respond before he nudges me forward with the bumpy bones of his knuckles. I glance to Joe as I head towards the door, and I see him attempt a smile, but the pain I have caused him prevents him from succeeding. I see Therese staring, eyes wide and hollow. As we pass her, she hangs her head, and I can hear her whisper, “You idiot, Garrett. You idiot.” But her voice isn’t angry, but hysterically fearful. The strain in her voice alone, makes me want to run while I still can.

Ultimately, I hate myself, for all that will happen next is my own doing.

The assistant pushes me into the elevator, and presses the button that will lead us to the basement. My stomach knots because that’s where the bunkers are.

“Are you…going to punish me?” I ask breathily, my mind racing with thoughts of me getting blown up, or torched alive.

“We don’t punish anyone, Garrett,” the assistant replies distastefully. He looks at me in the corner of his eye, “You will be undergoing a firearms experiment. Dr. Long will be overseeing the test.”

The elevator door rattles open as we land on the bottom floor. The assistant moves in front of me, and we walk through the maze of hallways. The walls are concrete, and the air is thick and cold and musty. My skin begins to tingle as I struggle to keep up with him, the whole of my body not wanting to take another step forward.

“So basically you’re going to shoot me with a gun?” I want to clarify. I try to sound sarcastic, but it fails when my voice cracks.

“Basically,” the assistant responds, never looking back.

I wonder what my test was before I acted out. I begin to feel clammy, and I shudder at the thought of a gun, and it puzzles me. Guns end life fast—well, they are suppose to. Before I entered the program, they were a rarity, it was nearly impossible to find one anywhere else but the black market. The last thing the government wanted was millions of attempted suicides.

And I’ve endured worse things than a bullet wound.

We stop at the metal door labeled in white paint, 008. The assistant pulls a key card from his chest pocket and inserts it into the door slot below the knob.

“After you,” he says, once he’s opened the door. I obey reluctantly.

The bunker is about half the size of the recreational room, and is completely empty except for the concrete walls, and concrete floors. There is a smear of blood in the center of the room, the remains of a half-hearted cleaning, and narrow rectangular windows near the top of the bunker. I see Dr. Long, and few other men and women I don’t know, sitting in chairs behind the glass.

I keep my eyes on Dr. Long, but I still notice the others scribbling on notebooks with urgent strokes.

“Nice to see you again, Garrett,” Dr. Long’s voice echoes through the room, and I figure he must be using some sort of intercom.

I am suddenly curious if he and the others can hear me.  “So this is what being a gerbil feels like!” I yell as loud as I can with false enthusiasm, and wait for a response.

No words come, but the answer is evident in his face, a thick grimace.

“Garrett, please step a few more feet across the room. I’ll tell you when to stop,” Dr. Long continues in his smooth voice.

I glance in the direction in which he wants me to go, then turn back to him, looking confused, “You want me to stop when I get to the dried blood?” I ask coyly.

Again, no response, but I begin walking towards the blood anyway. I hope none of the doctors can see me tremble, and I wonder if it’s the fear that has overcome me, and is manipulating everything I do.

Dr. Long tells me to stop a few feet before the blood. A moment later, a man in a black uniform enters the bunker with black pistol in hand. My focus immediately evaporates, and I instantly take a step backwards.

“Garrett,” Dr. Long intervenes calmly, “Please stay where you are. This man is going to fire off his weapon once from a twenty foot distance. Only once. If it will make this experience more comfortable, please feel free to look away or close your eyes.”

I can barely understand a word he says. My eyes wander to the assistant waiting by the doorway, about fifty feet away, and for a brief moment, I consider escaping the bunker. I take deep breaths, and clench my fists, trying to compose myself. One shot, I keep telling myself, one shot. But for some reason, it only makes me feel worse.

The man with the gun moves closer to me until the doctor tells him to stop. I can feel the pulse of my heart in my stomach, in my neck, and I want to scream because it’s such an odd sensation that I never want to experience again. I can’t hear anything, my heartbeat blaring in my ears. I can’t think. I can only stand there. And wait.

The man begins to lift his gun, and I see a flicker of a face before my eyes, a girl. My body tenses. Right before he pulls the trigger is when I shift and begin to run.

I can feel the bullet graze into my side as I avoid the fatal shot to the chest, but the pain means nothing. I can hear the explosion of sound as the blast echoes through the room, but the noise means nothing. I can hear Dr. Long scream my name, but his rage means nothing. I can hear the footfalls of others following mine, but their pursuit means nothing.

Something in me has snapped.

I slam my back against the farthest corner of the room, and slide to the floor, my whole body jittering. I can feel the tickle of my blood slide down my side, and I watch as the assistant and the man with the gun slow their pace, and all the doctors burst through the bunker doors and sprint towards me.

The face of the girl burns into my mind like a brand, but I cannot make out any facial characteristics, only the outline of a cloudy memory.

“Garrett…” Dr. Long pants, “Tell me what’s wrong…” he tries to take a step forward, and my whole body jolts in a flinch.

“Get away from me!” I scream louder than I have ever screamed before, my throat ripped raw and hoarse.  I can taste the blood as I swallow.

The doctors stare.

My teeth chatter together as I rock myself back and forth. I try to grip at the thoughts in my mind, but they all tell me of the danger I am faced with. Before I can even try to help it, tears fall from my eyes and the moans of a dying animal somehow resonate from within me. I lose my balance of sitting and fall, lying on my wound as tears continue to stream down my face and cloud my vision.

“Garrett…” Dr. Long tries again in a soothing voice.

“I said get away!” I shriek as I hold myself tight, and return to my wracking sobs.

There are murmurs among the doctors that I can’t understand, nor care to before Dr. Long meets my blank gaze and looks to the object that my eyes are locked on.

His sharp gaze jerks up to the man with the gun, “You need to go. Now.”

The man nods curtly and turns to head for the door. Dr. Long does not speak until the slamming door rings with the recognition of his absence, “Garrett, the gun is gone. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Calm down, and we can patch up that wound of yours and figure this out.”

“No,” I choke out, shivering. I only look at him.

“Let’s be realistic about this, Garrett…” Dr. Long says with a grimace.

“No!” I scream, and a new flood of tears gush from my eyes.

There’s a slight change in his expression, and before I can realize why, there’s a woman beside me, puncturing me with a syringe.

“No…” I moan, as my body begins to slacken, and I fall into darkness.

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