Wednesday, December 16, 2009


First: Please comment! Yes, I sound desperate, but the whole purpose of this blog was to get feedback on my blog, and the only feedback I've manage to get is from my family! I don't care if it's random or on-topic, but if you stumble across this blog, please comment! THANK YOU!

Second: I forgot to do anything special for Hanukkah. My bad.

Third: New chapter time! this next chapter details the creation of the E.H.U.D.s, who they got their powers, who Allen is, why John kept having flashbacks to some guy talking as he ran from the helicopters. Answers are here!

As I said in the last chapter, this is a heavily expanded back story from what was in the second draft. Instead of saying "they did gene therapy and got super-powers," I say, "they did gene therapy and got super-powers, and this is how they felt about it." A much more interesting read.

Fourth: In terms of progress, I am on the fifth chapter of a currently six-chapter flashback, and estimate that there at least three chapters worth of information to go over. At this point, I am left with a dilemma as to the pacing of draft four: The back story is essential, but when it comes as a big clump like this, it detracts from the current story, and could potentially throw off readers. So, should I leave it in place, or break it up and reveal it as min-flashbacks prefacing each John-centric chapter? From the start, it's fairly obvious that John's an E.H.U.D. so the eventual reveal isn't too big of an issue; I can make it clear that these things really happened. But the point is that John is remembering these things, so if they stay where they are now, the reader finds out about John's past as he does. On the other hand, going back to a previous bit of evidence, the story is not all about John; there are other plots going on, and they tie together fairly regularly. Other than the presence of a select few characters, this part of the story doesn't tie in to the rest.

So, leave it alone or break it up throughout the book? I have to say, I haven't actually read the thing, so I don't know. And in fact, that's why I have this blog: to get reader input. So tell me, what do I do?

P.S. That means leave a comment!

And now, on with chapter 23!

Chapter 23

Lights turned on overhead, brilliant and nearly blinding. John yelped and rolled out of bed, hitting the concrete floor and gasping as his arm twisted painfully underneath him.
A foot prodded him in the ribs. “Up, Donalson,” Udarian said in a cheery voice.
John slowly opened his eyes and was disappointed to see the small room around him, his little prison. He had hoped that the previous day had only been a dream.
“I get first shower.” Udarian stepped over John and went into the lavatory.
John gingerly extended his arm, flexed it a few times to make sure that it was unhurt, and then stood up. He looked around the room again, feeling an emptiness inside him, a hopelessness… he was still stuck—
The papers. John remembered the papers he had been reading the night before, the lists of everyone involved in the project, his plan to use it to expose all of this once he had escaped. There was still hope, still a reason to live… but where were the papers?
Making sure to appear calm and unhurried, just in case anyone was watching, John turned slowly around, scanning the floor for the papers. They weren’t there. Still, their absence from the floor was no reason to panic. John crossed to his cabinet and checked inside. There were clothes, shoes… no papers.
The hope that John had bee fostering quickly began to fade, being replaced by panic. John returned to the space between the beds, scanning the floor again. Nothing. Throwing out all caution, John dropped to his knees and bent to look under the beds. Still nothing. He stood up, moved methodically around the room, pulling at every piece of furniture, looking in every drawer, under every pillow, throwing both his and Udarian’s clothes around the room. Nothing, nothing, nothing—
The lavatory door opened. “What the **** are you doing?”
John spun around and grabbed Udarian by the shoulders. “Where are they?! Where are the papers?! Where—“
The heel of Udarian’s fist smashed into John’s nose, bending it sideways with a sickening crunch and flinging John to the floor.
“Don’t. You. Ever,” Udarian hissed, making each word its own sentence, “Touch. Me. Again.”
John gasped and squirted blood from his nose.
Udarian stepped over John and retrieved a fresh set of fatigues from a pile on the floor. “But to answer your question, they were confiscated last night. Do you really think Mistlethwakey would actually let a complete record of the program to get out? Every copy’s been destroyed.” He finished dressing and tossed a pair of white sneakers at John. “I don’t know why he even printed those things in the first place. But I’m sure he had his reasons. You better hurry up and get dressed, you know. We gather in fifteen minutes.”
And so, fifteen minutes later, John stood in the huge room that had been his home yesterday, the ninety-nine others around him, all dressed in identical white uniforms, each person shadowed by their personal guards.
Mistlethwakey paced back and forth in front of them, a computerized organizer in his hands, inspecting each of his patients. “What happened to you?” he asked John, noting the blood wiped on the hem of his shirt.
John knew it would be better if he just gave a simple answer, claimed that he tripped, that he slipped in the shower, anything that would cause Mistlethwakey to nod and walk away. But John wasn’t in the mood for simple answers. All hope had left him, his life was empty. He almost felt like crying. The papers had just been a joke, a cruel little reminder that his life was utterly ruled by this petty little man that stood before him. So after a moment’s hesitation, John gave Mistlethwakey’s query a very creative answer.
Five minutes later, Mistlethwakey was near the far end of the line, and John was wiping fresh blood on his shirt.
“That probably wasn’t the best thing to say to him,” said the woman to John’s right.
“I don’t care.”
When Mistlethwakey had finished inspecting his patients, he returned to a place near the center of the line and stood at parade rest. “The time has come,” he called out, his voice calm and even, “to make you into E.H.U.D.s. What we do today will be what we do for the next year. You will wake up and assemble here, and then be taken, in groups of ten, to your clinical areas. There, you will begin your treatments. After that, you will return here for lunch, free time, and training. That will be your day. And no, there will be no breakfast, no dinner—“ One of the prisoners raised an arm. “—and no questions.” The arm lowered. “Do you all understand?”
No one responded.
“Good. You will now each be given a number, zero through nine. Remember what number you are given, and join up with others of your number.”
Each of the personal guards stepped forward and told a number to their charge. John was assigned the number five.
The line of prisoners began to disintegrate, each person calling out there number, and then forming up into groups as they found those with similar numbers. Before too long, everyone had found their group; but it struck John that it took too long. This could have been handled much more efficiently. The guards could have just split people away from the line in groups of ten, or taken them individually to the clinics, letting the prisoners find out their groupings when they reached their destinations. This disorderliness, Mistlethwakey giving out those papers to everyone… Mistlethwakey didn’t seem to be stupid; after all, he had organized a top-secret government program to kidnap people and hold them in some hidden facility. So he had to know what he was doing, had to know that he was acting stupid… what was the point? Was he trying to keep them all mentally off-balance, easier to control? Or… or was he trying to teach them something? To keep the prisoners disjointed from the guards, to make them self sufficient, to form them into their own little groups, to foment plans of escape, breed rebellion, make them into a truly ferocious fighting force?
“Hey, John!”
John abandoned his current train of thought and looked up to see Vince, the electrical engineering student he had met yesterday, walking towards him.
“Oh, hey,” John called back half-heartedly. As his mouth opened, something popped inside his nose and it began to bleed again. “****.”
“Wow. Yeah, that’s pretty bad. Too bad Dr. Frease doesn’t have any tampons; they’d probably clear that right up.”
Dr. Frease came up behind Vince. “Just because I’m a gynecologist doesn’t mean I have any dealings with tampons.”
Vince was about to reply, but John held up his hands. “Cab we talk about subthig else?”
“Vince is right, that is pretty bad.”
“Fortunately we’re goig to a clinic.”
“Yes, quite fortunately.”
John took a brief moment to see who was in his group; he hadn’t been paying too much attention. There was Cyd, of course; she was the one whom John had followed while he was thinking about Mistlethwakey’s numeration plan. And there was Vince, Dr. Frease, Naomi, Merv, the former soldier who had confronted Mistlethwakey yesterday, Maria, one man and one woman whom John didn’t know… and then there was Allen.
“So,” Allen said, glancing around to make sure that none of the guards were nearby. “How many of you thought of using the papers in an escape plot?”
Everyone raised their hands.
“I thought so. If we seriously want to escape, we’ll need to get more creative. Mistlethwakey apparently expected us to think of escape. I don’t know why; my current guess is that he wants to mentally ear us down, make escape seem impossible.”
“Let me guess,” Dr. Frease said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “you already have a plan for escaping this horrid little pit?”
Dr. Frease’s comment jogged something in John’s memory, something he had heard… no felt, thought about, the previous night. He remembered what the silent voice had said… Just give it time. Don’t resist; just play along with Mistlethwakey… the time will come to strike back, to escape. John followed the thought, took it to its logical conclusion.
“Of course he does,” John said. “He wants us to wait it out, to undergo the treatments.”
Allen smiled. “Bingo. You all read a little about the paranormal abilities. Think what could happen if we had those on our side.”
“Still can’t stop a gun,” Cyd sneered.
Naomi jumped into the conversation then. “It doesn’t matter. We’re also getting combat training. They fully intend to turn us into the world’s deadliest fighting force. Escape now is impossible; we’re a hundred frightened civilians—“ Merv noisily cleared his throat. “—ninety-nine frightened civilians, and over one hundred soldiers. But if we were an invincible fighting force? We could escape easily!”
Little Maria grinned nastily. “Yeah, just look what the six inch rats did to the big scary human scientists.”
The three nearest Maria backed away a few steps when they saw the light filling her eyes.
“Only one problem.” The speaker was the man that John didn’t know. “If we get out, even if we have these powers, so what? We don’t have the papers, we don’t have anything.”
Allen’s smile matched Maria’s. “If the papers were correct in their estimates of these paranormal abilities, we won’t need the papers. We won’t really need anything. We can go wherever we want, with impunity, do whatever. We can expose this little conspiracy, ruin Mistlethwakey, whatever. And it doesn’t have to stop there.”
“What do you mean?” asked Naomi.
“Have you ever seen The Mouse that Roared?”
John thought he had; he only vaguely remembered it. “Is that the one with Peter Sellers?”
Allen nodded. “And Peter Sellers.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “I say again: what do you mean?”
“We’ll be the most dangerous thing on the planet; the elite corps to prove America’s military strength. If we went rogue, freed ourselves from any governmental loyalty or control, we would be the Q-bomb, we would be that ultimate threat that can enforce global peace. Think about it; why just free ourselves from this prison? With our powers, we could save the whole world.”
No one knew how to respond to Allen, to the fierceness in his eyes, the fervor in his voice.
Finally, though, Vince laughed weakly, and tried to pass off Allen’s comments as a joke. “Yeah, but we better make sure that we actually get these powers first before saving the world, right?”
His words seemed to ease the tension in the group, and they all laughed nervously, all tried to forget about what had been said. All except Allen… and John.
What Allen said had struck a chord with John, had awakened thoughts, ideas, brilliant schemes inside of him. He suddenly saw potentials, saw what he might be able to do with the gifts that Mistlethwakey’s men were about to force on him…
“No saving the world today,” a new voice said. As one, the ten prisoners turned and saw one of the guards standing behind their huddle. The guard gestured towards the great door that led out of the room. “This way.”
Most of those in the group looked shocked and frightened as they followed, sure that there would be some sort of punishment for their plotting, their little rebellion. But John walked bravely, keeping stride with Allen, not even bothering to speak in a whisper. “I’m with you. Anything you want to do, you have my support. Just ask.”
The trace of a smile faded from Allen’s face. “That’s not the kind of pledge to give lightly. Terrible things might happen. You might have to do things that you could never forgive yourself for.”
It should have been easy for John to pass off Allen’s comments as mere hyperbole, an overstating of the danger. After all the rebellion, when it came, could very well happen easily and painlessly. But every time Allen said might, John had the sense that what Allen meant to say was will… and for some reason John was sure that Allen knew what he was talking about.
The group continued walking in silence, going down the long hall, past their barracks, past more, and more, and more… and then finally arriving at a crossroads. Their escort of Guards shifted the little group down the right-hand hallway, and soon they were standing in a small open area before three steel doors.
“This is your clinic,” Udarian announced. “The doors will be opened, and you will be called inside, one at a time. It is expected that you go. No discussion.”
The guards separated themselves from their prisoners and lined up along one wall, while the prisoners remained huddled in the middle of the room.
They were all silent for several long minutes, and then John said, “Yes. I’m sure. You have me.”
The look that crossed Allen’s face then was one of relief, of victory… of sorrow.
And then the doctors began to call them.
They went into the rooms, had measurements taken, were prodded, examined, searched thoroughly and completely; John was able to get a pair of glasses. And when the examinations were over, they were each given an injection. They were never told what the injection was for, but they were all assured that it was perfectly safe, and that it was essential for their transformations. Then they were sent back to the big room, had lunch, went to personal defense classes, went back to their rooms, slept, repeated, repeated, repeated, for a year…

And, according to John’s rough count, almost exactly one year later, he was sitting in the clinic, electrodes strapped to his head, his arms his chest, a Styrofoam cup of water sitting on a table about five feet away from him.
“This is stupid,” John complained, vaguely aware that he had said the same thing yesterday, the day before that, before that, before—
“Just give it a few more minutes,” said one of the doctors patiently.
John bit off a rude response. He had learned long months ago that antagonizing the doctors was not a smart thing to do. But he hated them so much… it was strange, he thought, that these men and women had such power over him, had such an intimate knowledge of his body, and yet he didn’t even know their names. They were just the doctors, completely interchangeable, each one different form the next only in physical appearance. This one for instance, staring down at John, glancing at his digital notepad, was tall, thin, with bulging eyes, a pinched, birdlike face. He actually looked something like a chicken, John thought idly. One of those Japanese show roosters…
“Focus, Mr. Donalson.”
“**** you.”
John’s right arm spasmed as a jolt of electricity shot through it. Angrily, he swept out his left arm and knocked over a thin lamp standing nearby. Again, a spasming jolt of pain shot through him, but stronger this time.
“**** it, I’ve had enough!” John stood up, began ripping the electrodes off his body.
“Mr. Donalson, you will sit—“
John swung out his hand, open-and blade shaped, drove it into the doctor’s throat. The doctor gurgled and fell backwards, coughing and spitting.
Udarian was instantly standing, advancing on John—John saw him, thrust a fist towards Udarian’s throat. Udarian jerked his upper body back, became unbalanced. John drooped to one knee and shot his other leg out and around, catching Udarian’s lower leg, sending him to the floor. He rolled forward, bringing his leg underneath himself, springing up and onto Udarian, pinning him to the ground, swinging at his head with poorly controlled blows, his anger washing away the combat training that had been drilled into him over the past year.
Two more guards burst into the room and wrapped themselves around John’s arms, pulling him off Udarian, pushing him back into the chair. He jerked his body, tried to kick at him, but they were too strong. The doctor made brief hand gestures to the guards and they changed positions. One pulled his arms behind his back and pinned them against the chair, the other grabbed his head and twisted it around, forcing it in the direction of the cup on the table. The guard reached down and jabbed his fingers into John’s eyes, pulling the lids back and forcing John to look at nothing but the cup.
The doctor came up beside him and struck him violently on the ear. “I am the cup!” he yelled.
John didn’t know what the man meant, and he didn’t much care. He put another burst of energy into his arms, trying to tear them free, but the man on his arms was too heavy.
The doctor struck him again. “I am the cup!”
John gritted his teeth, feeling unstoppable rage building up deep inside—
The doctor struck again. “I am the cup!”
Why wouldn’t he shut up? John resolved to kill the man as soon as—
Again. “I am the cup!” Again. “I am the cup!” Again. “I am—“
John focused all of his anger on the cup, imagined it as the doctor, poured his hate into it, imagined every way for it to die, to burn, to writhe in agony. John let the anger bubble up into his throat, out through his mind. He yelled, everything within him yelled—
And the cup fell over.
It was nothing spectacular. It rocked gently, tipped, and fell, spilling its water and rolling slightly. That was all.
The guards instantly released John and backed away, leaving the doctor unprotected. John instantly surged to his feet—and stumbled to the floor, gasping. He felt so tired, so weak…
“You did it,” the doctor said, his voice suffused with pride. “The first one of the batch. Just over a year, too. Good timing, considering how low the dosages were.”
There was no way for John to reply. He gasped for breath, feeling every cell in his body cry out for oxygen. He was tired, so tired…
The doctor, syringe in hand, bent over John and began to take samples from John’s outstretched arm. “Don’t worry, it’ll get easier as you practice more. The mind is a muscle like any other; the more you exercise it, the stronger it’ll get.” He stood up and walked out of John’s field of vision, and then addressed himself to the guards. “Take him back to his room, make sure he gets lots of food and rest. And of course he’s excused from today’s training. I’ll personally inform Mistlethwakey of our breakthrough. And how are you doing, Lieutenant? Is your nose alright?”
The doctor probably said more, but John lost consciousness then. He awoke minutes later, ceiling tiles flying by overhead, guards holding his legs and arms as they carried him through the facility.
He could feel his strength slowly returning, his body slowly rebuilding itself, his consciousness slowly refocusing itself… he still didn’t know exactly what he had done with the cup; he had just stared at it, focused on it, hated it. And then there was a feeling of release, of energy leaving his body…
The strange thing was, now that the energy was gone, had left him, he could still feel it hanging in the air around him. He couldn’t see the guards holding him, yet he could somehow feel them, perceive them as voids in the energy that used to be in him. The same was true of the building around him: each door they passed was a slight expansion of his personal field, each stretch of blank wall a contraction, each juncture with another hall a great emptiness stretching out into infinity.
They reached his room, opened his door. John could feel it as a new emptiness yawning wide before him; as the entered the room, he could feel the emptiness take shape, gain edges, dimension. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell by the closeness of his field under his back that he was suspended over his bed. Then he was down, sinking into the mattress.
The guards left.
In the final instances before he fell asleep, John focused on the field around him, the bits of himself floating through the air. He focused felt, gathered it; with a sudden burst of energy, a draining of the last few free calories within him, he pulled, felt himself come together, return totally.
And then there was just him: exhausted, near death, but together, whole.
And he slept…

Another year passed. Another year of unending combat practice, another year of losing himself into his new role as a soldier. But there were differences this year: this year, they went from being prisoners to being E.H.U.D.s. After John’s first breakthrough with the Styrofoam cup, it was only three days until the next prisoner passed from one state to the next. And then only two days from the second to the third. In the weeks following John’s sudden change all of the prisoners went through the transition; going to sleep as mortals, awakening as gods. It took most of them by surprise, to find themselves able of performing what could only be called miracles, to bend the laws of nature to there wills. But they soon grew to accept their newfound abilities, to love their power, to devise ways to use it to escape.
There was only one person among them who didn’t receive his change with any special fanfare, who didn’t try to show off to the others what he could do with his powers after every training session. He was the last of them to change, but the first to encourage others to use their powers wisely. He was Allen.
It surprised John, a little, watching Allen’s reactions to all of this. Once John had been strong enough to use his powers again, to tap into that place in his mind that let him manipulate objects far away from himself, he had almost forgotten that he was a prisoner, that his life was hell. He had actually enjoyed himself, moving small objects, pushing aside the foam training darts as they flew towards him, feeding himself hands-free during feeding times. The others did the same, acting like little children with new toys.
Not Allen. Allen took it all in stride, only gave as much of himself as was necessary during training sessions, never played around with his powers. While everyone else was marveling at the fact that Naomi had lifted her guard six inches into the air, Allen was scratching his arm and looking distractedly at the ceiling. While everyone else sat in a large circle, focusing on the thin cuts on their hands that the guards had given them that morning, trying to heal them, to wash the pain away, Allen was staring at the floor between his legs and humming softly to himself.
It was after this healing exercise that the first E.H.U.D. insurrection began. By John’s rough calculation they had been prisoners for about eighteen months, and the E.H.U.D.s, as they were now calling themselves, were dividing into two groups: those who had become used to the captivity, who were tired of fighting and were willing to live day by day, training, eating sleeping, repeating, and those who were ready to fight, to escape, to use their new powers against their captors. And it was believed among the fighters that their leader was Allen. The reasoning behind the belief was sound; Allen’s plan of becoming a government-less peacekeeping force had become widely dispersed amongst the E.H.U.D.s, and all agreed it was the plan they would follow once they escaped.
So it came as something of a shock to everyone gathered in the great room when news spread that Lemlin had urged Allen to declare an open revolt, and that Allen had refused. John arrived in time to hear the end of their argument.
“We’ve been at this too long,” Lemlin whispered vehemently, trying to keep his voice below the guard’s range of hearing. “We have the powers, we have the training, we can do it! The guards are complacent!”
Allen didn’t look at Lemlin when he responded; he looked at John. “We have only the barest of training. There’s more we could use our powers for, things we need to learn before we move.”
“Like what? How to wipe our ***es without getting dirty?”
Without warning, Allen shot out his hand and grabbed John’s arm, twisting it in an awkward direction and digging in his fingernails to the point of drawing blood. John fought down the impulse to move away; he knew the grip he was in could very well break his arm if he moved too forcefully.
Allen shifted his attention to Lemlin. “Do you feel that?”
Lemlin, crouched in a fighting stance and eying Allen warily, took a half step away. “What?”
“I said, do you feel that? Do you feel the pain in his arm?”
“Of course not, I—“
“Why not?”
Allen sighed. “Stop worrying about yourself for a minute and focus on John. Feel the shape of his mind, feel what he feels. There’s more to what you can do than knock over cups and dodge Nerfs.”
“I hate to interrupt,” John grunted, “but I never volunteered to be an object lesson.”
“You never volunteered for any of this,” Allen said, releasing John’s arm. He turned back to Lemlin. “While you’ve been planning for the instant gratification of escape, I’ve used my free time to find out what I can do, what I have to offer when we make our escape.”
“And what do you have to offer?” John asked, intrigued.
“I can offer the guards, I think. I stated on all of you, sensing you, feeling your minds. Then I switched my experiments to the guards. I’ve been through their minds, seen hat they’ve seen, experienced their memories.”
“Mind reading.” Lemlin seemed skeptical.
“Yes, exactly. And I think, over time, I may be able to directly access their minds, control their nervous functions. Control them.”
“Over time.”
Allen nodded. “Over time.”
Lemlin suddenly leaned in close, grabbing by the shoulders and shaking him. “Over time, my daughter’s going to get older! Over time, she’s going to be sent to a foster home, or get adopted. Over time, she won’t remember me!”
Allen didn’t react to Lemlin’s physical attack. He merely looked Lemlin in the eye and said, “Over time, she will have the chance to get her father back, safe and sound. If her father does anything rash, he might died, and where would she be then.”
Lemlin released Allen and backed away. “I’m attacking Mistlethwakey tomorrow, with or without you. One way or another, something will happen tomorrow.” He jabbed his finger to emphasize the last four words. Then he turned and quietly strode away to a group of his co-conspirators.
The few people who had gathered around to hear the argument soon lost interest and left as well, leaving only John to speak to Allen. “Can you really hear them? Their thoughts I mean?”
Allen shook himself and blinked a few times, his attention seeming to have been called from some unfathomably distant place. “Oh, yes, of course. That’s the easiest part, really. The memories are just like the thoughts, only compressed. But no, you don’t usually hear them; they’re usually images, or feelings of desire or intent.” Something flickered across Allen’s face and he smiled slightly. “That reminds me, next time you see Udarian looking at little Maria, kick him in the balls, will you?”
John was going to respond, but Allen seemed to float off to that distant place again. Reluctantly, John left him alone.
The next day, they performed another healing exercise. Each E.H.U.D. had a finger nicked, and five hours of concentration in which to heal the wound. So far, few of them were making progress. John knew this, because he was studying their minds. What Allen had told him had opened up a whole new world of possibilities to John. In addition to being able to manipulate matter from a distance, the E.H.U.D.s would be able to function perfectly as a team, seeing what the others saw, instantly communicating vital information that could be the difference between life and death on the field.
So instead of healing his wound, John was experimenting, letting his mind float out and touch others. He felt the pain, the persistent throbbing sting on everyone’s right index finger; he felt the anger towards the guards for putting them through this yet again. In some people’s minds he felt quiet acceptance, surrender to life spent in this pit. And in other minds—
John felt a sudden hatred, a sudden desire to escape, to avenge himself on the guards and to bring this place down, one brick at a time. He dropped his hand and was rising to his feet when he realized that the impulse had not come from his own mind, but from Lemlin’s.
Off to John’s left, Lemlin surged unexpectedly to his feet, followed by about fifteen others. They each targeted a guard, lashed out wildly with their minds. The guards fell, chocking and wheezing, their bodies spasming wildly.
Lemlin and his men rushed forward, grabbed up fallen rifles, flailed out at more of the guards—
John, half crouched and unsure of what to do, glanced instinctively towards Allen.
Slowly, Allen shook his head. He wasn’t answering the question plain in John’s eyes; he was weary, and disappointed in Lemlin’s actions.
Lemlin and his crew had disabled about half of the guards when a sudden buzzing split the air. Lemlin stumbled; fell to one knee, his teeth exposed in a wide grimace. Around the circle, the E.H.U.D.s suddenly gasped, or screamed, or fell over and began to weep.
John felt his own mind disconnect from the others, felt himself as alone and isolated as he had that first day in this room…
He looked to see Allen’s reaction to the noise. At first glance, Allen seemed completely unaffected; he sat up straight and his head still moved slowly back and forth. But when John looked closer he saw Allen’s teeth chattering, his jaw muscles moving rapidly, a vein on his forehead pulsing.
The remaining guards rushed forward to disarm the insurgent E.H.U.D.s, and then turned to help their fallen comrades out of the room.
From above the room, in the little walkway that surrounded it, Mistlethwakey spoke, his voice amplified and echoing over the terrible buzzing. “That sound you hear is made by a device we call the scrambler. It produces a high-pitched buzzing which interferes with certain brain functions, namely those associated with your paranormal abilities. As some of you no doubt have noticed, the device causes a different reaction in each of you. The one constant however, is that when the scrambler is running, each of you is merely a well-trained soldier. Remember that. The scanner will be used when necessary; your resistance will not be tolerated. Now, I’m going to turn the scanner off, and I expect you all to be mature about this, and behave from now on. Am I understood?”
The only reply was a pained shriek from Lemlin.
The buzzing stopped, and John felt the world around him began to drift back, to fill his mind with the sounds of other minds.
Mistlethwakey spoke again. “I think we’re done with training today; you all may stay here and talk for a few hours, work out the implications of a device such as the scrambler. And remember, we didn’t enter this plan half-cocked. Everything that can go wrong, we have already planned for. We’re in charge. It would be good for you to remember that.”
They could hear Mistlethwakey’s feet clicking on the concrete as he left the walkway.
Below in the room, the nameless doctors filed in through the massive loading door, pushing gurneys in front of them and standing patiently by as the injured guards were loaded on and then carted away. Soon only the E.H.U.D.s and twenty guards remained.
Lemlin stood shakily to his feet and walked over to Allen. “You knew,” he hissed.
Allen sat, legs folded, and looked up at Lemlin. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You told me not to attack. You knew they had the scramblers, that they were going to use them, and you tried to stop me!”
“And yet you didn’t listen to the warning.”
“That’s not the point! The point is that you had inside information! You had to have!”
Allen didn’t respond for a long moment. “I didn’t know specifically about the scramblers, no, but I suspected that they would have some kind of weapon to stop us. We are the best of the best, the undefeatable super soldiers. Did you really think they were stupid enough to try to control us with a hundred guards armed with conventional weapons? That’s something akin to having soldiers firing rifles at an incoming missile.”
Lemlin’s jaw moved, as if he wanted to say something, but all he did was glare at Allen. “You knew,” he eventually repeated, although this time it lacked conviction.
“I would suggest that next time you listen to the people who are trying to counsel you. We’re up against very smart people here, and we need to be smarter than them. I would also suggest that you arm yourself better before you make your next move. For instance, learn to read minds. Who knows, it may turn out that you have other abilities, such as being able to project your own thoughts onto others. Make the guards willingly surrender to you. Better yet, make them fight for you.”
“And all the while, we just play along with all of this?”
Allen nodded gravely. “We have no other choice.”
Lemlin snorted and turned away.
The E.H.U.D.s all broke into little groups then, forming clusters of threes and fours, talking about what had happened that day, about ways to get around the scramblers, about ways to escape.
John found himself sitting with Allen and Naomi. They all remained silent for some time until Naomi spoke up.
“Who are you, Allen?”
“You said that you were an electrician.”
Allen smiled. “That I was. My last job was on a luxury apartment building in Philly.”
John became interested at the mention of buildings. “Was it Sky Crest?”
“Oh, you’ve heard about it?”
John nodded excitedly. “I was studying it right before… before all this. Designed by Julian Cohen himself, one of America’s best architects.”
“Oh, very interesting, I’m sure,” Naomi interjected, “but back to my question. Who are you? You’re an electrician, but the first day here, you started getting everyone organized. We had a career military man, and he didn’t do anything. But you managed to get us to make an organized effort to work through this, to figure out where the **** we were. You found out people’s specialties, you used them—and don’t forget that you came up with the best escape program, you were the one who figured out mind reading, you were the one who guessed that they’d have scramblers. That’s some pretty good guesswork for someone who installs light bulbs for a living.”
Allen made show of being offended. “Oh, it’s much harder than that! Any monkey can install a light bulb, but it takes hard work and years of practice to become an electrician!”
“You know what I mean.”
“Alright, yes, fine, I know what you mean. Let’s just say that ‘electrician’ is what I do, not who I am.”
“And that’s Naomi’s question; who are you?” John was remembering other things Allen had done, other times when he had easily taken charge, had kept them all from panicking. “With what I’ve seen you do, you could easily become president. ****, you could get electing king for life.”
“Who do you think I am?”
John shrugged.
“I would think maybe one of those insanely cool high-school teachers that everybody loves, but who only ever show up in movies,” Naomi said thoughtfully.
“Outside of being an electrician, my only jobs have been in fast food.”
“Look, just end the suspense and tell us your secret.”
“You think I have a secret?”
Naomi grunted and buried her face in her hands. “You’re being evasive! That just proves it!”
Allen smiled. “I’ll say this. I’m very well read in a variety of subjects, and in fact I’m a self-taught physicist and social-philosopher.”
“And what exactly is a social-philosopher?” John asked.
“It means I study people, see how they work, look at trends through history and apply my theories to them.”
“And some of those theories would be…?” Naomi prompted, lifting her eyes above the level of her fingers.
“Well, take my thoughts about The Mouse that Roared. In the 1960’s, the idea of one nation with a powerful weapon forcing its will on others was a very real threat. Or to take it a step farther, the concept of using weapons to prevent wars. Do you realize that the nuclear bomb has done more for stopping wars than just about any other single factor?”
Neither Naomi nor John responded.
“In the 1970’s and 80’s, both America and the then Soviet Union were at the brink of starting World War III, with each power bloc ruling a large portion of the world and ordering around vast forces, severely destabilizing the world system, and costing millions of lives. However, each side had a massive nuclear arsenal, enough to completely wipe out the other side, and much of the rest of the world as well. If either side struck, the other would launch weapons, and both sides would be wiped out. Mutually assured-destruction. No matter who moved first, they would both die. Thus, no one moved, and thus we’re not living on a lifeless ball of radioactive dust today.”
“So,” John ventured, “we would step in and assure destruction to anyone who made an attempt at war?”
“Yes; we’d take the whole world hostage, as it were, and shoot anyone who moved.”
“But things always end badly for hostage takers,” Naomi added.
“Look at Israel; surrounded on all sides by hostile nations. Yet somehow, small as it is, it’s still around. Why? It has the bomb. It’s holding the countries surrounding it hostage.”
“So no one could mount a serious assault against Israel without getting wiped out.”
Allen smiled. “Exactly. Hostages aren’t always a bad thing, you see. It all depends on who you take, why you take them, and the likelihood that they will survive.”
John felt uncomfortable. “That sounds a bit… morally questionable.”
Allen’s smile remained, but his eyes grew distant. “In war, there is no morality. There is only your survival, and the survival of your family, your community, your nation. Hit them before they hit you.”
“You sound like you’ve been through war before.”
Allen shook his head. “No, but I think that before this thing is done, we will go through war. And we have to win by any means possible.”
They grew silent again, contemplative.
“You know,” John said, “even after all that you said yesterday, Naomi and I are the only ones who’ve tried to read minds.”
“You saw my mind just like I saw yours; don’t act so innocent. The point is, we two are listening to you Allen. You have a plan, that’s obvious; an idea to live through this, to make a better world afterwards. Teach us. Teach us some more social-philosophy, teach us how to stand against Mistlethwakey.”
“I don’t want to be involved with this,” Naomi said quickly.
“Allen and I both know you’re lying.”
Naomi drew up her legs and folded her arms around herself. “Sure, fine, whatever, be our guru.”
Allen sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m not a professional; all I have are ideas. I don’t want to be some sort of revolutionary leader. But yes, I’ll teach you, I’ll get you ready to get out of this place. But you can’t rely on me. You have to think for yourselves.”
“I told you more than a year ago that anything you need me for, I’m there. If you need me to move past you one day, I’ll do it.”
Allen nodded and turned towards Naomi. “And you? Are you ready to do whatever it takes?”
“Whatever it takes to do what?”
“Does it matter?”
Naomi didn’t respond for several minutes, and the two men didn’t try to rush her decision. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she held up her right hand. “Teach me, o great master, so that I too may become enlightened.”
“Good. Meet me tomorrow during lunch for some theories on the uses of telepathic abilities and for a bit of social-philosophy. Bring anyone who’ll listen. And now, if you don’t mind,” Allen stood up and stretched, “I’m feeling tired, and I think I’ll be off to bed now.”
He walked swiftly to the massive door, paused briefly to talk with the guards stationed there, and then disappeared into the hallway.
As soon as Allen was gone, Naomi also stood and walked towards a group of women clustered around Cyd and sat down with them.
John sat alone, thinking over the things Allen had said and stretching out his mind to touch the others in the room. There were feelings of fear, of compliance… but now, floating up amongst the minds, moving like a virus that jumped from consciousness to conciseness, was a new feeling—defiance. More and more, resentment towards Mistlethwakey and his scramblers spread, and soon the E.H.U.D.s were of one mind. They would not merely escape; they would defy Mistlethwakey, would destroy all he had built.
And, starting with the group that Naomi had joined, and spreading to others as it dissipated and the members moved off to other groups, was the knowledge that no matter what form this final vengeance took, Allen would be the one to made them ready for it…

The next day, four people arrived to hear Allen’s lecture and better learn how to use their powers: John and Naomi, of course, and Dr. Frease and little Maria, who had taken to following the old man as if she were his daughter.
The day after that, five more E.H.U.D.s joined the group including, to everyone’s surprise, Cyd, who was still having a hard time getting along with others.
By the time a week had passed since the founding of the little group, all ninety nine of the E.H.U.D.s were studying at Allen’s feet.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

At Long, Long Last...

So, it's been over a whole month since updates. And one of the reasons for that was because I didn't have enough chapters in my buffer to post some. Why? Because, during National Novel Writer's month, I took a break. I hardly wrote anything. Wow...

But now I have two chapters separating what I'm writing now and what I'm putting up tonight, so all is well.

And, as always, time for some background. The chapter you're about to read didn't exist in the first draft. John fought Shaun, ran away from the building, and the story went rather abruptly to the end. In the second draft, John falls unconscious, has about a page and a half chapter of a very, very, very brief explanation of his fifteen years with the E.H.U.D.s, and then jumps to the end.

This time around, I decided to take some time and put in back-story, to clear up plot points, and also character development, which is rather important because there are some new characters in the end of the book who previously showed up out of thin air, but now have some history with John. Most importantly, we get to see the fabled Allen, find out who he is and why John seems to care about him so much.

So I extended the one little chapter. Originally, it was going to become a longish chapter filled with little vignettes of John's training. But now, it is alive, and has become four rather long chapters, which have gotten me through 1/3 of John's training. Ouch. But I feel this is some of the better stuff in the book (especially the chapter I post next time) so I'll let it stand.

A quick word about the picture at top: an unfinished painting of my dog. I threw it in just because.

As I wrap up, a say, as always, PLEASE COMMENT! Thank you, and good night.


The following chapter contains material not intended for a younger audience! Viewer discretion is advised! If you absolutely have to find out what happens (I'm talking to you, Jacob) have your mom read it and then ask her what happened.

Chapter 22

John opened his eyes, but couldn’t see anything; the world was pitch black around him. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Even at midnight, even with every electronic device turned off, there was still enough light in his dorm room to easily find the bathroom. But this… it actually seemed brighter with his eyes closed…
The second sign was the slight, steady breeze that floated through the space around him. The way the air moved, the temperature, the pressure, everything was different from what he was used to; this space was too large, too open.
The third sign was the stiff, cold material underneath him. His room was carpeted; this felt to be concrete with some kind of coating over it. And by the way his body touched the floor, John could tell he was naked. That was never a good thing to realize immediately after waking up.
The fourth sign was the leg. John could feel it, warm and smooth, pressed against his arm, the foot digging into his hip. He cautiously reached out and touched the leg, moving slowly upwards—oh. The person next to him was female. He thought for a moment that it was Lucy, that maybe she had—no, she was even more traditional than he was, and had staunchly sworn off sex until the wedding night. John carefully pulled his hand back. Where was he?
The fifth sign was an arm, and a body, pressed up against him on the other side. He carefully reached out and ascertained that this person was also female. Emotions warred in his head as he thought about these two companions: embarrassment at being with two total strangers, fear about what Lucy would say when she found out, shame that he had betrayed her like this, elation that he had finally scored, triumph that he was now a real man. He tried to suppress the thought, but he couldn’t help but looking forward to bragging about this to someone—
A foot kicked him in the head. He jerked away, shoving into the woman on his right; she moaned softly. He waited, tense, but the foot didn’t return. At least the foot had been bare…
The final sign, the thing that confirmed that something was indeed wrong, came immediately after the kick. High overhead dim fluorescent lights turned on, the mesh cages around them casting shadows on the heap of nude bodies that littered the floor in every direction.
John gasped, sat up, pulled in on himself as he saw the people around him, the distinct forms blurring into a light brown mass as they lay farther away from him—
Someone touched his hand.
“Wha time ‘sit, honey?” the woman who had been pressed up against him mumbled sleepily.
He jerked away his hand, clutching it between his knees; where was he? He looked around wildly, taking in all that he could see in the limited bubble of clear vision. His eyes returned to the woman who had grabbed his hand, who seemed to be waking up.
She was older than he was, maybe in her early thirties, pale, bald, her hair prickled by stubble—
John saw the person beyond her. A man; bald. Beyond him, a woman, another woman, a woman, a man—all bald.
John turned to the woman on his left—bald. He reached up and touched his own head, ran his fingers along the smooth, velvety fuzz… Lucy would kill him when she found out that he was bald; she had already booked the photographer, even though the wedding wasn’t for another year at least—
Someone scream. He whipped his head around. The woman who had touched him was staring at him in horror. “Get away from me!” she shrieked, pushing herself away.
John raised his hands, tried to tell the woman that it was okay, that nothing was wrong—she pushed herself up to her knees, tried to cover her breasts with one arm, tried to scoot backwards—
She tripped over the man behind her. He gasped, yelled, cursed— she flung herself up, tried to get off of him, tripped over someone else—
There were more yells, people waking up, discovering where they were, what was happening—
“Get away, get away!” someone yelled from behind him. John turned, his vision obscured by the palms of someone hitting him—he reached out and grabbed a hold of a pair of wrists, looked up at whose wrists they were: a young Asian woman, a girl, really, no more than sixteen, naked, bald, just like everyone else—she must have been the one whose leg had been next to him—
A blow landed on the back of his head. “Let go of her, you son of a *****! Let go! Harold! Where’s Harold!”
John let go, crawled away from the women who were beating him, fell to the ground as a heavy man stood, tried to walk, tripped over him. The weight pinned him to the floor; he tired to get up—he could see, off in the blurred distance, a grey mass that seemed to be a wall; if he could get there, he’d be safer; no one could attack him from behind—
Thirty minutes, maybe an hour, maybe more passed. By now everyone was awake. The reactions were all similar; fear, surprise, desperate anger, struggles to survive, to escape. There were tears, shouts, wails of anguish… No communication had been made, no knowledge gained… but now they all sat huddled against the walls, the women on one side, the men on the other.
John couldn’t see any of the women; they were just a pink blob on the horizon, maybe thirty feet away. The men around him, he could see clearly. They were men of all types, all ages, all races, short, tall, thin, fat… there seemed to be no distinguishing features, nothing to signify why they were all gathered here, together in this room…
Why am I in this room, John thought? Why? There was nothing special about him. He was a regular college student. Nothing at all to set him apart from a crowd…
Where was Lucy? Was she safe? If John had been kidnapped, she might have been—no, it wasn’t real, couldn’t be real…
He tried to console himself by imagining this was all a dream, that he had gone back to his dorm and was sleeping soundly… but if it were a dream, there would only be the women in this room… And they wouldn’t be bald… They would probably all look like Lucy.
There was movement and sounds of protest from the mass of the women. John watched as a shape detactched itself from the group, became humanoid; it was the young woman whose foot had been touching him. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide her body, but it was no use. She eventually gave up and stood boldly in front of the men. She took a deep breath, stretched to her full height, and said in a strained voice, “Do any of you have any idea of what the **** is going on?”
The response from the men was disjointed, confused. Some started babbling, offering theories, trying to reassure the girl; others turned away, trying to keep their eyes away from the girls, or else trying to hide more physical responses to her presence.
John was part of a group that did nothing, that merely stood where they were, wrapping their arms around and trying to stay covered, or warm, or both.
As the confused babbling died down, one man left the group and walked out towards the girl, an emissary on behalf of the males. Like his counterpart, he was bald, but with much more body hair, and somewhat older. Possibly late twenties or early thirties.
He stopped a few yards away from the girl and extended a hand. “Hello,” he said, “my name is Allen.”
The girl glanced around, saw John, glared at him, and took a few steps forward, accepting Allen’s hand. “Naomi.”
She released Allen’s hand and took a few steps back. “Now, what the **** is going on?”
“I don’t know; I’m sure they’ll tell us soon.”
Naomi’s eyes grew wider. “Who?”
Allen gestured towards the top of the wall, near where it met the ceiling, a region of dense shadow. “Do you see those little metallic glints up there, about three feet down from the ceiling? Kind of diagonal streaks in the shadow?” He waited, and Naomi nodded. “That’s mesh of some sort. Wire mesh, covering a cavity of some kind. Logically, there’s someone back there, watching us.”
If Allen made a response, John couldn’t hear it; he was nearly deafened by the yells that filled the room. “Aliens!” “Terrorists!” “The government!” “The mafia!”
John ignored the yells. Allen. Allen obviously hade some sort of knowledge about the construction of buildings. Well, so did John. He could help out, too. He took a quick glance around the room, taking in every detail of the construction that he could. Then, as the wild theories and paranoia quieted down, he cautiously walked out to where Allen and Naomi stood, feeling extremely self conscious about their eyes on him.
“Hi, I’m John,” he said tentatively, extending his hand out first to Allen and then to Naomi. “I, uh, I’m the guy who woke up next to you—“
“Yeah, I know.” She didn’t accept his hand.
John quickly retracted it. “Um, anyway, I, uh, I have a little experience with architecture, and I can make a few guesses about who may have imprisoned us here…”
Allen nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Well, uh, just like you noticed the mesh, I noticed that, the uh, well, the whole room seems to be made from concrete, with the coating over it, so that suggests extreme functionality. The cracks where the floor meets the walls suggests that the concrete is still fairly fresh, so this place was made for us, apparently, the overhead lights suggest function and durability, and the joists that you can see projecting out of the walls all around the sides suggest a heavy weight overhead. So we’re either near the bottom of a large building, or we’re underground.”
“And what the **** does that mean?”
“You know,” Allen said with a small smile, “you don’t need to use that word in every sentence.”
To John’s surprise, Naomi didn’t respond.
“Go ahead.”
“Well, the materials suggest both a purpose and a budget, and the probable location suggests a fairly big reach so… either a private entity, like a company or eccentric billionaire or, more likely, the government. But of which country, I can’t say.”
“Neither can I, but it might be a good idea to find out everyone’s nationalities. You two American?”
Naomi and John nodded.
“Okay, we need to organize. There’re a lot of us here, in one small room, no apparent way out, and no supplies. We need to figure out who everyone is, maybe see if they know why they’re here. When we have time, we can buddy up and exchange histories. Agreed?”
“Who the **** died and made you the ********* high imperial poobah?”
John started and Naomi gasped quietly. A woman, thin and weathered, with a downy spray of red stubble on her head, had come up behind them.
“Of course,” she continued, “disaster strikes, and who immediately tries to take over? Men! Always you ********* chauvinists trying to take over!”
“I’m sorry, I—“ John tried to say, hoping this woman would leave him alone.
“Oh, you’re one to talk! I know you; Naomi here told me everything! She wakes up and what’s the first thing that happens? She finds you shoving your hand in—“
“That’s quite enough!” Allen bellowed, his voice drowning out the woman and the quiet conversations around the room. “First off, what John might or might not have done to Naomi is a matter for them to work out, not you. Secondly, do you know who first took charge in this situation? The first person to start asking intelligent questions? Naomi. A female. So before you start throwing around accusations, make sure you have the facts right. Third, the reason that I’m the ********* high imperial poobah is because I stood up and tried doing something. I’m in construction, I have experience organizing things! So until a vocal majority of the people in here speaks out, I’m calling the shots, and these two will help me!”
John looked worriedly at Allen. It was all well and good for Allen to be in command; if he wanted it, he could have it. But John didn’t want to be a part of any of this. He just wanted to curl up and go to sleep, wake up somewhere else…
“Now,” Allen said, his voice suddenly calm and even, “if you want to help out here, to have a little bit of authority, why don’t you go back to your side of the room and do an inventory. Find out how many people are there, nationalities, maybe ages. See if everyone’s okay. There’s no way of knowing how long we’ll be here, so we might as well try to make sure everyone’s healthy. John, you can go and do that over on the other side, okay?”
John nodded.
A moment passed, and Allen glanced at him. “Okay?”
“Oh, sorry, right. Okay.”
Allen looked at him for an uncomfortable moment and then said, “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your eyes…” Allen pointed at his own eyes and squinted.
“Oh, yeah, that. Can’t see too well.”
Allen nodded sympathetically. “Okay. Well, go do your job.”
John sighed and walked back to the group of men. He really didn’t want to take inventory of anyone, but what was the point of arguing? At least Allen’s plan gave him something to do, something to distract him from the fear…
He walked among the men, interviewing them, getting names, ages, nationalities. He forgot most of the names; people would start talking, introducing themselves, babbling on, trying to tell their lives stories, tried to tell him their conspiracy theories, the identity of their kidnappers, predictions of what would happen next. The most annoying among the crowd were those who asked questions, who assumed that John had any idea of what was going on. John tried to rebuff them, to explain that he was just as in the dark as anyone else, but they never listened.
A very few of the people would ask to help, to offer to do something for him. John took special note of those people and sent them off to interview groups of people, with instructions to report back to either Allen or himself when they were done.
After what seemed like hours, John finally conducted his last interview. It was with a dark skinned man about his own age. John recognized him from earlier in the interview process; he was one of the men who had asked to help, and was one of the few who had facial hair, although his was limited to a thin moustache. John walked over to him and introduced himself.
“John Donalson. I believe we might have met earlier?”
“Oh, yeah, you told me to talk to Allen.”
“Did you?”
“Nah, I couldn’t get close enough; he was surrounded by followers.”
John nodded; he was starting too feel drowsy. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names—“
“Vincent Larrington, Vince, electrical engineering at PU.”
John managed to wake up a little at the mention of his college. “Wow, me too. Well, architecture, but—you know, you’re the first person I’ve met so far who’s from Philly.”
Vince glanced around at the other men. “Where are the rest from?”
John shrugged. “Everywhere.”
“Hey, what year were you in? Anything above freshmen?” He waited and John nodded. “Do you remember the military recruiters that were out last year?”
It took John a moment to realize what Vince was talking about. The recruiters…
There were always recruiters at college campuses, representatives from the military who tried to get kids to sign up. But the year before they had been out in larger numbers than usual, pressing a big recruitment campaign, providing cash incentives to students who would take aptitude tests. John hadn’t thought about those tests since last year; he remembered them now.
Ten dollars to fill out an interests questionnaire. Twenty to test for competence in key educational areas. Fifty for the other tests…
“Did you take any of the tests?” asked Vince. “Specifically the… weird ones?”
John didn’t need Vince to tell him which tests he meant. If students were interested enough to make it to the third round of testing, the recruits would take them to a small booth and have them do… things. Stare at a red dot on a white card for thirty seconds. Try to turn on a light bulb by thoughts alone. Try to guess which card the questioner was thinking of.
Vince could tell from John’s expressions that he knew what Vince was talking about. “Did you ever get the results back for the weird tests?”
John shook his head.
“Me neither.”
“So you think—“
“You yourself said this place looked like a government building!” Vince hissed. “All the people I’ve talked to so far have been American, all of them have done weird things with a recruiter, or with a doctor, or a graduate student, or something—“
“How many people have you talked to?”
“Thirteen, but—“
John sighed. “Look, a lot of people have theories about what’s going on—“
“Just listen!” Vince’s voice was still quiet, but he spoke with a sense of urgency. “Those thirteen, and me, and I’m willing to bet you, all remember going to bed and sleep last night. That’s the last thing you remember! Who else could just sneak in and take a bunch of people out of bed—hey!” Vince jumped up and twisted halfway around as a hand came down on his shoulder.
“I bet I could,” Allen said, his face split by a grin. “Vince, right?”
Vince swallowed and nodded.
“Is it okay if I cut in and talk to you and John for a minute?”
Vince nodded again.
“Alright, I’ve done my own count and there’re exactly one hundred people in this room. Sixty-one females, thirty nine males. Do you have a nationality count?”
“Uh, yeah. Twenty six Americans.”
“So that brings the total to eighty-three Americans, seven undocumented Mexicans, six Indian college students, and four Canadians.”
“Where were the college students attending?”
“The Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”
“That’s what I said.”
A new voice spoke up. “What are the age ranges?”
The three men turned and found an older man standing behind them, the rough stubble of a poorly trimmed beard on his face.
John didn’t recognize him. “I’m sorry, I don’t—“
“Todd Frease, with an ‘s,’ not a ‘z.’ MD, OBGYN. Now, what are the age ranges here? By sex?”
Allen rubbed his chin. “Females, seven to thirty-four, the average being about seventeen. Males, thirteen to fifty-three, with you being the oldest. Average age, twenty three.”
Dr. Frease nodded. “Breeding.”
Vince’s eyes, already bulging slightly, noticeably widened. “What?!”
“Healthy population, probably completely unrelated to one another, roughly two-to-one female to male ratio, females on the whole younger than males. Breeding.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then both Vince and John tried to make simultaneous objections to Dr. Frease’s hypothesis. “No, there is no way—“ “I have a fiancĂ©—“ “Isn’t that illegal—“
Dr. Frease stared coolly at them until they quieted. “I’m not particularly thrilled at the prospect of being a stud, but what choice do we have? The people we’re dealing with were able to come and abduct us from locations all around the country, and hide us here, wherever here may be. There’s not much we can do in the bottom of a concrete pit.” One corner of his mouth twisted up in a wry smile. “Besides, there are worse things that could happen to us.”
“For you maybe,” Naomi said as she stepped forward into the group, “but being a walking womb is not my idea of fun.”
Dr. Frease shrugged. “It’s just a theory, based on observation. If you have another idea, please share with the group.”
Naomi ignored him and addressed Allen. “We have someone over there, Sarah, she’s a structural engineer, and she says she’s found a patch of wall that doesn’t seem to be solid.”
“Good work,” Allen said, flashing a disarming smile. “Let’s check it out, shall we?”
Allen walked off to the other side of the room, followed closely by Vince and Dr. Frease. John followed more slowly, hanging back with Naomi, who made an effort to ignore him.
“Look,” John said after the silence between them had grown uncomfortable, “I’m really sorry about earlier. I had just woken up, and there was a leg digging into my back, and I couldn’t see—“
“Yeah, okay, it was an accident, I get it; you can shut up now.”
“Okay, thanks. I mean, under normal circumstances I would never—I-I’m supposed to be getting married soon, and—“
“And I don’t care. Shut up.”
John remained quiet for a few seconds. “Um… just out of curiosity, how old are you?”
“Twenty. Why?”
“Really? Twenty? Wow. Um, no reason, I just wanted—“
“Shut, up, I can’t hear them talking.”
They had caught up with Allen’s group. Allen himself lay on the ground along the wall, his head touching that of a woman lying down across from him. She was gesturing along the base of the wall, and occasionally up towards the ceiling. John looked up to where she was pointing, but couldn’t see anything.
Naomi slapped him on the stomach. “Not the ceiling, idiot, along the wall.”
“I can’t see anything.”
“Neither can I. But look, she keeps touching the wall.”
John took a few steps forward, pushing into the crowd that had gathered around the wall inspectors.
“Hey, watch it!” someone yelled. It was the surly woman with the red stubble.
“I-I’m sorry I—“
“You just keep away from me and the girls or I’ll castrate—“
“Oh, shut up, Cyd,” muttered the woman to her right. “No one cares now, alright? Besides, there are more of us than them.”
The redhead—Cyd—looked like she was going to argue the point, but she eventually settled on glaring witheringly at John.
He ignored her and made it to the wall.
“What’s going on?” he whispered to Vince.
“That the one who’s the architect?” called the woman on the floor.
“Uh, yeah—“
“Walk about twenty feet to your right and tell me if you see any indentations on the wall. If not, move your way back here and check every few centimeters.”
John shrugged and went about the task. It was good to have something mindless and distracting to do for a few minutes. He didn’t have to think about where he was… or how Lucy was doing…
No—he couldn’t think about Lucy. That would only hurt, only make him worry. More than likely, she was out in the world, perfectly safe. He could only afford to worry about himself now.
He had reached a point where moving forward would mean treading on Allen’s toes when he found it—a slight indentation, a thin crack, really, perpendicular to the floor. He crouched down and followed the crack until it reached the floor, then stood back up and stretched out an arm to follow the crack up towards the ceiling. It extended much further than the length of his arm.
“I found something,” John told Allen and woman, whom John was pretty sure that Naomi had named as ‘Sarah.’
“Where?” Sarah asked, standing. She was tall, thin, with wiry muscles and a thin lattice-work of tattoos around her neck.
“Right along here.” John gestured along the pathway of the crack.
Sarah turned her head and rested an ear against the wall next to the crack, and then pressed her body against it. She stood in that pose for several long seconds, and then started tapping rhythmically with her fist on either side of the crack, occasionally shifting her head to a new position. Eventually she pulled away and delivered her verdict. “It’s different. Maybe half an inch of concrete, then some kind of metal. The rest of the walls appear to be several inches of concrete. This difference extends from here,” she placed her hand on the crack, and then walked about seven feet away and placed her hand on the wall again, “to here. My best estimate is that this is a door, possibly a loading dock, based on the size. This is how we got in.”
“And how are we going to get out?!” someone called from the back of the gathered crowd.
“Good question!” Allen called back. “I have no idea! But I don’t think we can open this door, so our best bet is the mesh near the ceiling! I would suggest we make a human pyramid, and then send one of the smallest girls up to look in!”
There was a general cry of disagreement, the strongest of which was against endangering one of the few children in the group.
“Listen, listen!” Allen shouted, out-yelling the crowd that was threatening to form into a mob. “We’re all stuck here! We’re all in this together! We have no supplies, no information other than what we can figure out for ourselves! All we have is what we came into this world with,” he gestured down at his body, and then pressed his forefinger to his temple, “and what we carry in our minds! We have to be smart, have to think up our own solutions, with our own resources, to get out of this mess!”
“But why endanger a girl?!” someone shouted. It sounded like Cyd.
“Do you want a full-grown man climbing to the top of the pyramid?”
“We haven’t even decided to do that yet!” someone else interjected.
“I’ll go.” This third voice plunged the room to silence. A small girl, no more than ten years old, pushed through the crowd and stood before Allen. “I’ll go,” she repeated.
Allen crouched down in front of her. “What’s your name?”
“Well Maria, thank you for your bravery.” He stood up and looked out on the crowd, which by this point seemed to contain everyone in the room. “We have a volunteer to look into the window! Now, who will lift her up?!”
There had been no great response to Allen’s last question. In truth, it had been a bit of an anticlimax. Through the entire short speech, John had felt what he could only call patriotic fervor rising up within him, a call by Allen to be all that he could be. And yet when the speech ended—it just ended. There were no wild cheers, no calls of “I will!” or “Long live the revolution!” or any other phrases that seemed appropriate in that situation.
Yet as the people dispersed, and began talking, and one by one ordered themselves along the opposite wall, the biggest ones pushing forward and kneeling down, the rest clambering onto their backs, John could feel a definite change in the atmosphere. Something had shifted; before, they were a disorganized mass of frightened people, with only a few souls brave enough to try to do anything. Now, they were a nation, an army, a single group working together, under Allen, to get through this.
In ten minutes, the pyramid was complete; about fifty of them, mostly men, hunched down on each others backs, trying to lean against the wall to shift away some of the crushing weight. John was in the middle layer, breathing heavily, the combination of the crushing weight of the men and women supported above and the smell of closely-packed bodies making every breath a nightmare.
He was, quite frankly, amazed that he had agreed to be part of this project. Before today, if he had been in a group with fifty naked men, he would have tried to cover himself, to slip away and find some clothes. He had not been one of those students who hides in a bathroom stall to change for gym class, but he was still a bit skittish around nudity; he figured several of the other men must be the same. And the women must feel the same way also. Most of them were still student age, some where married; they weren’t used to walking around like this, showing off their bodies to every man in sight. And yet they too had gotten over their shyness and joined in. Here they were, working together, getting closer than was reasonably comfortable, all for the grater good. That was really the only reason John had done this; that patriotism he had felt earlier. And the naked woman crouched right in front of him didn’t hurt matters either… think of Lucy, think of Lucy, think of Lucy—
He felt a foot dig into his calf muscle and he gasped as the muscle tugged painfully against the underlying bone. But then the foot moved; he felt the woman crouched on his back start in surprise and then gasp as little Maria climbed on top of her.
About a minute latter there was a soft metallic rattle; John imagined Maria lacing her fingers into the mesh to steady herself on top of the precarious pile of humanity.
“I’m here!” she called down.
From somewhere near the bottom of the pile, Allen called back, “What do you see?”
“Not much; it’s pretty dark. But there’s some kind of empty walkway up here.”
“How wide is it?” Sarah asked from somewhere near the top.
“I don’t know. About five feet, maybe. And there’s a sign on the wall. It has a little arrow pointing that way,” John assumed she gestured but had no way of knowing in which direction, “and says ‘E,’ ‘H,’ ‘U,’ ‘D,’ main holding zone.”
“‘E,’ ‘H,’ ‘U,’ ‘D’? What the **** does that mean?” That sounded like the woman who had quieted Cyd earlier.
“It, uh, it spells a name,” John gasped. “Ehud. It’s an Israeli name.”
“We’re in Israel?”
“Maria?” Dr. Frease shouted from the ground; he was the oldest of them, and no one was going to begrudge him sitting this out. “Did you say it like that, each letter, because you couldn’t pronounce the word, or for some other reason?”
“There’s little dots between each letter!”
“An acronym, then.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. What else do you see?”
“Um… there’s a hall going out a little ways that way, and there’s brighter light that way.”
John heard Vince grunting from somewhere below him. “Do you see anything hanging from the ceiling, like shiny black balls, or little boxes?”
“Oh yeah, there are lots of those. What are they?”
“Cameras— **** it, get your knee out of my ***!”
Maria didn’t say anything for a few moments. “I—I, uh, think someone’s coming.”
“Get down!” Allen yelled. “Get down now!”
“But maybe I can talk to him—“
There was the sound of wire mesh rattling, and a deep voice yelling, “Get away from there! What are you doing? Sir! Containment breach!”
And then the pile shifted. Maybe someone’s arm slipped off of someone else’s sweaty back, maybe someone’s strength finally gave out, maybe, maybe… it didn’t matter. The pyramid swayed slightly, people moved and jostled one another so that they wouldn’t fall to the concrete floor twenty feet below them… and Maria fell. She gasped slid backwards, flew free of the bodies that supported her, and plummeted to the ground. John saw her as she came into view, as the pyramid began to collapse around him, as Allen ran, tried to catch her, as it became clear that he would never reach her in time… as she slowed… as she drifted sideways, towards Allen… as she fell heavily into his arms, and he grunted and strained, as if he had caught her falling at full speed… and then John slipped and cashed into the person below him, and the woman above him came down afterwards, and the pyramid dissolved into a quivering, moaning, horribly bruised heap of humanity.
John pulled himself to the top, looked over at Allen, who was now placing Maria gently onto the ground… John knew what he had seen. He tried to convince himself that it was impossible, that he had imagined it, a product of panic and a day of stress… but he had seen it…
Allen noticed John looking at him, and then… and then…
John groaned and dragged himself away from the remains of the pyramid, disoriented and confused. One minute he had been ten feet off of the ground, the next minute he had had what felt like five people sitting on his chest. Dr. Frease stepped over him, grabbed one of his ankles, felt it briefly, and then waded deeper into the chaos.
Allen jogged over and helped John to his feet. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah, I… Dr. Frease—“
“Yeah I saw.”
“How’s Maria?”
“I’m okay!”
“That’s—“ John coughed violently and bent over, resting his hands on his knees and catching his breath. “That’s good to know…”
Allen opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but he shut it again when the lights overhead suddenly grew much brighter, and a loud klaxon began blaring through the space.
“What’s going on?” John yelled.
Allen responded, but John couldn’t hear what he was saying. John shrugged and shook his head. Allen tapped him on the shoulder and pointed behind him. John turned—
The door was open. Where once had been a flat grey expanse of coated concrete, there was now a hole about ten feet wide. John expected a squad of deranged soldiers to swarm into the room at any moment, but after nearly a minute, none did.
So, careful not to make any sudden movements, John crept towards the hole. He could see past its edge now, into the hall outside. It certainly was more like a loading dock: long and tall, with no obstructions in it. The doorway itself was slightly smaller than the width of the hall, with a two-inch wide band of concrete-covered metal framing the hole. He could just make out, maybe five feet down the hall, a protruding chunk of wall, mounted on casters, with a thick flange along the outside; the plug for the hole.
And then the soldiers swarmed in. They came from a side passage, moving into the main room, ten, twenty, thirty… Soon, one hundred soldiers, one for every prisoner in the room, where standing around the edges, glaring at the overgrown infants who suddenly found themselves huddling together in the middle of the room.
John found himself with the group, staring fearfully at the armed soldiers, his modesty suddenly returning with a vengeance; he tried desperately to cover himself, saw others do the same.
The klaxon fell silent. Those huddled in the middle of the room shifted, the bigger ones, the warriors, moving towards the outside, the children, the weaker ones, moving in. And at the front, facing the door, John on his right side and Naomi on his left, was Allen.
Another noise started. Not the harsh claxon, not the shouted commands of the soldiers, not the growls of fear and anger from the prisoners. Boots. Boots walking down the hall way, through the door, into the room.
And there was the newcomer, wearing thick military boots and plain uniform, olive drab fatigues with no rank or insignia. He stood facing Allen, but his eyes moved, swept over the room.
“My name,” he said eventually, his voice a hoarse whisper that somehow seemed to fill the room, “is Colonel Robert Mistlethwakey. The facility you are in is the headquarters of the experimental arm of the Enhanced Human Ultimate Defense initiative. The facility has no name, but no doubt some of you may come up with some charming nickname to apply to it. One thing you will all agree on, however, is that this is home. Except for very rare circumstances, you will be staying here for the next twenty years. Any questions?”
Allen raised one arm.
“Yes, Mr.…” Mistlethwakey’s eyes rolled upwards, and his eyelids flickered rapidly for a moment. “Mr. Fendleton, yes?”
Allen lowered the arm. “What do you want from us?”
Mistlethwakey’s face remained expressionless. “You will be taking part in an experiment—no, that’s not the best word. You will be taking part of a carefully tested and perfected process that will change you all into the latest in military technology: Enhanced Human Ultimate Defenders. You will put America back on top of the world, militarily speaking.”
Allen raised his arm again, but didn’t wait for permission to speak. “Why don’t we have any clothes?”
Mistlethwakey spread his hands in an uncaring gesture. “You had to be processed; clothes got in the way. Also, they were items from the outside, part of your old life. You’d be surprised by how much of one’s identity is wrapped up in clothes, if you’ll pardon the pun. Of course, new clothes will be provided for you in your barracks.” He paused. “Any other questions?”
A heavily muscled, dark-skin man on the outer edges of the prisoners stepped forward, straitened to attention, and saluted. “Private first class Mervin Lemlin, sir!” he barked out, dropping the salute. “Sir, what are you doing? Kidnapping civilians and holding them against their will is a violation of who we are, sir! We protect them, not enslave them, for scientific purposes or otherwise!” He glared at Mistlethwakey. “Sir,” he added as an afterthought.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Lemlin. I believe that in principle, you are right. We must protect these people. But we don’t have to, because they’re dead. Well, some of them are, anyway. You are, Mr. Lemlin. Your unit was set upon by RPGs lat night, no survivors. Very tragic. And you, Mr. Fendleton, you’re dead as well. Electrical accident, stuck a screwdriver where it didn’t belong. Ms. Johnston, standing next to you, she eloped to Paris. A happy ending. And Mr. Donalson, on your other side, he’s in a deep coma following a very nasty car accident. And that also gives us a certain degree of protection; no one is going to come looking for any of you. You all have a story, a reason why you won’t be seen for quite some time.”
John stepped forward and raised an arm. He wanted to know what would happen to his family, to Lucy.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Donalson, question and answer time is over. If you want further information, you may read the packets left for you in your barracks. Right now, however, you will be assigned to you personal guard. As I’m sure those of you with a basic understanding of math have already ascertained, there will be one guard for each of you, male to male, female to female. They will be your constant companion for at least the next five years, and possibly more. You will eat together, sleep together, do everything together. You will at no time be out of their watchful gaze or line of fire.” He paused and pulled a neatly folded sheet of paper form a breast pocket. “After each of you has been assigned your guard, you will be escorted to your barracks. We will meet again in the morning to begin your training. Now: Ms. Aims, Sergeant Obama. Ms. Ayers, Sergeant Quincy…”
The list continued. John couldn’t think of anything to say, anything to do. His world was one, stripped away, and there was no way to get it back. He briefly contemplated charging the guards, acquiring a weapon, fighting—Allen caught his eye. Slowly, nearly imperceptibly, Allen shook his head, almost as if he could read John’s mind, knew what he was planning.
A sudden thought struck John. An idea for an experiment… He focused his attention on Mistlethwakey, thought of walking up to him, hitting him, strangling him. The guards would intervene, would strike back at him. John resolved to struggle, to try to get killed—he glanced at Allen. Allen silently mouthed the word ‘no.’
That… that was a bit disturbing. All of this, this conspiracy, this violation of his basic human rights, that frightened John, made him question the future, his own continuous existence. But Allen… Allen seemed to be able to do something that no one could do, something imposs—a brilliant memory flashed through John’s mind, exploding upwards like air out of water: Maria, falling through the air, her body tumbling, Allen reaching out, her body moving impossibly sideways—
John shook his head and glanced around the room. Several guards stood nearby, their weapons raised. And directly in front of him stood Mistlethwakey, his expression pleasant, but a bulging vein on his temple betraying his anger.
“What?” John asked.
“For the third time, you’re assigned to Sergeant Udarian. Now follow him to your barracks! Do you understand?”
John thought of responding, of giving some witty retort, maybe of making a physical statement of defiance—No.
It was an audible voice, a definite sound. But… there was no echo, no distortion from the room around them. It was pure sound, directly in his ears, in his head. John turned and stared at Allen, the only possible source of the sound. Allen was already staring at him.
No, the voice in John’s head said again.
John ripped his attention away from Allen and focused on Mistlethwakey. “If I have to tell you one more time, you will be sedated and—“
“Alright, I’m going. Which one is Uda-whatsit?”
“Just look for you.”
“What?” John looked around and—It was him, wearing an olive uniform, his hair, still present, covered by a cap. John blinked in amazement. The man looked almost exactly like himself.
The man strode forward and clapped a hand firmly on John’s arm. “This way.”
John stumbled as his double pushed him forward, away from the dwindling crowd of prisoners. Mistlethwakey began reciting form the list and John managed to hear, “Mr. Fendleton… Corporal Lister,” before he was out of the room and into the hall.
For the first fifty feet or so, the hall was exactly like the large room they had just left: concrete walls, floor, ceiling, all covered in some sort of thin plastic coating, with dim, caged lights far overhead. But soon they reached the end of the hall and turned into what appeared to be a hospital. Linoleum floors, blank whit walls with a thick band of plastic at about waist level. The ceiling lowered, became pockmarked tile, interrupted occasionally by banks of simple fluorescent lights. On either side of the hall were doors, thick and grey with a small window set near the top.
Udarian continued to push John down the seemingly endless hall, passing door after door, continuing in a straight line until they finally jerked to a stop and Udarian pushed John towards a door to their left. “In here,” he said gruffly.
The room beyond the door was as blankly utilitarian as the hall outside. There were two beds on wither side of the door, with thin floor-to-ceiling cabinets at their feet. Directly across from the door was another door, opened to reveal a small lavatory.
“Welcome to your new home,” Udarian said, shoving John through the door and locking it behind him as he followed John in. “This is ours for the next five years, so get used to the fact that I snore.” Udarian took off his cap and tossed it onto the bed to his right. Lights-off is in fifteen minutes. I’ll get you up in the morning.” He crossed the cramped space, pulled a towel from the cabinet at the foot of his bed, and went into the lavatory.
Once the door was closed and John was sure that Udarian wouldn’t be coming out for some time, he went to his own cabinet and looked inside. Five white t-shirts hung from a rack, five pairs of white shorts sat on a shelf, ten pairs of white socks were stuffed in a drawer, and two pears of white sneakers sat on the bottom of the cabinet. With only a moment of hesitation, John pulled out one of everything, except for the sneakers, and got dressed.
It was good to be wearing clothes again, but John still felt strange, still felt as if he was exposed, spied upon. He spent a moment looking around the room, trying to find hidden cameras or microphones, but there appeared to be nothing. Then he realized: Udarian was the spy camera. Everything he did, Udarian would be watching.
So there would be no hope of escape, no way of coming up with a plan, of carrying it out. But he had to escape, had to get out…
Tears welled up in his eyes, and John fell to his bed, holding in a sob that was trying to force its way out of him. He was stuck, with no idea where he was or how he had gotten here… no way out… no way back to Lucy…
There’s nothing you can do but accept it…
There was the voice again, telling him things. John’s tears dried as he listened to the voice.
Alone, you’re powerless… you can’t hope to escape… but with the others… there’s hope there. Just give it time. Don’t resist; just play along with Mistlethwakey… the time will come to strike back, to escape.
The voice continued for several more seconds, reassuring John, convincing him to bide his time… and John listened. Everything the voice said was true. There was no getting back to Lucy. She might as well not even exist, now. She was in one world, John was in another, and nothing in the near future would change that. John released the sob that was still inside him and with it, he released Lucy. He realized he might never see her again, might never hold her as his wife… he let her go, let his whole life go. He was here, now, and all he could do was try to survive.
And he would survive… but he would never give up hope of escape, of revenge… And not just for himself. For all of them…
The lavatory door clicked open, and Udarian stepped out, clad only in a pair of boxer shorts. He threw his towel on the floor and lay out on his bed.
“Only five minutes until lights out,” he said in a conversational tone. “You might want to read the papers in your cabinet.”
“Papers?” John, physically and emotionally spent, could barely keep his eyes open.
“Top shelf. Mistlethwakey wants everyone to read it before you start work tomorrow.
John was about to resist, but then realized that it would be good to have as much knowledge about this place, about this whole program, as possible.
He retrieved the packet of papers from his cabinet and returned to the bed. He flipped through the pages briefly, and the opened to the first page, which gave a brief overview of the E.H.U.D. initiative, including selections from the legislature that introduced it. John vaguely remembered hearing something about the initiative on C-SPAN, or NPR, somewhere any way…
He flipped the page and found description of the goals of the initiative: enhanced weaponry, armor, training… altering of the human genome… creation of paranormal abilities within the standard human baseline…
John reread the paragraph several times, not understanding what was meant by those words. Creation of paranormal abilities… When Mistlethwakey spoke of changing them, making them into the latest examples of military technology…
John quickly flipped to the next page; a brief history of the program. In the 1960’s the military had become intrigued by the prospect of exploiting so-called paranormal abilities such as extrasensory perception, telekinesis, and telepathy for defensive purposes; creating their own armies of psychic warriors. But after several years of study, nothing concrete materialized. The powers seemed to exist, seemed to be real enough. But none of the people they found, none of the psychics, were strong enough for what the military had in mind. So the program was aborted, the conscripts sent home… but not before extensive biological samples had been collected.
Years passed, and eventually the human genome was unraveled, explored, catalogued. And the samples were revisited, explored, compared to non-psychic genomes. The differences were found, isolated, modified… and introduced to rats via bioengineered viruses.
John grimaced at the pictures of mangled scientists, their chests gaping open, there eyes malted away, rats crawling all over them. So this was the kind of stuff they expected their prisoners to do…
After the rats were destroyed and different causes of death were concocted for the scientists, the psychic genome was put under wraps for several more years. But something with that much potential power could not remain hidden for long. Some twenty-five years ago, a team of military scientists, under the command of Major Robert Mistlethwakey, convinced five men to volunteer for an illegal human trial…
The men all died two weeks later, lost in an aircraft over the pacific. But Major Mistlethwakey had the results he wanted. Armed with blood work, page after page of lab procedures, and recordings of the volunteers’ abilities following their exposure to the viruses, Mistlethwakey was able to convince his friends in congress, among them Senator Isaac Latterndale, to draft the Enhanced Human Ultimate Defense Initiative bill. The bill would allow the American public its own little arms race, pushing companies and entrepreneurs into a creative frenzy to develop the latest in combat technology… and allow Colonel Mistlethwakey to continue his work, to make a corps of soldiers unlike any the world had seen before.
And so here John was, a prisoner, an E.H.U.D., fated to spend the next twenty years trapped in this hole, to be trained, altered, made into the tool that Mistlethwakey intended…
The rats. John thought back to the pictures of the rats and their desperate swarm to freedom, destroying all that was in their way… and he felt hope.
He flipped to the last page and tried desperately not to show any hint of surprise. It was a list, names of everyone who knew about this portion of the E.H.U.D. initiative: one hundred subjects, one hundred guards, two hundred medical and miscellaneous personnel, twenty seven in the pentagon and the capitol. Everyone who knew about this secret project, everyone who had something to lose if this was released.
A plan formed in his mind then. Spend the next few weeks doing whatever it was that Mistlethwakey wanted him to do. John wouldn’t cause any problems, he would do everything willingly. But he would watch. He would see everything about this facility, take in every detail, build a mental blueprint. And soon enough, he would find his way out, would escape, would take this paper to the people who needed to see it. He might even be able to take some of the others with him when he escaped. But even if he couldn’t, it didn’t matter; they would be released as soon as this place was shut down. And John would be able to see Lucy again…
The lights in the room suddenly shut off.
“Lights out,” Udarian said. John could hear him roll over and begin to snore.
He held the papers for a few more moments, unsure of what to do. His first instinct was to horde the papers, hide them somewhere were he could always get to them. But that would look to suspicious, would be grounds for confiscating them. No, the best course of action would be to just drop them on the floor and put them back in the cabinet tomorrow, to pretend that they meant nothing to him. When the time was right, he would have them.
So John let the papers fall. He stretched out along the bed and, with hope filling him, fell quickly asleep…

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Not Quite Tree House of Horror...

Happy Halloween!

And a very special greeting to any new visitors! Tonight, wearing the prototype of my E.H.U.D. costume, I went to my church's Halloween alternative event and handed out little cards advertising this blog. If you're reading this because you got one of those cards, then welcome!

If you are first time visitors, then I have a special intro for you, in the form of an F.A.Q. So here we go:

1) Who are you?

My profile is over on the right side. But the short answer is that I'm Hez, Tulsa resident and author.

2) What is the purpose of this blog?

This blog exists primarily for one purpose: to promote my forthcoming novel series, American Inheritance. Yes, this is all a marketing ploy. However, I'm still working on the first part of the novel, so the blog is serving a slight secondary purpose: to help in the production, editing, and eventual publication of said novel. In order to help achieve this goal, I started wearing my special costume to advertise this blog.

3) What was that costume you were wearing?
The costume was armor worn by the E.H.U.D. soldiers in my current novel. It was made from cardboard, rubber-bands, and spray paint. The helmet is an actual U.S. military helmet. Up above, you can see a picture of the costume, as well as some design images.

4) What is E.H.U.D.?

E.H.U.D. is an acronym for Enhanced Human Ultimate Defense. E.H.U.D. is a fictional United States military defensive initiative featured in my novel, E.H.U.D.: Prelude to Apocalypse. The initiative is two-fold: First, to provide American soldiers with advanced arms and armor to help them fight in modern wars against new and deadly weapons. The armor featured in the costume is the most visible result of this program: a multi-layered, hydraulics powered suit of armor that not only protects soldiers from most types of arms fire, but also enhances their physical abilities, allowing them to run faster, jump farther, and in general kill more efficiently. The second part of the initiative is kept secret from the public and involves more unconventional processes. The secret part of the program has the goal of taking normal humans and altering their genetic structure to imbue them with special abilities, including telepathy and telekinesis. These augmented humans are then intensively trained for a number of years and provided with the afore mentioned suits, making them the most deadly warriors ever to walk the face of the earth.

5) What is E.H.U.D.: Prelude to Apocalypse?

E.H.U.D.: Prelude to Apocalypse is the first book in my six-part science fiction epic American Inheritance. It takes place approximately thirty years in the future, and follows the lives of an ensemble cast, including the President of the United States, his wife, a Philadelphia architect, his niece, and a mysterious electrician named Allen as they are caught up in the machinations of a corrupt politician and the mystery surrounding the E.H.U.D. program. The story follows its heroes through assassinations, intrigue, civil war and finally apocalypse, leaving them to pick up the pieces of a broken world. The book's not done yet; however, the third draft of the manuscript is being placed onto this blog, and can be found in the archives to the right. Unfortunately, the post names do not reflect what chapters they contain, so you'll have to search a bit if you're interested in reading more. A brief word of caution: E.H.U.D. is not for everybody, and is intended for mature readers only. If you're okay with the works of Michael Chricton or Orson Scott Card, you will definitely want to read on.

6) Wow, that's interesting! Can I help out in any way?

Well, I always need feedback. If you could just read a chapter and leave a comment, that would be terrific! Even if you don't have time to read a full chapter (they're a tad lengthy), leaving a comment would be great! In fact, leave a comment on this post! Also: tell your freinds about this blog!

7) Anything else you want to tell us?

Yes; tomorrow's my 20th birthday! Woot!

And that's about all! If you're reading this, please comment and say so.

I hope you all have a nice week, and look forward to seeing you all after my freakish twenty-five hour birthday!

Woot woot!