Project Human



  PROJECT

  HUMAN

  SEAN

  MCKENZIE

  Copyright © 2011 Sean M. McKenzie

  All rights reserved.

  Project Human is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  ISBN:9781466441323

  First Edition

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  For my beautiful wife Kandi,

  What a journey.

  I am glad you made it with me.

  Author’s works:

  The Elf King

  The Hitman: Dirty Rotters

  CONTENTS

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  About the author

  P R E L U D E

  Blood trickling down my throat wakes me. Through my blurred vision, I see lights surrounding me. My head stings. My neck hurts. My hands bleed from cuts, and broken glass coats me like a second skin. I smell something burning, breaking through the fresh air in swirls.

  I slump back in the seat. The door opens and someone pulls me free from the mangled car. I see the smoke now, rising from the engine, now crushed into a horse-shoe shape around the massive tree. Leaves and bark blanket the remaining section of the hood. Disoriented, I understand very little of what happened. I’m even less aware of what’s happening now. Each passing second I slip further from the present and deeper into a dreamlike state. I blink, lazily. It feels good to keep my eyes shut.

  My vision becomes cloudy. I’m too tired to care. Too tired to fight it any longer. I lose myself in the weariness. I let it envelop me.

  I wake with start and immediately find the air thick with a rotting smell and hard to breathe. I see lights all around me. Bright lights, not like before. I see dark walls and a series of windowless doors. I’m inside of a hospital of some sort, being pushed a gurney made out of a solid material. Hard rubber maybe. Or maybe a slab of thick wood. Maybe just worn carpet over a metal table with squeaky wheels.

  I can feel tight metal straps against my wrists and ankles keeping me in place as I struggle to sit upright. I can do nothing.

  A face appears close up. My vision is still blurry, too much to make out the other’s features, aside from the tan skin and the short brown hair. A smooth hand brings a small device onto my face, dabbing it from one spot to the next quickly. It’s like a small, noiseless vacuum. I don’t mind it.

  I make quick eye contact with her, as I believe the dark brown eyes are female. I want to talk, I want to ask what happened and find out where I am, but I can’t speak. It hurts to even try. The desire leaves me almost instantly. The desire to do anything at all leaves. I sleep again.

  A terrible pinch in my left forearm wakes me suddenly. It stings! I can move little; the straps are tight. I’m alert now, in a room. Lights and devices are everywhere. People surround me; more rush by. The look they give me is uncomforting; some offer pity, some disgust. Their eyes give away too much. I wonder what is wrong with me. My features must be badly damaged. Why else would they stare in such ways? They make me feel vulnerable and self-conscious. I begin to fear the worst. Something is horribly wrong and no one has said what. Voices flutter in and out like lights flashing in deep fog. Still no one speaks of my condition.

  I see the shot coming this time, a long needle, a silver fluid injecting into my arm. It hurts. They all watch me. I feel tired again. I see the blackness close in on my vision, slowly washing away everything. I see less of their curious eyes. I see only the impenetrable dark.

  I dream, I think. I see a beautiful woman with sad eyes, standing in the daylight by a boy and a girl. I cannot speak to them; I cannot hear their voices. The sky turns grey, their faces and bodies are slowly erased away, as if they are smoke in the wind, vanishing along with everything else.

  The talking wakes me. The room is now less bright; only a few faces crowd the bed. Someone is doing something to my hands. They still hurt, but also feel strange. Someone fixes my pillow, straightening my head, talking soothingly, asking questions maybe. I’m not sure if it’s directed to me or not.

  A man hovers over me. He’s old, tan like the other, with a bald head. He holds a small light, shines it into one eye, then the other. It’s bright! I turn in response, but the old man is persistent. The light shuts off and I look up to see the old man’s tan, smooth face smiling, eyes seemingly happy. I stare into the black pools looking back at me and suddenly remember the old man in the road. Was this him? Could it be?

  Then suddenly I remember the crash. Images form with blinding speed, disappearing faster than they came, one after another, changing with a blink. But then someone jabs me with a needle and the pain steals my focus. The twinge from that rakes my body thoroughly. My feet feel cold now, fingertips numbing. So cold! My stomach begins to churn wildly, violently.

  The old man reappears—not smiling anymore—talking. There is a gleam in the old eyes—very intense. I’m not sure that the old man is friendly anymore. I’m suddenly frightened by him. Others walk out of the room, leaving us alone. The old one continues for a few seconds, and then moves out of my sight.

  I rest in bed, feeling strange. It’s indescribable. My head slides into a dizzy spin. At first, I hate it. But after a few moments I give in and it takes me. Somehow it eases the pain.

  As my eyes begin to close, I try to think of where I am. I cannot gather a thought though. I have no answer to anything.

  My eyes shut closed.

  “See you soon,” the old man’s voice whispers very close to my face, chilling me. I can almost feel his lips against my ear.

  His words echo through the blackness I slip into.

  O N E

  Doctor Barton walked through the hall with his head bent towards the floor, his eyes narrowed to thin slits, and his breathing deep and hard. Beads of sweat line his high forehead up into his receding hairline. What was left up there is brown and kept short for a dozen of reasons. One of which was his need to fit in, to not stand out any more than usual. No need to draw attention where it was not wanted, he thought. Not with so many prying eyes, so many suspicious stares.

  The trust was wearing thin on both sides of the coin.

  He passed by a small group of doctors and nurses, who all kept fixed eyes on him. Barton made no eye contact. His eyes would reveal too much. It was better for his colleagues to not know what he was thinking; better for everyone if his wolfish smile remained out of their thoughts. He unbuttoned his white lab coat, loosening the collar around his neck, finding the night air in the halls to be humid and thick, almost unbreathable. Even after all this time he had not grown used to it.

  All this time.

  His han
ds balled into tight fists, his glare turning cold and bitter.

  But he had never really set his mind to get comfortable, to get used to how things were. He had focused on doing the one thing he was brought in for, and then the life promised afterwards.

  A promise denied ten times over.

  Barton was a doctor—the best neurologist one could hope for. The doctors he worked for, however, lacked his experience in the field. Due to this, he was important to them. He was a necessary item that they could not afford to lose. They placed him between a rock and a hard spot, really giving him no other option but to work for them. It was supposed to have only been a few years time, they said. It was the beginning of a thousand lies.

  The time for him to leave was arriving. He clenched his jaw tight, grinding his teeth as he thought how naive he had been when it all had started. One thing led to another; one year passed into several. Time had slipped away quickly. And soon the dreams of tomorrow were chased away by the demons of reality.

  No more. Not after tomorrow.

  The contract had long expired. He had been promised a leave years ago, but there was always one more test, one more change that he had to create for them. Something was always conveniently delaying his departure. The end is almost near, they promised. Just a few more patients, they urged. We need you still, they begged. Time and again, he gave in and stayed. But his growing urgency to move on was noted, and they came to another agreement on a final patient number. It wasn’t as speedy as he would have wished, but it was settled nonetheless.

  That patient arrived two days ago.

  One more time.

  One more test.

  I’m done.

  I’m going home.

  Barton would oversee the procedures on the last patient as planned, give them what they