All or Nothing (20 page)

Gunnar’s eyes widened. He was gasping for breath now, the bubbling blood spurting down his chin. His hand was clenched around his neck wounds. His hand, neck and shoulders were stained crimson from all the blood. His naked body was starting to pale. He looked like a collapsing balloon. Rupert removed Gunnar’s hand from the wound, allowing the blood to squirt once more, torrents of it. Gunnar’s eyes started to close. Rupert slapped him awake. “Stay awake, you fucker! Don’t think you are getting off that easy!”

The dying man tried to murmur something. A bubble of blood popped from his lips. Rupert continued to speak: “Where was I? Oh yes, I’ve just realised, there’s another difference between us. I am a neutral in this world, you're an aggressor. People are different and sometimes, just
sometimes
, despite the odds, the little man comes out on top. Society is flawed now, but in years to come, people will realise that things determine their existence and other things
should
take priority. Underdogs will rise, in due course. And, despite the odds, the underdog won
this
battle. You won’t be a scourge on society anymore. Sure, every system has its flaws, but flaws are part of human nature and without them, it wouldn’t be life, everything would be a pre-planned dictatorship. And as Hitler confirmed all those years ago, living in a dictatorship is not an ideal way to live.”

Gunnar faded. His eyes closed and his hands fell to the floor. Then he stopped moving. The blood had stopped pumping, so that now only a trickle was leaking from the holes in his neck. Rupert stood up and nodded his head slowly. Turning around, he walked across to the table of weapons. He found the pistol that Gunnar had picked up earlier on. He walked back to Gunnar’s body and aimed the gun at his head. Rupert gripped the pistol. “My mother sends her regards.”

BANG!

Gunnar’s head exploded across the floor. Fragments of brain and skull stuck to the woodwork. Blood splashed outwards and spread upwards across the wall. Gore also splattered across the chair beside Rupert, and some of it splashed him too. The body twitched and jerked violently for a few seconds before lying still. Rupert placed the gun on his chair. He observed the carnage before him. He tried to breathe calmly. He realised that his ordeal was far from over but, for now, he had respite.

The stench of blood was overwhelming.

The ex-cleric looked around and located the pot plant in the corner. He picked up the gun again, stepped across the room towards the plant, and bent down. Unsure of the camera’s location, the Reverend Rupert Shaw prepared for his first sermon in a year.

***

Charlie threw his glass against the wall. His aim had been awry so it had smashed against his framed business degree certificate, knocking it to the floor. The glass had shattered and shards and fragments had spread out over the plush carpet. Charlie was cursing and kicking his furniture. A chair had already been launched to the other side of the room. A pot plant was now upended and its soil spilt.

“NO! FUCKING NO!”

He yelled at the top of his voice, not quite able to believe what he’d just seen. He'd watched the two men arguing, heard their long conversation. Then Gunnar had swung the machete at Rupert and it seemed, had taken his arm off. Charlie’s first instruction had been to take the man’s arm off at the forearm, cauterise the wound with a hot iron and inflict the maximum suffering possible. It was supposed to be step one in a torture routine that ought to set a trend. If he was honest with himself, Gunnar’s swing had looked too high, but Charlie trusted his man to do things properly, confident that he’d get the job done. After the abortive swing, Rupert had remained standing. Seen from Charlie’s onscreen viewpoint, it then simply looked as if Rupert had walked out of shot. When he then changed the camera angle the truth was revealed.

There was no doubt that Gunnar was a goner. The amount of blood pumping from the holes in his neck was vast. Within seconds the predominating background colours on the screen had gone from pale greens and blues to a vibrant scarlet. Blood was everywhere. He reflected that the human body only holds a certain amount of blood, twelve pints, if he remembered correctly. How had Rupert done this? Charlie wondered. Gunnar was one of the most dangerous men in the world. Charlie had used his services on numerous occasions for such necessary assignments. For goodness’ sake, the guy was a killing machine, yet Rupert had killed him, in what looked like one lucky manoeuvre. It seemed impossible.

Gunnar had bled out right there on the floor. Rupert had heard Gunnar’s final words before watching him die. Charlie then remembered the conversation they’d had: the information that Gunnar had divulged. The broken secret hadn’t bothered Charlie then because he knew that Rupert would take the information to his slow burning grave. But now the tables had turned.

Which is the point at which Rupert addressed Charlie, aka his old enemy John, directly. Rupert was talking into the lens of a low-angle camera, one used for long shots. John assumed it had been placed in a pot plant holder or a TV or something similar. Rupert was staring down the lens directly at John. For the first time in several years, the two men were practically face to face. John altered his view so as to show only this camera shot. He knew that Rupert couldn’t see him and he wanted to know whatever this sonofabitch had to say.

Rupert cleared his throat. He winced. His face was bloodied and bruised. “John? I know you're watching. You just saw your man bleed out and die. It was a shame. He seemed like a nice fellow, well, for a psychopath. Anyway. This, this game, or whatever you call it. It has to stop. Now, I don’t want another Gunnar or an army or anyone else coming to get me. It’s time we settled this, face to face. I don’t want another whipping boy sent my way, I want
you
. Get your fucking arse down here now. Do whatever it takes. I'm happy to wait. Let’s get this shit sorted man to man. Oh and, in case you decide not to do so, I’m going to smash all the cameras in this place. If you don’t come, you won’t see shit and I have it on good authority that you have other viewers who will be disappointed. Time is ticking.”

John heard the sound of a shot being fired. Nothing else seemed to happen. John zoomed in slowly and Rupert must have noticed a movement of the tiny lens. Another shot rang out and the screen went black. John changed the view to that of the camera in the light fixture and this appeared just a moment before there was another shot, and the screen once again went black. John felt a violent surge of rage building inside him. He took his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled. After a few seconds he got an answer. “Yep,” he said, “it’s Charlie. Yes. How much to put myself into The Game? Two million? Done. Also, I want three SWAT members with me. And I need a gun, a big fucking gun. Three million? Done. Make it happen. Nice, ready in ten? Great.”

John hung up.

You want me, Rupert? Well you can fucking have me.

John removed his clerical collar and threw it on the desk. He wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

TWENTY-NINE

Heather wrapped the rag around Abel’s head. She pulled it tight, but not uncomfortably so, and secured it with a knot. Kieran and Heather had given Abel one of the jumpsuits. It'd been too large so Kieran had used the knife to cut down the legs and arms. It now fitted reasonably well. Minutes before, Kieran had cleaned the blood from Abel’s face, using the excess material from the jumpsuit soaked in water. Abel still didn’t have any shoes. Kieran offered to give him his, but Abel declined, saying that he had come this far without footwear, so he could continue as he was for now.

“Thanks for doing this for me,” Abel said to the couple. “You didn’t have to.”

Kieran shook his head. “Nonsense, you need to stay warm. We don’t know what lies ahead and it’s always best to be prepared. Besides, we found these spare clothes.”

“Still, thank you very much. And thank you for letting me join you.”

Heather stood back to observe the blind man. Abel looked better and cleaner with the rag concealing his empty eye sockets. Heather was worried about the after effects of such brutal surgery. Covering the sockets seemed the best thing to do to help him. Already a small amount of blood was seeping through the rag. She looked at Kieran and he nodded.

“No thanks required,” answered Heather. “We couldn’t leave you in here alone. You have been lucky to make it this far.”

Kieran stood up and gazed at the doorway ahead, where Abel had come from. He was worried about Abel’s news that he was being followed. He hadn’t seen any of the pursuers yet, and hoped he wasn’t going to. A different kind of fear from what he’d experienced so far had taken hold. He could handle the clones, they were like human beings, only slow-witted. Up until now, he'd encountered them one at a time. He didn’t even want to think about the kind of people who'd followed Abel.
How many of them were there? Were they armed?

He turned towards Abel. “Abel, you said you were followed? Do you know how many of them there were?”

The blind man remained silent for a few seconds. “I'm not sure. My brother and I were abducted by four men with guns. Men dressed all in black. They captured us and tortured us. They injected us with some drug. After that everything was all a blur. I just remember not feeling anything beyond that point. When they took my eyes out I didn’t even feel any pain. It was a bizarre feeling. As if someone was mixing jelly in my eye sockets. All wet, warm and messy. From then, I had to rely on my hearing. I heard footsteps, doors closing, men entering and leaving. So I don’t know how many of them followed me. Could be four, could be more, who knows?”

Kieran grimaced. He didn’t blame Abel, he realised that he wouldn’t have been able to do any better in the same situation. He was amazed that the man had made it this far. One thing bothered him, though.

If Abel wasn’t aware of it and he
was
followed, why didn’t they just take him out there and then? A blind man was a threat to no one in this place. Since the doors to the outside were locked, they knew that Abel couldn’t get away. Which led Kieran to one more conclusion.

Did Abel’s pursuers know that he and Heather were in the building? And was Abel being used as bait? Were they trying to flush him and Heather out?

Kieran swallowed. Heather looked at him, perplexed, asking, “What’s on your mind?”

“Abel,” Kieran said to the other man. “I think that whoever followed you, for whatever reason, was using you as either bait to draw us out into the open or as a guinea pig. In case you don’t know, this facility seems to be being used for cloning people and developing them into, well, we think maybe ‘super soldiers’. We’ve seen gangs of people who all look alike: clones of some description which appear to be abnormal with human traits. Aside from their almost ‘normal’ appearance, we’re guessing that they don’t feel pain, are supposed to be stronger, quicker and more athletic than is normal, and are also immune to emotion. We've encountered a few of them already, and at first they were docile. Now I think about it, we were probably seeing them at random stages. At first they seemed docile, then aggressive, and then reactive. There seems to be a pattern emerging.”

Abel stood up. “You're right, it's the reason my brother and I were brought to this facility. We never got our hands on the actual project before they injected us."

Heather's eyes widened.

“Injected with something, I thought so,” Kieran explained. “We think they were trying to harvest your DNA. Or maybe trying to do something worse. They drugged you, which is the only explanation for you not feeling any pain from the terrible thing they did to you. If my theory is correct, for some reason the drugs didn’t alter you, and you retained your human faculties, yet it had some strong effects. That’s why you didn’t feel any pain after the injection. And why your body hasn’t shut down after your eyes were removed. The thing is, unlike the clones we’ve seen, you can still talk. You’re moving normally, there are no signs of grogginess from the drugs. I wonder if they were going to do more with you, but you got away before they were able to. A lot of questions haven’t been answered, but piecing some of them together kind of makes terrifying sense.”

Abel stood still. Heather glanced at him. She realised if she’d undergone such a terrible experience she would probably have collapsed by now. Maybe the injected medication prevented such loss of control. She thought of a question of her own: “So, Kieran, you think they may have sent him to lure us out? Surely that’s a waste of their time. If they had wanted his DNA, they would have just taken it.”

“That’s true,” Kieran replied. “But imagine if you could take the clones, keep them functioning normally and retain their human abilities too? Or add the enhanced physical abilities of a super athlete to an average human? It would be a work of genius. They could, in theory, hide them amongst other people, in public places. No one would ever know they existed.”

Heather thought about it. “Problem is, when you have super soldiers with feelings, the initial issue of choice returns. Super soldiers without a thought process are lethal, horrific, their enemies would be far more afraid of them than they would be of ordinary soldiers. They’d be like the human equivalent of a nuclear weapon. The ability to think and decide is a human attribute. Well, surely they would want to remove that trait. Take Abel here: he was able to escape and run because he was scared, or bewildered. Taking flight is a natural human reaction that is regarded as a weakness in soldiers. It’s the difference between staying to help your comrades and running away because you are scared to die. If they could be scared enough to run away, super soldiers might as well not exist. I am not arguing the case for ‘super soldiers’, by any means, they are hardly natural. But judging things dispassionately, leaders of nations would want the meanest, most emotionless killing machines possible to use as soldiers. Scrap the human traits and encourage the carnal instinct to kill relentlessly. Surely the technology to create such beings would sell better to a potential buyer?”

Abel coughed. Kieran looked at him with concern. “Yes, but imagine if you
could
do that. You wouldn’t need to send a human to war ever again. You could save a fortune by keeping soldiers at home, merely intended as a back-up to defend their country. It would mean cutting the number of troops, but it would guarantee happy families. Every nation in the world would pay for that. Think how many more people would enlist.”

Heather nodded. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean they would turn humans into clones. They would only need the DNA to produce them and that material would be engineered to suit their needs. Abel here was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t think they were trying to turn him into a clone.”

Kieran looked dubious. “I suppose you're right, there's a lot we don't know, and all of this is only speculation. But if what you said is true, that means Abel
has
been put here as bait, to lure us out into the open.”

Abel spun his head towards Kieran. He said nothing. Heather, clearly concerned for their new friend’s feelings, ran a hand through her hair and held Abel’s shoulder in support.

Kieran sighed. “Abel, look, we haven’t changed our minds. You are still welcome to join us, but we do have to be especially vigilant and quiet. If you come with us, Heather will stay by your side the entire time. You don’t need to shout, just whisper, and she will hear you, okay? We will have to go back the way you came, it’s the only exit. We came from the other direction and there is no way out from there. You said you heard soldiers coming in and out and that sounds promising. We need to find that door, okay?”

Abel nodded. “That’s fine, I'll stay with you. I vaguely remember a huge white room with two huge meeting tables in the middle. At the end of that room are two sets of shackles in the ceiling. That’s where we were held and injected. It started out as a meeting with some doctors and within minutes we were being poked and probed with all manners of needles. I know the way from there, and I can talk us through it. I don’t think I will forget that room in a hurry. When we get there, let me know.”

Kieran touched Heather’s arm – she realised the grim significance of meeting rooms in this facility. “Abel, you take this ball of string. It’s our way of marking the way we came, should we need to retreat. Just unravel it as we walk. We will move slowly and methodically. And silently.”

“Okay,” Abel agreed.

Kieran smiled encouragingly. “Come on, let’s do this.”

The three of them walked towards the doorway. Kieran took Point and Heather walked behind with Abel, who had his arm looped through hers. As they walked purposefully and cautiously, Abel unravelled the string behind him slowly: they took care not to make any noise. As they neared the doorway, Kieran signalled for them to stop. Kieran then poked his head around the door. Before him was a dark hallway which curved to the left. It was decorated in black, a stark contrast to the remainder of the facility. Spotlights were placed evenly along the wall, waymarking the route. Several crates and boxes lay scattered along the ground, shadows lurking in their nooks and crevices. Nothing moved. Kieran waited a few moments and let his eyes adjust to the blackness. His eyes hurt, he realised that they were accustomed to bright white rooms and needed to adjust. He beckoned for Heather to follow.

“Let’s move.”

Kieran went first, Heather and Abel followed.

Heather was surprised at the hallway’s relative gloom and the sudden black décor. She felt inwardly relieved, hoping that there’d be no more of the bright white rooms. She guided Abel, glad to see that he was still allowing the gradual release of the string behind him.

Kieran held his hand up to tell them to halt, which they did.

The younger man moved forward. He looked back at Heather, saying, “Stay here, and get behind that crate.”

Heather did as she was told, guiding Abel, until both of them were crouched down behind the nearest crate. Heather looked at Abel. “Abel, we’ve got to be quiet, Kieran is checking something out.”

Abel nodded silently.

Kieran moved forward. Up until now, the spotlights had been bright and powerful. Around the corner, he noticed one of them was flickering. As he neared it, he realised that the faulty light was caked in something red. Peering closer, he noticed blood spatters all over the wall nearby. He edged round the corner and almost tripped over a body, dressed from head to foot in black: his clothing and the dim illumination had made him practically invisible. Kieran bent down and checked the body. He realised it was a man dressed in a SWAT uniform.
SWAT?
Special Weapons and Tactics?

What were American SWAT units doing here
?

After all, surely they didn’t have any authorisation to operate outside of the United States. He frisked the body for weapons. The corpse was wearing a bulletproof vest. No damage had come to the protective wear. The flickering light made it hard for Kieran to examine the dead man properly. He grabbed it and dragged it back down the hallway. When he was level with Heather and Abel, he stopped and let it drop to the floor. The light here was good.

The body was male. It looked as if his throat had been crushed, and judging by the corpse’s condition he had probably died hours ago. Turning the body onto its front, they could see the word SWAT emblazoned on the back of his uniform, the white print splashed with blood. Kieran rolled the body onto its back. His front was clean and undefiled by blood, and Kieran noticed clips of ammunition strapped to his belt. He removed them and counted: seven clips. Three of them suitable for a sidearm, the other four more the size for a submachine gun. “Abel, you stay put,” Kieran ordered. “Heather, come here.”

After reassuring Abel that things would be okay, Heather walked over. Abel remained crouched and alert. Heather bent down and gave a small involuntary scream at the sight of the body. Kieran looked at her. “Control yourself! Get your head in the game, Heather.”

“Sorry, it’s just that it took me by surprise. Who is that?”

“Who knows? But he’s SWAT, which is weird, as they don’t operate in this country. They’re the equivalent of our Armed Response Units here in the UK. This guy’s a long way from home.”

Heather nodded. “Is he – was he – armed?”

Kieran looked around. “I believe so. He has ammo clips on his belt and an empty holster. The clips are for a pistol, probably a Sig or a Beretta, common SWAT issue for sidearms. I bet the bigger clips are for a Heckler and Koch. We need to find those guns. Heather, you search the body and I will move forward. If I don’t return in five minutes, take Abel back to the canteen.”