All or Nothing (29 page)

Rupert threw the screwdriver to the ground. “You didn’t create this. This has always been me. You just never saw it. My faith was my love for so long, it guided me, made me a better person. It prevented me from becoming this – which is a by-product of many years of social rejection, bad parenting and general angst at a pathetic world that benefits no one. It took an extreme act of violence to bring my inner self to the surface…and maybe I
should
thank you for it. But it doesn’t undo everything you’ve done to me before today. I never noticed it before, but I'm no longer restricted by my faith. Which means that you, John, are fucked.”

John grimaced. He drew the Colt from its holster and aimed it at Rupert. Rupert didn’t move or flinch. “So. You think you are a big shot, do you? You think a little episode like this makes you a force to be reckoned with. No, I saw it happen, your transformation was down to
me
. Not God, not your mother, or anyone else. I made you the beast you are now. Go on, admit it for all the world. I
made you
.”

Rupert said nothing.

“ADMIT IT, DAMN YOU!”

Rupert shook his head. “No.”

The other man cocked the gun’s hammer back and aimed the weapon at Rupert’s head. “You admit it or I’ll kill you right here. Do you know that you nearly ruined my life—?”

“—and you
did
ruin mine. You expect me to thank you for everything you’ve done to me? Go fuck yourself. You will never get me to thank you in any capacity. Shoot me if you have to, but I still won’t do it.”

John’s hand shook. He lowered the gun.

“That’s a big mistake.”

Rupert lunged for John and knocked him off his feet, causing him to drop the gun. They landed in a pile together on the grass. Rupert was on top of John, pinning him down, trapping his arms against his body. Rupert leaned back and punched John in the face. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood spurted from John’s nose on the third connection. Rupert leaned in close and head-butted the other man. He punched him once more and rolled off him. John was on his back, coughing. Rupert stood up. He reached down and grabbed John by the collar, scooped him up and kneed him in the ribs. He pulled him face-to-face with him, observing John’s groggy, bloody features, spitting out the words: “You will pay for—”

“—I ain’t doing shit.” Rupert punched John once more and dropped him to the ground. John rolled around on the grass. His clothes were wet. Blood caked his face and chest. It was pouring from his nose and the wound on his head was oozing steadily. John sat up, coughing. “You’re. . .” he coughed. “You’re a dead. . . dead man.”

John rolled over onto his front. He tried to push himself up, but his unbalanced frame toppled a few times before he managed to push himself up from his knees to a standing position. Finally he spun around to face Rupert. He spat blood onto the grass. John patted his pockets and belt, finding that he had no gun.

The Colt laid on the ground in front of Rupert, quite a distance from the other man. Rupert flicked a glance in the gun’s direction, but John was staring at it like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Neither man moved.

John laughed. “Look at us. What are we fighting about? Some religious nonsense that happened nearly a decade ago? Really? We're men. This sort of thing shouldn’t be an issue.”

Rupert cut him off. “I don’t give a shit about that, not anymore. What I’m doing now is for a personal reason, nothing else. You organised the hit on my mother. An innocent old lady who wasn't even involved in anything I did to you. But you had her killed anyway. For the sake of a fucking game.”

John smiled. Blood coated his teeth, one of which was missing; blood was oozing up from the gap. “That isn’t exactly true. I didn’t organise the hit on your mother. I did that myself. Since we are being honest and everything, I may as well tell you that she squealed like a stuck pig. You should have seen the life drain out of her face – poor bitch.”

Rupert said nothing.

He took a step forward. Then another. He was a few metres away from John.

“Touched a nerve, did I?”

Rupert smiled. “What makes you think you can have an effect on me?”

John stopped smiling. “You mean, this beating the shit out of me stuff was all a joke? C’mon. That’s Jeremy Kyle shit right there. Repressed emotions and all that.”

Rupert stood before John. A full minute of silence passed.

Then Rupert pulled his hand from behind him to reveal his katana sword.

John’s eyes widened. “Okay, no, come on, I was kidding. Banter, you surely know the meaning of the word?”

“You killed my mother. You ruined my career. You did this. This is your fault.”

Rupert swung the sword around in an arc. It sliced through John’s jugular vein with ease. Blood spattered, spurting out at pressure, covering Rupert’s face and chest and legs. He didn’t care. He hardly noticed. John made a choking noise and fell to his knees. Rupert kicked him in the chest, hard, and John fell onto his back. He landed in the vegetable patch. His body was shaking, violently.

A minute later, he was dead.

His killer stood still for three long, quiet minutes.

He blinked twice.

During the fourth minute he turned and walked back to the house, picking up the discarded weapons on the way. He placed them on the porch, stepped into the house and walked upstairs.

He showered, the water running pink. He changed into new clothes. He discarded the tool belt, knowing that now he wouldn’t be needing it. He grabbed a duffel bag. He removed some weapons from the tool belt and placed them in the duffel bag. After twenty minutes, he stepped back onto the porch and made his way across to John’s body. He collected the magazines he had thrown there earlier on. He placed the weapons he found there in the bag. He patted John down and found his car keys.

Excellent.

A minute later, Rupert was in John’s BMW. He turned on the GPS and found a record of his most recent destinations. He tapped a few keys and it was set. The destination didn't have a name. The last time John had visited the place had been two hours ago. He turned the key in the ignition. Checking that his bag was safe on the passenger seat, Rupert smiled. For the first time in days, this was a genuine smile.

Three minutes later, Rupert was driving John’s BMW to his destination.

According to the GPS, it would take him thirty-four minutes to reach it.

John’s office.

Rupert wanted to see what The Game was all about.

THIRTY-FIVE

Kieran peered out from behind his makeshift cover. The route forward was clear.

Heather stayed silent. She was listening for any noise, any indication that they weren't alone. The day’s events were not normal by any stretch of the imagination. Kieran and Heather, both as a couple and as individuals, were not entirely sure how to process the information.

Paranoia became natural in the circumstances. Who knew what might come along next?

Kieran let out a sigh of relief. “I think we're clear,” he said, sitting down next to Heather. They were both sweating, the room was as hot as a sauna. The walls were solid and had no windows. Kieran took a bottle from his pack and swigged. After a moment, he took the bottle from his lips and handed it to Heather. She nodded and finished the bottle in two huge gulps.

For two minutes they sat in silence.

Moments previously, they had entered a nondescript room. The temperature was scorching. Much like the previous storage room, it was full of boxes of all shapes and sizes. There were fewer of them, but the muted chaos of isolation occupied the room. It looked unused. Kieran, once again, noticed a layer of dirt on everything. However, there were some footsteps left in the floor’s dust. It was hard to be sure in the dim light, but Kieran was pretty certain that they had been made by bare human feet. Most likely made by one of the clones who had got lost. Judging by the pattern, it looked as if the person had run through the room, moving several boxes out of the way.

Shortly afterwards Heather and Kieran found the dead clone, who'd been crushed by a fallen box. The wooden crate had cracked over his skull and split his head open. The body was face down, below the broken timber pieces. The soles of his feet appeared to be covered in dust. He had obviously wandered through and been killed.

Kieran ran the events through his mind once again. 

Then Heather spoke suddenly, taking Kieran by surprise: “What the hell is going on here?”

Kieran shook his head. He said nothing.

“Clones. Okay, I can get that. It's been a taboo topic for some time. Yes, they exist. It's been scientifically proven it is possible to make clones of animals. But humans? Has science became that dark and desperate that they have to replicate the human race? Are humans so dispensable that they can just, on a whim, create fake humans to replace them?”

Kieran looked up, wiping his brow. “You heard Abel. Where there's money, there's a will. He was spot on. The government would pay top dollar if they could stop paying people wages and send, for want of a better scenario, an army of clones into war. No casualties to speak of, no families crying, no horrific faux pas in the news. Think of the international incidents that could be avoided by doing such a thing. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even have to tell anyone about it. If no families have missing loved ones, then who is to know anyone’s been killed? And heaven forbid, if they should clone a political figure like the President of the US, or a prime minister of a country. For all we know, they already have—”

“—No!”  Heather protested. “Don’t say that. Look, Kieran, think about it. This can’t be happening. This kind of thing doesn’t exist, this is science fiction, the work of a Hollywood scriptwriter. Either that or this is a dream, a sick, vivid dream. This sort of thing
can't
be real.”

“But it is. You saw it yourself. There's no way of explaining it. I don’t have any knowledge of genetics, but whoever was the mastermind behind this is going to be stinking rich within a matter of months.”

Heather nodded. “To think this is happening, under the radar, as it must be. There is no way any government could even sanction this. Aren’t there some laws that forbid this kind of thing?”

“Probably. But no law can stop a government from feigning ignorance. Who is to say that they couldn’t just pretend it doesn’t happen, or doesn’t happen to their knowledge, anyway? You hear stories all the time of cover-ups, conspiracies, all sorts of things. Who is to say we aren’t just caught up in one of the biggest cover-ups yet?”

Heather gave Kieran a long cool stare. “Why were we chosen, do you think? I don’t have a specifically amazing job, I work in a damned office. What did you do before you came here?”

Kieran lowered his head and sighed. “I was an auditor, like you, nothing special. I went to schools and colleges and audited their financial risk and processes. Boring really, you might say a menial job. It hardly qualifies me for a job in genetics. We could just be random selections off the street. Maybe we didn’t need a specific skill set. Who knows what the selection criteria was?”

“We may be guinea pigs, but what for? The clones haven’t been too aggressive yet. Soldiers don’t normally fight civilians, so presumably Abel’s experience was an exception. If they had made the clones to infiltrate society, then surely placing them in an urban environment would be a better experimental process?” Heather stood up purposefully.

Kieran regarded her, aware of the sweat trickling down his neck and back. “Where are you going?”

Heather looked around. After a moment, her gaze settled on a doorway. “We need to keep moving. I know you hate being forced in one direction, but maybe that’s what we're here for. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but then again, none of this whole situation does. But sitting here is not going to get us any answers…and it'll probably get us killed.”

Kieran knew she was right. They'd made it this far. Kieran rubbed his head, finding that his fingers came away wet. The jumpsuit was sticking to his back.

The resourceful woman led the way towards the door in front of them. It was a silver door, solid looking, resembling that of a bank vault. Heather examined it closely. There was no handle. Then she noticed a keypad with a fingerprint pane. Kieran, standing beside her asked, “Well, what’s the news?”

Heather sighed. “Stupid closed door. Looks like we finally have to turn back. We can’t open it. I doubt if our fingerprints are in its keypad database. I don’t want to touch it – the last thing we want to do is to give our whereabouts away.”

Kieran came closer, peering at it. “I’ve seen one of these before…”

Heather looked at him in surprise. “Care to share your thoughts?”

He flashed a glance behind him, looked at the door they'd entered through. He remembered where the panel was. They had run through the door that was festooned with plastic strips. A few minutes later, they had emerged in a barren labyrinth of hallways. They had then taken two left turns, as a result of Kieran’s experience – he had once heard a wise man say:
If in doubt, turn left
. Next, the couple had discovered a new door. However, before going through this doorway, Kieran had noticed a keypad on the wall. In fact, the door he was remembering and this one were of the same type. The only difference was, this one was closed and the other was open.

“Hmmm. . .” Kieran said thoughtfully, looking from the entrance to the exit. He looked at the dead clone. “I wonder. . .”

Heather watched Kieran, wondering what was on his mind. He stepped over to the clone, then bent down. “Heather, I think this guy let himself in. Maybe he was here for a reason. Looks like he was passing through and became a victim of bad health and safety. Poor guy.”

Heather walked over. “So this guy has the fingerprint we need?”

Kieran smiled. “I think so. Give me a hand with him.”

“What?” Heather opened her mouth in surprise. “You can’t be fucking serious! You’re telling me you want me to help you lift him?”

Kieran nodded. “Unless you know another way of doing this.”

She reached behind her and pulled a kitchen knife from her bag. “Yep, I have a much better idea.”

She knelt down and grabbed the clone’s hand, placing it palm upwards on the ground. With a swift downward stab, she severed its thumb. Red blood oozed from the cut. She used the knife’s serrated edge to saw through bone and cartilage until she had completely severed the thumb from the hand. The blood oozed for a few seconds more and then stopped as the wound congealed.

Kieran stood dumbfounded. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

Heather looked down at the body. “He’s dead, we aren’t. That makes us priority in my book. After all, he won’t be needing this thumb anymore.” Heather stood up and positioned the thumb in her fingers so that it was facing outwards.

“This better work,” she said as they walked to the door. She placed the thumb on the panel. A second passed before the panel lit up green. They heard a beep and then a loud clunking sound from behind the door. Then it opened outwards. Heather smiled. “Now, do you have a tissue or something?”

Kieran reached into his bag and pulled out a rag and handed it to her. Heather wrapped the thumb in it and handed it back to Kieran. “We might need it again,” she told him as she stepped to the open door and looked through the gap. She moved through.

He put the thumb in his rucksack, hesitantly, and followed her.

They found themselves in a huge, white room. However, on closer inspection they could see that there were dashes of grey and silver here and there in the paintwork. Kieran was taken aback as he looked around, and Heather’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

The mystery of how people came to this facility was answered by the sight in front of them. They were standing on a long, wide, white concrete platform.

A train platform.

It stretched for the entire length of the room which, Heather estimated, was about a hundred metres. It looked to be about the length of an adult football pitch. Various signboards and other ‘station’ accoutrements made the length appear diminished. Every ten feet or so there were a double set of benches, back-to-back with one another. There were several rubbish bins in different locations, and these had probably never been used.

Halfway down the platform, a footbridge led off in two directions. They could see that the bridge connected them to two other identical platforms on both sides of the room. Two train tracks, currently unoccupied, stood between the three platforms. The rails were gleaming and perfect. The sleepers were brand new, untouched, made of durable metal rather than timber. The stones in between the sleepers were shining and pristine. The yellow warning lines painted onto the edge of the platforms were crisp and smooth. The ceiling was high, and hanging from it was a solitary black-and-yellow sign suspended above the platform, the only thing fixed to the ceiling, apart from various lighting fixtures.

Heather whistled in surprise as she stepped forward into the cool, welcoming breeze. “Well, this explains a whole lot,” she said. “What better way to bring people in than by a personal train service—?”

“—Or to send people out. And to bring boxes in,” Kieran agreed, thinking back to the previous room. ”This must have come at a significant cost to whoever is in charge of all this. Aren’t trains sanctioned or something? Surely an individual person can’t own a train station?”

“They can if it’s private. Maybe the trains run underground to get here? There are disused Tube stations and tracks that aren’t regulated. Maybe these are connected?”

Kieran said nothing. He realised that whoever was in charge here must have sufficient influence and funds to create this, and it was by no means an amateur operation. If it proved nothing else, it confirmed that they were dealing with some seriously powerful people.

People who wouldn’t want their secrets divulged to the public.

Who would do literally anything to stop anyone from escaping?

Heather looked across at Kieran. “This is the way out, obviously it is. These tracks must lead somewhere.”

Kieran nodded. “They could go for miles. It would be best if we could get on a train.”

Heather pointed to the tracks. “I don’t see one anywhere. And, at this stage, surely even walking is preferable to staying put.”

Kieran moved to the edge of the platform and looked down. “All trains have a conductor, or a point of call. I am sure we could find the control tower and call one in. It’s a slim chance, but a reasonable one. Trains don’t just turn up without a schedule or warning. We should look around.”

Without another word, Heather set off down the platform. She reached the first set of double benches, finding that they were immaculate. She looked into one of the trash cans and it was empty, as if it had never been used. She calculated that either this was a brand new station or simply wasn’t a place that people ever used. Heather believed it was probably a bit of both.

She stared down the platform and her gaze caught the tracks: two silver strips heading towards an unknown destination. She could see a wall in the distance, but it was hidden behind the bridge itself and various items on the platform. Heather decided to move further down. She looked at Kieran. “I’m going to head down the platform. Are you coming?”

“Probably a good idea. We should stick together. We’ll check this platform first then head over the bridge. We should find the control centre soon enough.”

Kieran walked over to Heather. Saying nothing, they walked along the platform, passing three sets of benches. After they’d passed under the bridge, the room suddenly opened up. Kieran looked around in amazement. “Wow,” was all he said.

The tracks curved off into the distance, disappearing into two empty, dark voids. The tunnels were an exit to an unknown world. The platforms followed the tracks as far as they could see and then dipped down out of sight, just as you might expect. The same type of benches and trash cans that they’d seen before were dotted all the way along. There was another black and yellow sign, hanging above the platform, not functional. They also noticed a third sign at the middle point of the platform. Just as before, the ceiling was extremely high.