Specimen
Authors: Shay Savage
Specimen
Shay Savage
Copyright © 2016 Shay Savage
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by
Mayhem Cover Creations
Editing :
Chayasara
Amazon Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without the express permission of the author, Shay Savage —except in the case of brief excerpts or quotations embodied in review or critical writings.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author
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For my daughter: You constantly amaze and inspire me. We’ve had some fantastic conversations where you have helped me to see life through your eyes and reminded me of where I came from at the same time. You are turning into a truly incredible young woman, and I can’t wait to see where your life’s journey takes you!
Thanks to KI Lynn and Elena M. Reyes for all the encouragement to help me keep on track and get this book completed on time! I wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors. It has been fabulous working with you both!
Thanks to Chayasara, my incredible editor. Your talents help bring mine to fruition. You are an incredible supporter of my work, and I could never achieve my goals without you! Also thank you to my core team: Bethany, Dani, Elissa, Heather, Kandace, and Kaylee. You ladies rock my world!
“Do it.”
I hear her words.
Absorb them.
Bright flashes in my eyes as well as my mind blind me and freeze my movements for a fraction of a second. Comprehension takes hold as I stare into her eyes.
Fear.
Anticipation.
I’ve seen those signs in her before, many times. She’s always held back, always denied me. Her chest rises and falls with her breathing. The skin of her neck is flushed. Her pupils are dilated. She moistens her lips with her tongue.
Above all the other indications, I can smell it on her. The delicate, unmistakable scent flows over me.
Desire.
This time, it is coupled with the one key element that has always been lacking before—permission.
Reaching out, my fingers grasp the collar of her lab coat, and I pull her down.
Fabric tears. I barely register my actions as her lab coat falls in pieces to the floor. The rest of her clothing follows quickly, shredded beyond repair.
She gasps as I flip her over easily, pinning her below me and pushing her legs apart with my knees. I have no interest in foreplay. I already know she’s ready. At this moment, all that matters is getting my cock inside her as quickly as possible.
I wake.
It’s not the slow, lazy awakening of someone who has slept well. I feel like I am a bright lamp that has suddenly been switched on, the darkness abruptly gone. My eyes are wide and focused on the bare, white ceiling above me. My body is tense, and I quickly take in my surroundings.
There’s nothing but white and stainless steel all around me. One wall is covered with a mirror, and it reflects the lights that are too bright for the small room. I’m on my back, strapped to a bed of stark white sheets.
I have no idea where I am or how I got here.
Instinct kicks in, and I buck against the restraints. They dig into my chest, abs, and thighs. Flashes of thought fly through my head, giving me instructions. I lay back, take a deep breath, and push up with my shoulder against the restraint there, using the rest of my body as leverage against the single strap. I can feel my pulse throb in my temple as I grunt. It feels like the tendons and ligaments in my shoulder could tear at any moment, but I don’t let up.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I strain one last time, and hear the restraint rip.
With my upper body freed, it only takes a few seconds to remove the remaining straps from my body, and I realize I’m naked except for a thin hospital gown tied at my back. Upright and off the table, I get a better look at my surroundings.
The space is small. Other than the bed, there are three carts of medical equipment and a long table with a computer monitor in the center. In the far corner, there is a cabinet and a double-basin sink, and hanging from the ceiling is a showerhead. Thirteen small drain holes dot the floor below. Opposite the mirrored wall and behind the table is the only door. Over the door, a tiny red light catches my eye.
A camera.
I stare at it briefly, wondering who is watching me. The upper corners of the mirror have similar red lights. There must be someone on the other end of the cameras, but who? Why?
I step to the side and knock into one of the metal tables. Items on top of it rattle, and my body tenses again at the noise. I grab the edge of the table and fling it upward with my fingers. It flies into the air and lands with a crash on the cement floor. Instruments fly across the room.
Twenty-seven. There are twenty-seven instruments.
I shake my head, trying to rid it of the ringing sound of metal on concrete that still echoes through it. Thoughts fly through my head. There are so many, and at first, they are overwhelming, but I quickly understand the underlying message.
I have to get out of here.
The door is locked and appears to be solid steel. I slam a fist into it, but I know I can’t break it down. There are no hinges and no obvious means of unlocking it.
Computer.
I turn around and face the computer screen on the table. There is only a single cursor blinking green and asking for a user name. Is the user name based on last name and first initial? I have no way of knowing where to begin.
I don’t know my name.
I suck in air and feel panic start to build. I push the thought to the back of my head. I can’t do anything about that now. I have to escape. Other issues can wait.
I look to the mirror. The reflection of the bright lights burns into my eyes, but the mirror itself seems darker than I expect it to be. I approach is slowly. It’s definitely a two-way mirror, but even when I press my face to the glass, I can’t see anything behind it.
I stare at the face in the mirror, presumably my own. I see short, dark hair and dark eyes. My cheeks and chin are covered with a scruffy beard. Nothing looks familiar.
Pulling my arm back, I slam my fist into the glass. It ripples but doesn’t break. My knuckles ache from the impact.
“Who are you?” I scream at my reflection. I’m not sure if the words are meant for whomever may be watching me from the other side of the mirror or for myself. “Let me out of here!”
I punch the mirror again, but the result is the same. I run back to the door, pound on it, and scream for someone to answer me, but there is no response. With a growl, I turn and grab the edge of the computer table. I fling it up into the air, surprised by how effortless the action is. Sparks fly from the monitor as it crashes to the floor. Taking hold of another rolling tray full of medical equipment, I pick it up and throw it against the wall.
I look back and forth as the wreckage settles to the floor and the echoing sounds of the table’s contents hitting the floor subside. My heart is pounding and my lungs ache. I focus on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Grasping the legs of the nearby rolling chair, I slam it against the mirror again and again as I scream. I hear a cracking sound as pain ripples up my arm, but I don’t stop.
“Let me out of here! Who are you? What do you want from me?”
The chair seat breaks away from the legs, bounces off the mirror and lands a few feet away from me. I keep slamming the remnants of the chair against the glass until a sharp hissing sound catches my attention. I glance at the ceiling above the door. Tendrils of yellowish gas flow from a thin air duct. Pressing my back to the far corner, up against the mirror, I take a deep breath and hold it as long as I can. The gas quickly fills the small room. There’s nowhere to go. I have to breathe.
Darkness overcomes me as I slump to the floor.
I’m on my knees. The ground below me is dry and cracked. There’s a trowel in my hand, and I use it to turn the dirt, but there’s no moisture to be found. Even the weeds have given up.
I wake with a start. I’m back on the bed, strapped down. The room has been put back in order, and there is no evidence of my tirade. I lift my head slightly and grunt as I push up with my shoulder against the restraints.
“Relax.”
There is a brief, light touch on the inside of my left arm. I tilt my head backward toward the sound of a soft, feminine voice, and our gazes connect.
Her eyes are a soft, indistinct color between brown and green. The lashes are long and free of mascara. Her skin is pale and smooth, and her hair is light brown, straight, and pulled up into a bun at the back of her head. She wears a long white coat with an unfamiliar insignia embroidered on the breast pocket.
As soon as I see her, I sink back against the bed. I can’t look away from her even as she drops her gaze from mine and focuses on a small tablet computer in her hand. My fingers flex automatically. I can feel a bandage around my fingers. There’s a deep ache on two of the knuckles of my right hand, but the pain barely registers.
I need to touch her.
“What do you remember?” Her voice relaxes me further. The soft tone, the inflection—everything about it—fills me with the need to just listen.
It takes me a moment to realize she’s asked me a question.
“Nothing,” I finally respond.
“That’s all right,” she assures me. “That’s normal.”
Normal. The word floats around in my head trying to find some kind of meaning.
“How can that be normal?” I ask.
“It’s normal, given what you’ve been through.”
She places two fingers against my wrist and looks at one of the monitors on the cart beside the bed. Her fingers feel cool against my skin, and I try to turn my wrist to grab her hand, but the restraints are in the way. I close my eyes, and my mind focuses solely on her touch.
She retracts her hand, and I open my eyes to watch her tap the tablet’s screen.
What have I been through?
“Was I in an accident?”
“No.” She smiles gently as she focuses on my eyes. The look sends warmth through my limbs as my pulse increases. I feel my cock throb and begin to fill with blood. I swallow hard, still unable to stop myself from staring at her.
It’s not that she is overwhelmingly beautiful. She’s attractive, without a doubt. She has pleasant features, beautiful eyes, and a slender body from what I can see beneath the lab coat. There are wisps of hair touching her neck and cheek, and I want to smooth them back into her carefully placed bun. She’s tall—at least five-seven—with long legs I automatically imagine wrapped around my shoulders. But there is nothing exceptional that sets her apart from any other woman.
“What happened to me?”
“You’re a volunteer.” She removes her gaze from me and goes back to the tablet.
“Volunteer for what?” The answer to the question itself strikes me as unimportant. I just want her to look at me again, to speak to me again.
“A special program,” she says. She briefly strokes her fingertip up my forearm as she adjusts the sheet that covers me. “Relax for now. I need to check a few things, and then I can explain more.”
I don’t argue. I don’t question her further. Instead, I nod and wait patiently as she goes about her work, checking my vitals and entering the results into the tablet. When she finishes with me, she goes over to the main computer terminal on the table by the door and lays the tablet beside it. She taps at the keyboard for a moment and then wheels the chair—an exact replica of the one I broke—over to the side of my bed.
She sits on the chair and places her hands on her thighs. For a moment, she says nothing. I watch her lick at her lips and take a long breath before she sits up straight.
“You volunteered because you are a loyalist, a patriot.” She looks into my eyes, and I feel like I’m falling into her gaze. “You and others like you agreed to allow yourselves to be transformed into stronger, better soldiers to win this war.”
Every word she speaks flows through my ears like music. The tone calms me, reassures me, and placates me. I have questions—many, many questions—but the answers seem less important than just hearing the sound of her voice.
“What war?”
“That’s going to take a little time to explain,” she says. “Your vitals are higher than they should be, probably due to your regaining consciousness before expected. I don’t want to overwhelm you any more right now.”
“I’m not overwhelmed.” There’s no mistruth in my words. I feel calm, especially while she’s looking at me. Maybe it’s because of her presence. I don’t know, and I don’t really care.
“You made quite a mess earlier for someone who isn’t overwhelmed.”
I don’t know how to respond. She’s perturbed, and I wonder if she had to clean up my mess or if someone else came while I was unconscious and did it for her. I feel ashamed of my actions, and I don’t know how to justify them.
I am locked in a room. I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing here. I don’t even know my own name.
There’s a sense of terror deep in my gut. I close my eyes and grit my teeth as I try to come to terms with what’s going on inside of me. The touch of her fingers on my arm brings me back.
“Why don’t I remember my name?” I look up at her, drowning in her eyes.
“It’s all part of the transformation process,” she tells me. “Your memories have been wiped out and replaced with the information you will need to perform your duties. For now, you’ve only received the most basic information. More data will be added in time, and you’ll have a better understanding.”
“Who are you?” This question is important to me. I want to know her.
“My name is Dr. Riley Grace,” she says. “You may call me Riley.”
“Riley.” I let the word roll around in my mouth as the sound enters my ears. “You’re my doctor? Am I in a hospital?”
“I am your doctor, yes,” she says. “There is a lot more to it than that though. We’ll get to that in time.”
She doesn’t answer my question about a hospital, but I don’t push it.
“What is my name?” I ask.
“Your designation is specimen seventy-two of eighty-nine.”
“That’s my name?”
“That is your designation.”
“But what’s my name?”
Riley smiles gently again as she touches my arm.
“You don’t have a name per se,” she says. “You are specimen number seventy-two of a group of eighty-nine. I plan on referring to you as Sten.”
“Sten?”
“Seven. Two. Eight. Nine. S-T-E-N—
Sten
.” She glances away. I see a brief change in her cheeks as she blushes slightly. She rubs my arm gently with her fingers. “It’s just something I made up, really. I can’t just call you
Specimen
, can I?”
I continue to stare as I think about the name, roll it around in my mind, and try to determine if I like it or not. I can’t seem to form an opinion one way or another.
“Why a group of eighty-nine?”
“Because eleven of the specimens didn’t survive the transformation process. There are eighty-nine of you left.”
“Where are the others?”
“You’ll see them eventually,” Riley says. “You’ll have to complete the first two stages of training first. I’m here to guide you through all of that. We have a lot of work to do.”
“What training?” Maybe this place isn’t a hospital at all. A military base? A research center?
“Much of it will be effortless for you,” she says. “The transformation process has made it much easier for you to learn. It will feel more like you are being reminded of how to do something, and nothing you encounter will feel completely unfamiliar.”