Inside the Darkness (The Human-Hybrid Project Book 2)

  Farley L. Dunn

  INSIDE THE DARKNESS

  Copyright © 2021 by Farley L. Dunn

  1st ed.

  Book 2 in the Series:

  THE HUMAN-HYBRID PROJECT

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by electronic process or any other means, without written permission of the publisher.

  All Rights Reserved

  Published in Fort Worth, Texas

  www.ThreeSkilletPublishing.com

  Three Skillet Publishing

  PO Box 162194

  Fort Worth, Texas 76161

  ― Book 2 ―

  The Human-Hybrid Project

  Contents

  ― 1 ―

  ― 2 ―

  ― 3 ―

  ― 4 ―

  ― 5 ―

  ― 6 ―

  ― 7 ―

  ― 8 ―

  ― 9 ―

  ― 10 ―

  ― 11 ―

  ― 12 ―

  Arriving July 2021

  ― 1 ―

  DARKNESS SWIRLED, reaching for Garik Shayk and spinning him in a tornado of images.

  Like Dorothy, he imagined, trying to focus and locate something familiar. He would rather find Marisa. He pictured his petite girlfriend, reached for her, searching for her hand, and she was gone, swallowed in the inky otherness.

  He thought he glimpsed Ibn, Muhammad, and Hayat, skaters all, his friends through thick and thin. They were used to being upside down, their world catawampus, skating the streets of the city, performing their trick moves as though an adoring crowd cheered them on, prowling to brush their trucks against every curb and bench hidden by the shadows in the dead of night.

  If Garik could find anyone in his tornado, they would be there.

  Abruptly, he gasped, newly dizzy, and he sat up, throwing sweaty sheets and a blanket to the side, still falling, falling. He tossed his hands to his head to thrust them into his hair, only to find freshly shorn bristles covering his scalp. Reality rushed over him like a broken floodgate emptying the cesspool of his world into his head.

  They had cut his hair!

  He opened his eyes, and the falling room righted itself, shifting around him into a cohesive box of walls and windows and a floor and a ceiling. “Not Oz,” he accused the room, and he released a hard breath, puffing his cheeks out, not remembering everything, but he remembered the needle.

  Over and over, the needle.

  What had they called it? Sleepy juice. Nurse Ratchett, er, Nurse Leah, placing the needle to his skin, and slipping it so effortlessly inside. He ran fingers down the smooth crook of the inside of his elbow. So many puncture marks. How many times had he fought back? How many times had they given him the sleepy juice? Too many times. Why? Why? He did grin, though, remembering one thing. The straps. It seemed he’d fought back, even if he didn’t remember all of it. “Good for you, Garik,” he whispered to himself. “That’s showing them.”

  The room was cold. He tested his feet to ensure they weren’t strapped down. They had been the last time he remembered anything at all. Nurse Ratchett and Dr. Strangelove, aka Dr. Jamie. He shivered at the memory. “Do you know what you want to become?” Then, “We thought we had learned this lesson. We shall have to return to the straps.”

  Garik’s feet moved just fine, and he threw aside the bedding and drew up his knees. His ankles, the familiar bronze skin snaking out of loose, full-length pajamas in an animal print. His upper body was bare. Loosely tied cords at his waist secured the pants, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His toes just touched the floor, and he was surprised to find it pleasingly warm.

  He pushed himself to a standing position, fully prepared to catch himself. He remembered the tornado. He must have been on something, the sleepy juice, perhaps, and it hadn’t completely worn off. His thoughts felt wonky, like he was still caught up in it, and his thoughts were constantly being twisted inside out. What he wanted to find was the exit, a way out of here.

  The room contained several doors, the main one closed. A darkened doorway revealed a glimpse of porcelain fixtures. He took one step toward the black space, found he was stable, and took a second.

  Walking. He breathed in deeply. It felt good to walk, like he hadn’t done it in a while.

  He rubbed his scalp again. How long had it been? Too long, clearly. Inside the small bathroom, he turned on the light to reveal himself in front of a full-length mirror.

  That’s me? Garik wasn’t sure for a moment that he was seeing himself. Then, in his aunt’s apartment, the mirror over the small sink in the one tiny bathroom was postage stamp size, and when he brushed his teeth, he could barely fit in all his face at one time. Still, there were glass doors and plate glass windows around the city, and he did have pictures of himself on his watch.

  Studying his shorn head and his sparse mat of newly grown hair, anger welled up in him. This wasn’t the person he was supposed to be. He tightened his jaw. My mind, my reasoning, not anger. He forced himself through his self-styled mantra.

  His watch! He involuntarily checked his wrist, even as he knew it was bare. All of him was, except for his borrowed pajama bottoms. They had even taken his watch, though he knew they would. How else would they keep him from calling for help from everyone he knew?

  He pictured himself the last day he remembered before waking up here. He had stood in front of the flower shop doors reflected in the bright sun against the dark interior. It seemed just yesterday but was certainly weeks ago or longer. A thick, wild-boy mane of dark hair tossed into windblown disarray from his skateboard ride across the city looked back at him. He had been slim but muscular, and he was dismayed at how soft he now looked. And his hair! How many weeks had it been for his hair to regrow this long?

  He jerked around and let his eyes roam the room, searching for clues. For anything that would give him fresh information. A bedside table with a lamp and a clock. A small desk across the room holding, and this surprised him, a computer monitor and keyboard. There was even enough space for a small sofa facing a good-size television. Across the room, the bed, rumpled, his shape still in the sheets, a slender youth of average size, revealing the impression of two arms and two legs, and yes, that was important, because he also remembered Dr. Jamie’s other words: DNA. “How’s the DNA material coming along?” And later: “This will need to drip for a while.” Drip where? The answer was plain as orange-glow shimmer gel splashed across the walls. Into Garik’s arm.

  Who knew what that would do to his body? What had they said? Timber wolf? Garik didn’t feel any different, other than frustrated from not knowing, from not being told. This was his life. They should let him know what they were doing with it.

  He turned back to the mirror and moved close to inspect himself. He lifted one eyelid and peered inside. What did wolf eyes look like? They were dogs, so there was that. Didn’t some breeds have eyes of different colors? If so, his hadn’t changed yet. His were still clear gray speckled with gold.

  A thumb told him his teeth were still even and flat. No canine incisors to rip and tear raw flesh. His ears? Should they be pointed on top? Or was that just for werewolves? No fur on his skin, just the thin growth he was used to when he lifted his pajama legs and inspected his shins.

  It seemed he was still all Garik, and that was a relief. Maybe whatever they were doing hadn’t taken, and they would have to show him the door, saying, “Sorry, kid, things didn’t work out. You’re not the one, but then, we didn’t really think you were.” He could return to his small bedroom in Irina’s apartment and head back to school in August. He was a senior—someth
ing he had looked forward to for three years—and while he didn’t want to sit in class, he had lots of friends he missed, and he would enjoy his time with them.

  “Hey,” he called out. He remembered the first room, the all-white one with the wire-reinforced glass in the door. That room had spoken back to him. “Is anyone listening? I’m awake if you’re there. Are your cameras on? Are you watching what I’m doing? Woo-hoo, wolf boy, waiting on instructions.”

  He grinned. If they were there, that would get their attention.

  He checked a slim door and found a closet. The light clicked on automatically to reveal clothes, shoes, and a shelf with tees, underwear, and socks. He checked the waist of a pair of pants, and yes, they were his size, or had been before he turned all soft. Someone had been checking, doing their stuff.

  The door to the room clicked, the sound of metal against metal, reminding Garik of the lock on his Street Strider when he thumbed his fob to unlock it. He stepped out of the closet to await whoever—or whatever—might be coming through the door.

  THE DOOR opened wide, and a rolling metal cart with several covered items came through, followed by what Garik was relieved to see was a familiar face.

  “I’m glad to see you up and moving.” Nurse Leah Fortimier used her shoe to pull down a doorstop on the outside of the door. With the door secured in an open position, she worked the rest of the cart through before turning back to the door, where she wrapped one hand around the edge and released the doorstop with her foot. Before the door closed, Garik caught a short corridor and a wide doorway opening to a vast space. The exterior of the door had large letters identifying it as B2-17.

  “What’s that?” He nodded at the cart.

  “More questions?” Leah smiled pleasantly, as she began uncovering steaming portions of food. “Now, don’t expect this every day. We have a cafeteria on the first level, well, on almost every level, but you’ll be expected to use the one on the first level mostly. This is because this is your first day in your new room.”

  Leah had moved the chair from the desk to the cart, and it now looked like a high-tech dining table on wheels.

  “My room?” He wanted to say, I have a room, and it’s at City View Apartments, not this, but he was out of his element, and he had less power here than he did when dealing with his aunt’s boyfriend, Arik, meaning none at all.

  “Yes. I can see you’ve been exploring. All those clothes are sized for you, so feel free to choose what you like.”

  “The weather?” He made a point of rubbing his head. “I don’t know if it’s even summer any longer.”

  “I am so sorry about that. Your hair was beautiful, but it will regrow. Don’t worry about the weather. You’ll be inside for the time being.” She patted the back of the chair. “While it’s hot?”

  Garik glanced at the food. It did look good, and it smelled better. He glanced back to the closet. Clothes, yes, that would be nice, too, especially with Nurse Leah standing there watching him, as if checking on whether he had begun his transformation from normal boy to teen wolf, ready to leap across the room and bite her on the ankle.

  “Okay, suit yourself.” Leah didn’t seem upset. “I have one question for you. Do you remember my name?”

  “Nurse Ratch—” He caught himself. “I’m sorry. I mean, Nurse Leah. Fortimier is your last name.”

  She chuckled. “Your memory is returning. I’ve been Nurse Ratchett to you more times than you remember. Leah is fine. Enjoy your breakfast.”

  She turned to leave, and Garik stopped her.

  “Leah, are you locking the door again?”

  “I know you want to know everything, but you can’t just yet. And we can’t have you wandering the facility until you’ve been through orientation. There are things here—good things, we think—that need to be explained before you make up your mind.”

  “Will I ever be able to leave?”

  “Certainly.” She frowned as if surprised at the bald question. “We don’t keep our project participants locked in their rooms.”

  “Like on the bottom floor.” Garik felt his face harden, and he saw Leah wince. “I mean from this place, from all of this. Or will I wind up in prison like them?”

  “Patience, Mr. Shayk. I don’t have all your answers now. That’s what orientation is for.”

  “Garik. My name is Garik.” His father was Mr. Shayk, and he lived in Russia on the other side of the world, a place Garik would be glad to be right now, even if he had been grateful to leave when he did.

  “Thank you, Garik. I will remember that. For now, concentrate on breakfast and clothes.”

  “One more thing.” This was vital. Garik had to know. “Cameras? Microphones? Is that how you knew I was up?”

  This time Leah laughed. “We don’t spy on our people, Garik. You do have your privacy, or as much as we can allow when inside your room. We do have heat sensors that tell us when you begin to move about. With our line of research, it’s important to monitor body temperatures at all time. For your health, of course. Enjoy your morning, Garik. This afternoon we’ll get you out and hopefully up to speed.”

  The door closed, too quickly for Garik to sound off another question, and yes, he listened for the thud of metal against metal. It came, solid and reinforced, if he was any judge.

  Answers? Up to speed? How about out of here? That was the one and only answer he was certain he needed.

  ― 2 ―

  THE WINDOW. Light streamed against the outside of the blinds, the casements outlined in darker patterns. Could he crawl out? If he had to.

  “If it doesn’t fall out of the frame and knock me out,” he joked. He remembered that part of the old movie, too. “At least I can see where this place is.” He imagined the upper floors of the Tower if he hadn’t been moved to some distant and secretive test facility. Area 51, perhaps. He didn’t see how he could scale down the side of the building, though, unless he could shimmy down the glass exterior with his bare hands and feet.

  He reached to the blinds, lifted one slat, squinted, then spread it wider. Nah, it couldn’t be. That was his parent’s old rock house in Russia, built by his grandpapa’s hands years before he was born. The wind blew, the tree he used to climb as a small boy swayed, and a bird alighted into the sky.

  “What do you think, Garik, my boy?”

  Garik turned, saw a face he remembered, and dropped the slat to turn completely around. He felt caught out not to have noticed the door unlocking. “About what?”

  “The view.” Dr. Jimenez walked fully into the room, his hands behind his back, allowing two people to follow him in. Jimenez smiled, made his way to the window, and reached to a clear rod hanging from one side. He twisted it, and the scene jumped fully into the room. Slats of sun slashed across the floor, the warmth cutting across Garik’s bare feet. “Is it as you remember? Your home, that is your home out there.”

  “My parents’ home. I live with my Aunt Irina.” Still, Garik glanced out the window, squinting, hoping to see his papa and his mama, for a moment longing for their familiar faces.

  “Have you forgotten?” Jimenez grasped Garik’s bare shoulder in one hand, squeezed it warmly, and dipped his head to peer at him in a fatherly manner. “You have been deported. I believe Mr., um, Hefferly apprised you of your current situation.” Jimenez glanced at one of his associates as he mentioned Hefferly’s name, only moving on when the associate nodded.

  “The black-bearded guy.” Garik wanted to shrug off the doctor’s hand, but he remembered Hefferly’s wrist. Garik had grabbed it, twisting hard, and then he had held nothing. The man’s wrist had turned to empty air, to smoke in his hand, before becoming real flesh once more.

  Who could do that? Better, what could do that?

  The event . . . with Hefferly on the mall . . . surely that hadn’t been real, a man turning into purple smoke. That was impossible. It must have been video fakery . . . except, Garik had held his wrist, and it had vanished right out of his grasp.

  “What
about Mr. Hefferly?” Garik felt his chest tighten. Nurse Leah. Colonel Brace. The massive shoulders of Weston Rodheimer. The needle. And now, memories of purple smoke. His childhood home outside the window. The tree he had climbed as a child.

  “You were deported because you broke into our secured facilities. Do you remember that?” Jimenez wasn’t unkind with his words, more as though he wished to prod Garik’s memories.

  Garik looked back through the window, the hand on his arm keeping him connected to this room, and his thoughts flew backwards to a childhood storm. He had huddled in his bed in his room under the eaves, and lightning had punched through his small window. The crack of thunder had shaken him off his mattress, and he had fallen to the floor and rolled under the bed, pulling his blanket in after him. The next morning, the top of the old tree lay on the ground, a gaping wound in the branches, a reminder that the fist of God could strike anywhere, even just outside your window if you weren’t careful.

  The old tree had never been the same.

  “That’s not real.” Garik cut a glance to the doctor, and before the man could stop him, he reached through the blinds and rapped the surface of the “window.”

  “Now, don’t do that.” Jimenez pulled him back. He grasped both his shoulders and studied Garik’s face. “That was a very quick interpretation of your surroundings, and with no explanations. I didn’t expect to see adaptations in you so quickly.”

  “Adaptations? What’s that supposed to mean?” Garik shrugged off the doctor’s hands. “Leah said I’d have my privacy. Can you people maybe give me some? I want to get dressed.”

  Garik’s hope for escape was crushed. It was not a window. He wasn’t in the Tower, then. Not in Russia, either. Not . . . what did he mean, adaptations? In the mirror earlier—what had he seen that Garik had missed?