The Fall - Chapters 5-7

(5)

-Benjamin-

The teachers struggle in vain to quiet the cacophony.Hundreds of voices rising in an uncontrollable tide of excitement and apprehension, the air thick with the buzz of eager whispers. Jaxson leans over my shoulder, his elbow pressing hard into my back.

“I’ve heard about this place.” His breath is hot on my ears, barely audible. “I heard that they send criminals into the dome. Those who survive their sentence all say that they would never be the same.” I shush him with a glare. Still, his words send my mind spiraling. What could possibly be so scary about a big room full of trees?

The winged lady lands gracefully, her presence commanding attention as she resumes her speech with a fervor bordering on fanaticism.

“Students of…” She glances at her palm, “East Rivers’ Corrective School, on your trip, you will be touring this lab,” she gestures to the structure at her back, “and the Biodome.” Behind her a short bearded man, who I recognize as the freshman biology teacher, Mr. Krook, takes the stage. As he steps forward, he waves a lazy acknowledgment

“Please distribute yourselves into groups; each group will then be assigned a color and a bunk room for your temporary stay.” Without hesitation, Jaxson seizes my arm, pulling me roughly out of the crowd and towards a larger circle of bodies. The guy closest to me is a tall, thin kid with short prickly hair. Despite his height, he eyes the rest of the group with his fox-like gaze. Across from me, two other boys lean heavily against each other. Stumbling like they can’t support their own weight, they laugh themselves to tears, loudly exchanging jokes that would earn them each a beating from their mothers, if they had any. The final member of our group sits silently in the gravel, his expression unreadable.

Quietly, I slip into the back of the group, drawn to the immense size of the building.

Before I can finish gawking, a dark figure on the indoor balcony captures my attention. Squinting against the glare, I peer upward, attempting to discern the shape.

Unfortunately, I don’t have time to puzzle about gargoyles, I’m noticed. Oh how I hate when that happens. The best part… That someone happens to be the one person I wanted to avoid all trip—Isabella. She skips over, carrying such a large supply of enthusiasm I wonder how she isn’t crippling under its weight. Despite my attempts to brush her off, she persists, her bubbly persona grating against my nerves. Pushing her way towards me she lets out a torrent of exclaims.

“Hi, Ben! Hover ride was just awful wasn’t it? God, I almost tried to just bolt out of there. So cramped. I don’t know how you stayed so calm. You know, though, I am so happy that we don’t have to do schoolwork, right? I mean, it would be just crazy for them to assign us something, don’t you think.?” Her gestures are animated, punctuating each sentence with a flourish of her hands as she recounts the discomfort of the journey. I nod along, offering murmured agreements, but my attention is divided, torn between her relentless chatter and stolen glances at the figure above.

Honestly, I don’t even know why Isabella was boarded at my school. She seems like the type to bump into an inanimate object and promptly apologize. She didn’t look it either, fluffy blonde hair, dark blue eyes, a pepper of light freckles, and a tiny frame. Not that you had to sport scars, tats, and a rugged physique, but she also didn’t have a cunning or even viscous personality. From the day I met her she didn’t seem to have a drop of rebellious blood in her. Throughout my three years with her, she always had a bubbly persona, seeming more at home in a storybook than in the gritty reality of our surroundings.

She also always appeared around me, a constant, suffocating, presence. When I was in the cafeteria she sidled up to me with a tray; walking to classes she shuffled through the crowd and was next to me; with acquaintances, every time Isabella knew them as well. I had begun to think she had a crush on me.

I don’t see why. It’s not like I hate myself, but I just think, of all the people. There are plenty of cute boys in our school. Why pick the one in with shaggy hair, hand-me-down clothes and glasses? I will never understand some girls.

But as the groups of students are ushered forward, I push aside my musings, focusing instead on the task at hand, trying my best to not look at Isabella besides me, happily bouncing along.

Each group is assigned two chaperones: one teacher as well as one lab worker. The teacher assigned to our group is a younger woman who looks no older than twenty-five, her face alight and colored with youth. With her lively demeanor and animated gestures, she introduces herself as Mrs. Rose, her voice brimming with excitement as she eagerly guides us forward. Beside her stands our other chaperone, a stark contrast to Mrs. Rose in both appearance and demeanor. He is a short, older man with round, gruff features and circles under his sagging eyes.

Without a word, he begins to tighten stiff, yellow, plastic wristbands around our wrists; the hospital-like accessory, pinching uncomfortably against my skin. I rub the band already wishing for it to come off.

“My name is James, you will call me James. Do as you’re told and touch nothing.” The man, -James- introduces himself, by staring each one of us down. Perhaps assuming if he stares hard enough he could leave no room for disobedience or dissent.

With our chaperones leading the way, we ascend the concrete steps and enter through the large double doors of the facility. Gravel escapes off our shoes, falling in between the grooves of the trampled welcome mat. What awaits us inside is nothing like the sterile environment of a typical lab. Where I expected to see long clean tables strewn with data sheets and graphs, I instead am greeted by wooden shelves, lush carpets, and velvet seating, creating an atmosphere more akin to a cozy living room than a place of research and experimentation. And on the farthest wall, a detailed mural stretches across the expanse, its vibrant colors and intricate patterns drawing my gaze like a magnet. In my gawking I hear Jaxson scoff..

“This,” He says, “is the lab?” James sighs, his frustration palpable as he responds,

“No, this is the visitor center. Find somewhere to sit.”

Only moments after finding our seats, a new speaker emerges from the crowd, a lanky man hugged by a dark coat. He clears his voice and the sound booms through the speakers overhead as he strides confidently towards the center of the room. With a flick of a switch, a projector springs to life, a 3D map swirling into shape.

“I want to start off today with a question for all of you…” He starts, “If you could be any animal what would you be?” A few hands shoot up eagerly, but he pays them no mind, forging ahead with his presentation…

“Well, what if I told you, you could be that animal, or, part of it?” he continues, his words sparking a ripple of curiosity among the crowd. For years, I have heard whispers of the advancements in genetic manipulation, but never before have I been confronted with the possibility of altering my own DNA. Every time a discovery was made it was always shut down before getting to the media.

The map suddenly shifts, scattering pixels, before quickly reshaping to form a strand of DNA, floating just above the ground.

“As you likely know, DNA is the blueprint for your body,” the man explains, his grin widening with each word. “It tells you how you’re supposed to look, tells your cells where to go.”

“Since the very beginning humans have been jealous. Of the wings of birds or the speed of cheetahs and now, we have found a way to make them our own.” I lean forward, my brow turning down in confusion, and a small bit of excitement. “With the help of the Biodome and our many scientists here, we have found a way to alter DNA with such precision that you can have a bit of the wild in your appearance.”

Again the pixels separate, this time morphing to form breathtaking images of human bodies moving through the air with huge wings or running across the ground with sweeping tails. Mutant forms of all shapes and sizes. My gasp is echoed by hundreds of others.

The sudden whirling of mechanics makes me jump. Tearing my eyes from the display, I attempt to locate the sound. My eyes go wide with shock as the wall, I thought was a mural, peels away, opening to an endless forest.

(6)

-Sange-

A sea of people presses against me, their weight pulling me down into a suffocating embrace. Dizzy and disoriented, I fight to push through the crowd, shoving heavy bodies aside as I struggle for breath. Standing on tiptoes, I strain to peer over the heads towering above me, but it's futile. I gasp for breath, only for it to find no space in my lungs. I’m drowning. The maelstrom of chaos, darkness closing in around me.

There's a hand on my shoulder and I’m suddenly being guided through the mass. Slowly, we weave our way out of the crowd's clutches, until finally, we break free from the suffocation. A wall of white feathers rises to my right, and I instinctively reach out, lightly tapping three times for reassurance. I’m okay.

“Sange.” Icarus’s tone more statement than question, his words laced with concern.

“I made a mistake.” Even to my own ears, my mutter is barely audible. I try to form the words, yet every time I try to speak they fall over each other, scrambling to shape sentences, “I didn’t mean for it… he… I…” Stumbling over each other in a jumble of guilt and regret, I struggle to sift through the tumbling cacophony of emotions. The urge to scream, cry, curse, all taking up arms prepping to war with the need to maintain a facade of composure. I feel sick with guilt, the weight of my actions bearing down on me like a leaden burden. It was just a word, I let him get under my skin.

Selfish girl, get over it

This is what you were made for

You’re a killer, it is in your blood

Even as my body aches with emotion, I force my expression to remain neutral, pinching my eyes shut to trap the tears behind my eyelids, not daring to open them until they dry. The thought of the disappointed faces awaiting at camp lead me to push Icarus’s hand away.

“Come on, I still have meat to trade and stomachs to fill.” I force myself to sound bright, pushing past Icarus.

Skirting around the outskirts of the market, I deftly navigate through the crowds, dodging traders and hawkers vying for attention. With each transaction, Icarus remains a silent shadow in my periphery, a constant in my line of sight. While he follows, I walk through the same steps at each vendor: ask a price, talk them down to a lower sum, then make the deal. Smile, small-talk, trade, repeat.

Despite the hustle and bustle of the market, I keep my muscles loose, turning away the weary eye, yet my senses are sharp. I know where everyone and everything is, and easily sort out possible threats without giving away any sense of paranoia.

But as we near the outskirts of town, a commotion catches Icarus's attention, his feathers ruffling with distress. I follow his gaze to a rickety hut peppered with mold. In the doorway is a round, red faced woman. Her ears so far forward I’m almost afraid they are going to send her tumbling right off the old porch. An audience is forming, watching. Likely waiting to see if anything will come of the scuffle. Finally, I spot it: the cause of Icarus's anxiety. In a shaking ball, a child cowers under the woman’s fury. I reach out and catch Icarus by the arm just as he starts after the kid.

“We can’t draw any more attention to ourselves than we already have,” I whisper urgently, trying to quell the rising tide of his indignation.

“We can’t just-” I cut him off.

“Yes we can. I don’t want to leave him anymore than you do, but we have enough mouths to feed without charging into a fight to rescue every unhappy child we find.” He knows I’m right; no matter how much he is going to grumble until he resigns himself to my logic.

Only cares about herself

He hefts a sigh of defeat. I match his sigh with my own, even if it is one of relief. We may actually make it out of here alright. Just as the thought enters my mind someone shrieks,

“MURDERER!” The horde of bodies falls silent. Every pair of eyes is on me, a knot forms in the pit of my stomach as the crowd closes in, their faces contorted with anger and accusation. The cry cuts through the sobs of an older woman, who leans into a large man’s shoulder. No one dares move. My hand sits dead in the air hovering ever-so-slightly above my sheathed weapon.

“I don’t mean any harm.” I speak softly, yet still my voice cuts the silence so sharply a few people step back.

“Is that what you said to my son when you cut him down?!” Her accusation strikes a chord of discomfort in the assembled crowd, filling every free space with a hair-rising sense of unease. Mummers of agreement catch the woman as she continues her grief-filled rant. “Do you know what we do with murderers?” The mass flows forward, moving like a tide of fury. It would have been beautiful, had they not wanted us dead. And as the crowd advances, brandishing weapons with murderous intent, I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, the weight of their condemnation bearing down on me. “WE PUT THEM TO DEATH!”

In a flash of movement, Icarus leaps into the air, dodging the first wave of attacks as he takes flight. He crawls higher and it's not long before others take off after him.

But I know that against the tide of angry villagers, our chances of survival are slim at best. Yet even as I brace myself for the onslaught, a familiar voice whispers in the recesses of my mind, reminding me of my true nature.

A horde against one girl

One stupid, foolish girl

Icarus left you

He abandoned you

This was the last straw and now he’s gone

Left you for dead

Time seems to dilate, stretching each moment into an eternity of calculated movements, my mind slipping into a rhythm with my body. I know what to do. It is a part of me. Violence is where I thrive.

Everything returns to its normal pace as the first wave hits me with its full force. But I’m ready. With a dancer's grace, I weave through the onslaught, anticipating the clumsy strike of the first assailant. His blade flashes toward me, but I intercept it with practiced ease, deflecting the blow with a swift parry. Exploiting his momentary imbalance, I deliver a precise strike, sending him careening into the path of his unsuspecting comrade. The clash of metal rings out as their blades find flesh in the chaos.

A cry of alarm alerts me to the next advancer. I use the warning to duck and pivot. With a kick to the calf, I send the attacker careening into the dirt, crashing with a satisfying thud. Before I can strike again, however, a sharp crack reverberates through the air, and my world explodes into a kaleidoscope of pain and disorientation. I'm back on my feet moments after my collapse, ready to face the next wave, ignoring the pulsing heartbeat rattling my vision. I manage to somehow dodge a second blow. Attempting to retaliate, I lash out with my dagger, hard and fast, just like I was taught. Despite the spinning of the earth, it hits its mark and flesh tears. As he slumps, bowing to a hovering king of death, his body gives way to just enough clearance for my escape. I throw myself limply over his corpse. I tuck my head, not daring to lose my momentum, hitting the ground and somersaulting into a run.

Struggling to maintain my footing, I press onward, my legs moving as if through molasses as I stumble through the dense undergrowth. The throbbing in my skull grows as the light dims making the trees swim and shake. The shouting behind me fades, but in my state I can’t decipher whether the reason is distance or if I’m slipping out of consciousness. I can’t keep running. I collapse mid-stride. Face down in the foliage I can’t keep it back any longer and I allow the darkness to swallow me.

As I fight to take back control of my limbs, the acrid scent of smoke assaults my senses, as though someone were shoveling ashes directly into my nose.

I stifle a groan as I shove myself upright. From where I sit in the dirt it’s not hard to find the source of the smell. Blinking away the haze of dizziness, I take stock of my surroundings, my gaze drawn inexorably toward the dying fire a few paces away, billowing another ashy breath from its hot coals. Soon I notice the forms by the fire. Crouched beside the flickering flames, his wings drooping wearily, is Icarus, tending to the dwindling embers. My muscles release as relief floods through me at the sight of him, but it's quickly overshadowed by confusion. Who else is here?

Before I can voice my questions, Icarus turns to me, his face illuminated by the flickering firelight. He meets my eyes and I watch as his face reveals an emotion one can only describe as giddiness. I smile back: though it feels pitiful in light of his joy.

The crackling of the flames fills the air, punctuated by the occasional pop as embers leap from the fire pit, casting dancing shadows that flicker across the surrounding trees. The smoke hangs heavy in the air, obscuring the stars above and casting a hazy glow over the clearing.

Behind Icarus, gold curls fall from a mound of blankets. Icarus notices my puzzlement and begins to recount his escape from our pursuers, I listen intently, my mind racing to piece together the events that led us to this moment. But as he mentions the unexpected addition to our party, realization dawns on me, and I can't help but feel a pang of frustration at his impulsive decision.

"Icarus!" I exclaim, unable to contain my exasperation as I bury my face in my hands. His response is defiant, his resolve unyielding as he brushes off my concern with a dismissive wave.

“He was just sitting there all alone,” He says, gesturing to the lump. “I know what you’re going to say. So save me the lecture.” It’s clear his mind is made up. Knowing there's little I can do to dissuade him, I relent to his decision.

"Fine. Does 'he' have a name?" To my surprise, the blond kid had been paying more attention than I originally gave him credit for. Shuffling blankets he glares at me through the flames.

“Tommy,” he huffs, “Tommy Walker.”

(7)

-Benjamin-

As we begin to move towards the memorizing scene ahead of us, the man's voice crackles back through the speakers.

“Unfortunately, before you all will get to go outside, we will have to take a few tests, for your safety, of course.”

Groans ripple through the crowd, in waves of discontent. The man, unaffected, pockets his walkie-talkie and flashes a thin smile before disappearing with his colleagues down a dim hallway. They vanish from my view.

Turning towards us, James speaks, his voice cutting sharply through the chatter.

“I’ll be giving you your tests, follow me in an orderly fashion, and it’ll be over quickly.” At his heels, we merge into the flood of students and instructors funneling down the narrow hall.

Seconds after, we file into a spacious, sterile room and a sharp smell of antiseptics cuts into my nose. Hospital cots line the walls, partitioned by flimsy, swaying curtains, offering only a faint semblance of privacy. Each bed holds a table—steel, clean and cold—with trays of gleaming medical tools laid out, in the likeness of a surgeon's workspace. The garish light overhead casts long shadows across polished floors, and I am painfully aware of the similarities this room shares with the cruel hell I’ve come to call my home.

James stations our group at one of the beds farthest from the door, leaving us shuffling anxiously. Away from the mass, I can’t help but feel vulnerable, separated from the shelter of the group.

“Now,” he says, scanning our faces, “Since you will be entering an area that has been severely radiated at a point in time, and while this may have been a long time ago, we still need to check your vitals to make sure that in any case of emergency, that you are fit and healthy. This is a basic procedure and will go quickly, nothing to worry about. Who wants to go first?” James peers expectantly at us.

The group backs away, shaking their heads, leaving only me and Jaxson. I glance at him now. He hadn’t joined the reluctant yet, but I see easily through the act. He wants nothing to do with this; he’s always had a particular hate for doctors. I know he won’t back down, but I also know there is no way he is sitting down on that cot. So, I decide to save everyone some time.

“Fine,” I say, sitting down on the cot. The fabric is painfully stiff and I fight the urge to rearrange myself to be more comfortable, instead, I keep my gaze locked on James. I’ve been in tense situations like this enough, I know that you must not show that you are uncomfortable, for it is a sign of weakness. Near me, another chaperone clears her throat.

“Everyone who is not getting tested, out.” She declares. Immediately, students begin to roll towards the doors in a hushed wave. In seconds, the room is left only with white coats and anxiety.

James runs through all the typical medical producers—a stethoscope pressed to my chest; a blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm. To finish my temperature, and a prick to my finger. Eventually, boredom overcomes my caution and my attention drifts away from James to the blank wall across from me. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I catch the glint of a needle, its sharp tip reflecting the cold overhead light. My body tenses, instinct telling me to pull back, but James’s hand grips my arm firmly.

“Wha-,”

The needle pierces my shoulder, sharp and deliberate. My mind reels as I turn toward James, confusion pulling at my thoughts. But before I can say anything, dizziness sweeps over me like a tidal wave, and a high-pitched ringing fills my ears like an alarm. I try to voice my disconsern, yet my tongue lies, dry and unmoving. My vision blurs, and my limbs grow heavy. And despite my fighting, the world fades to black.

-o-

“This isn’t right.”

“It isn’t my job to care about your moral obligations.”

“It’s your job to help people. How can you do that when you’re sending children off to their deaths?”

“You don’t know that.”

Faint voices drift through the fog of sleep, fragmented but urgent. My mind moves like a swimmer through molasses. I just want to go back to sleep. When did I fall asleep? Where am I?

“Does that make you feel better? Oh, just maybe they’ll die? That there’s a chance they’ll be fine? It should be adults doing this. People who know what’s happening to them.”

“Go ask the administrators then. I don’t want to hear your whining. If a few die... it’s for the greater good. We’ll learn from it, and adjust. We aren’t bad people—we’re just doing what needs to be done.”

The gaudy light bleeding through my eyelids flushing me back into reality. I am still in the lab. The cold pinch of an IV dripping fluid into my arm. I can guess that I’m under anesthesia. Except, I’m awake.

“Why children then? Answer me that.”

“Hell, I don’t know. They're nothings; they’re useless. No one would probably come looking for them when they don’t come back. They come from a correctional facility, they might as well be put to some use.”

“That’s sick.”

“You gave him the cyclobenzaprine, right?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“That’s the truth. Now be quiet and do your job.”

I have to use every bit of self restraint that the exhaustion hasn’t muddled to stay still. Fighting to not even change the tempo of my breath. I don’t know what could give me away, but I do know that I should not be hearing this.

The conversation fades to silence. As the fog in my mind lifts, as my senses begin to sharpen. I hear a doctor’s voice again, this time more mechanical, detached.

“Patient 429, Batch F: Hill, Benjamin, is given mixture 429F. Agents of Neupogen, Intravenous Immunoglobulin, and -using viral vector AAV- inserting donor genes.”’

Metallic clinks follow as instruments are arranged.

“Administering 429F now.”

A chill spreads through my arm, crawling through my veins, up to my shoulder. Ice turns to fire, arching swirls of magma. It rides through my body. It reaches my chest and ignites, heat exploding from my core. It begins as manageable burn then intensifies—hot, searing, unbearable. I twist on the cot, gritting my teeth so tightly that it sends pain up my jaw.. I curse myself for not controlling my actions but the pain swells within me, my thrashing doing nothing to cool the burning fire in my veins.

“Woah, woah! I thought you gave him anesthesia?”

Above me, frantic voices overlap, and I clench my fists, trying to push through the pain.

“I can’t do this, I can’t. We haven’t tested anything yet. Not any animals, adults, nothing. We’re doing this too quickly. There’s no precautions or patience; we’re just throwing them in there and seeing what happens. And then the rest? If city-dwellers are able to live in this atmosphere? Just killing everything humanoid in the Biodome? A complete annihilation of the beings we put there in the first place. It’s cruel. It goes against the basic theory of science and logic.”

“Get a grip, you shouldn’t have signed up for this job if you can’t handle this.”

“If they’re willing to put children in experiments, what will they do to us?.”

“I don’t know, but we can’t do anything about it. And we’re trained medical professionals, they need us.”

“Listen, if there’s a time to go, we need to go now.”

There’s another silence, the pain dulling to a throb.

“What exactly are you saying?”

“The longer this immorality lasts, the bolder they’re going to get, and our rights will be stripped away one by one until there’s nothing left to protect us.”

The skeptical one hisses.

“That’s treason. You can’t actually be insinuating this.”

“What if that’s the only way? You don’t have to come with me, but I’m getting out of here.”

“You will die. They will kill you and whoever else is connected to you.”

“I don’t have any other choice.”

The air crackles with intensity. This is the third and last silence. The heaviest one.

I wait, breathing evenly through my nose.

There’s another shift of movement and the crackle of a handheld receiver as it’s turned on.

“What are you doing?”

It’s the worried doctor, panicked, pained.

“Requesting security to room 223 for an attempt at subversion and unauthorized leave, one individual.”

The skeptical doctor is speaking fast into the mic, quick to list all possible incriminating information of his college.

Then there’s a scuffle—a sharp, chaotic burst of movement near the entrance. Footsteps thunder in, responding to the scuffle There’s shouts as multiple guards restrain the doctor. He screams about injustice, the system, his innocence. The guards easily outnumber him, but he’s hysterical, and they struggle getting him out the door. I hear the second doctor rush to the fight, trying to help the guards. Cracking my eyes open, I ever so slightly lift my head. I see the scramble near the entryway, the rabid movements of the turned doctor. He snarls, lashing out at the guards. As he wrestles his arm loose and yanks it back to throw a punch, an object flies out of his pocket, hits the ground, and slides towards my bed. Now, one of the men is on the floor, clutching his eye, dull red seeping from beneath his fingers. Cautiously, I move my arm out from beneath the thin film of the sheets and move my hand slowly to the floor. My gaze still trained on the fight, I pick it up, shoving it quickly underneath my leg. When my fingers brush the worn pages, I realize the object is a book. I don’t test my luck examining it and I close my eyes again.

I only wait for a few minutes as the scuffle dies down. The doctor has given up. The door slams shut and the cries are easily muffled.

My efforts to remain calm deteriorate as panic takes hold and hyperventilation begins to strangle my throat for air. What have I just learned?