The Hybrid Theory_Subject 306_An Apocalyptic Short Story

  Baileigh Higgins

  The Hybrid Theory - Subject 306

  An Apocalyptic Short Story

  First published by Baileigh Higgins in 2018

  Copyright © Baileigh Higgins, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First Edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1 - Adam

  Chapter 2 - Christine

  Chapter 3 - Mike

  Chapter 4 - Katy

  Chapter 5 - Sam

  Chapter 6 - Lola

  Chapter 7 - Rebecca

  Chapter 8 - Violet

  Epilogue - Adam

  You're a survivor!

  Sneak Preview

  About the Author

  Chapter 1 - Adam

  After lock-down, Adam lay down on the thin blanket that made up his bed. It was the only thing he now owned besides the orange jumpsuit he wore. That and the filthy bucket he shared with five others in the cell. He didn’t even possess a pair of shoes.

  Darkness fell as the lights kicked out. Snores and heavy breathing filled the night. Adam stared at the wall. He was still in a daze, trying to process everything that had happened. How did it come to this? A lifetime sentence for murder?

  The night it all began flashed before his eyes: A quick trip to the dingy corner shop that sold liquor to under aged teens on the weekends. A small crowd of boys ranging in age from fifteen to nineteen. The smell of booze on their breaths as they heckled him before the fight turned ugly and they jumped him all at once. The hatred in their eyes as they pummeled him, calling him a bum and a loser.

  Adam, trained in combat after years of service, tried to back out. He fended them off and kept hold of his rising temper, reminding himself they were only kids. Until one pulled a knife and stabbed him in the back.

  Blood.

  Pain.

  That’s when he lost it.

  A haze of anger, a few swift movements, and a bunch of injured teens were lying on the sidewalk nursing broken bones and blackened eyes.

  Except for him, of course. The one with the knife. Liam Stratham. Son of the head of ISC Security. He lay on the concrete, unmoving, with the knife sticking out of his chest.

  The police got there not long after, and Adam was arrested. Thanks to the little shit’s father, he spent months in prison, waiting for a trial that never came. Stratham, a bigshot in the ISC, made sure Adam suffered.

  His wife left him, took their daughter and vanished, and the army turned their backs. Finally, after three years, he was hustled to court where he witnessed his trial and sentencing with a sense of resignation and defeat. His life was over.

  So here he was.

  Alone.

  Forgotten.

  Inmate and prisoner.

  Criminal and murderer.

  He shifted on the hard floor, trying to get comfortable. Not easy when you were worn to a nub from hard labor and poor nutrition. Muffled voices entered the hallway, followed by a bobbing light. Footsteps echoed all around them, pausing in front of his cell.

  “Is this the one?” a disembodied voice asked.

  “There in the corner. That’s him.” A finger pointed at Adam, silhouetted by the light.

  “Open up,” the first voice said.

  Adam’s eyes widened when he realized they’d come for him. I should have known. Stratham.

  Hands grabbed him and yanked him to his feet. He struggled all the way out of the cell, kicking and punching. His fellow inmates watched, their eyes wide and frightened. Nobody interfered.

  A sharp pain in his neck was followed by the weakening of his muscles. He sagged in his captor’s arms, and his vision faded to darkness.

  Hours later he woke up, strapped to a table. He was naked, and goosebumps pebbled his cold skin. The metal beneath him felt like ice, and everywhere he looked was white. The walls, the ceiling, the lights above, even the clothes of the people standing around him.

  Adam tried to speak, only to realize he’d been gagged. He jerked upright, fighting against his bonds and screamed through the pad in his mouth. A chuckle sounded to his left, and he rolled his eyes to see who it was.

  A face appeared above him, cruel and jeering. Stratham.

  “Enjoying the new accommodations?” Stratham asked.

  Adam blinked.

  “Yes, I picked it out especially for you.” Stratham smiled. “You should be quite proud, you know? Today, your miserable life will mean something for once.”

  A tear formed in the corner of Adam’s eye.

  “Today, you become part of the ISC’s Hybrid program.” Stratham’s smile widened. “I’m sure we’ll have a lot of fun together, you and I.”

  The single tear rolled down the side of Adam’s face.

  “Don’t cry.” Stratham patted his hand. “I’ll be there every step of the way. Watching.”

  Stratham’s face disappeared from view, and not long after, Adam was left alone with his fears. Except…was that…humming? He strained his head until he could make out a mop of red-blond curls bobbing up and down next to his table.

  It was a girl. She circled the bed, her movements leading him to think she was cleaning. The smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils. He groaned, and she paused beside him.

  A pair of sorrowful blue eyes fixed on his. She looked so sad. He groaned again, desperate for any form of communication. The girl glanced around and stepped closer.

  “Don’t fight them. If you fight, it’ll be worse,” she whispered.

  He stared at her.

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Adam.”

  A door opened, and people entered, laughing and talking. The girl dropped her gaze and rushed away, but not before he saw her name tag. Christine.

  A man in a lab coat and mask took her place. He jabbed a needle into Adam’s arm with no thought for the pain he caused. A drop of blood welled up. That’s when the burning began.

  Red on white.

  White on red.

  Blood on blood.

  This became Adam’s world over the next few months. An endless cycle of agony. Serums were injected into his veins, each worse than the last. Samples were taken from his flesh, vials of cerebral fluid drawn from his spine, and scans made of his brain. Through it all, Stratham was there, taunting and laughing. Always there.

  With each passing day, the thoughts and memories that made up Adam faded away. His ex-wife, his daughter, his childhood, and all the years spent in the service, all gone until all that remained was a monster. A wild, feral beast intent on only one thing. Revenge.

  Except for her.

  The entire time, she hovered in the background. A frightened mouse who obeyed her master’s commands. As much a prisoner as he was and a constant companion to his misery. Her blue eyes, soft and sympathetic, reminded him of better things. She was the one that kept him sane, that nurtured the small part of Adam still alive inside his head.

  Christine.

  Chapter 2 - Christine

  Christine woke to the blaring sound of her alarm, harsh and strident in the tiny space of her flat. Her lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes with reluctance. For a few seconds, her body refused to obey the alarm’s commands, until the persistent ringing became too much
for her sleep-fogged brain.

  One hand reached out and slammed the annoying device into silence before a foot stole from beneath the covers into the chilly air. Five in the afternoon. She was on night duty today. Time to get up.

  Thirty minutes later she locked the door to her apartment and stole down the steps of the building in hushed silence. One hand held her car keys and the other a can of pepper spray, the only weapon she could afford. She hated going outside at night.

  A bum stirred in his nest of newspapers on the littered sidewalk and leered at her with yellowed teeth. Chris suppressed a shudder and hurried toward the rusted wreck that was her car. Its red paint had long since faded to a washed out pink, but at least it still ran.

  She hummed a song under her breath while she weaved through traffic in a futile attempt to cheer herself. There was little to look at. Tall buildings rose on either side, echoing the gray skies above. Beggars lined the streets, their faces a reflection of the population’s misery.

  She tried not to imagine herself among their ranks and failed. The only thing standing between her and them was her job. The same post she was about to be late for tonight.

  Chris jammed her foot on the gas and pushed the creaky engine to its limits, praying with each mile that passed that she’d be on time. She couldn’t afford another warning; she was on her last already.

  “Come on, come on,” she pleaded, waving at the bodies blocking her route. “Out of the way!”

  A bunch of scruffy kids scurried past at the stop sign, their eyes crafty as they eyed her, wondering what they could steal. One showed her the middle finger, nails blackened with grime. With an angry glare, she passed them and crossed the busy intersection.

  It was with relief she spotted the immaculate glass windows of her workplace a few minutes later. They glared at her from their lofty heights. The skyscraper rose above her head to the ruined heavens in direct defiance of any higher powers that might exist.

  Privately, Christine doubted the existence of such higher powers. If there were a God, he’d long since abandoned them. “Who’d want to hang around in this dump anyway?”

  Behind the tall building, the sun dropped to the horizon, its faded yellow rays a mockery of the bright sunlight of years before. Not even the fiery orb was strong enough to cut through the smog and pollution.

  She parked her car at the far end of a cavernous underground lot, but only after passing two checkpoints. At each her rickety vehicle was searched, her number plate matched against her ID. Her bosses were notoriously paranoid, their security of the highest order and their vetting of prospective employees among the strictest on the planet.

  Chris had been lucky to get her job, aided by a squeaky clean record and good grades in school. It hadn’t been enough to ensure a decent wage or hours, though. Still, she was lucky, or so she told herself every day.

  With her ID Card clipped to her breast, she rushed to the side entrance reserved for the lowest ranking employees. Not for her the enormous double doors at the front complete with armed guards and a butler. Not for her the brand new limos with their uniformed drivers.

  No, she had to sneak into the building like a servant, never to be spied by any of the manicured elite that crossed its polished floors. She had to labor in the background, a silent mouse who performed the duties others would not.

  A shiny panel scanned her palm print, and the door opened. The hallway was empty with no sign of her co-workers. She was the last to arrive, barely one minute before her shift started. With a sigh of relief, she clocked in via a retinal scan. I made it.

  At her locker, she stripped off her jersey and donned her overall, its bland grey material covering her from neck to knees. An apron and headscarf wrapped her in anonymity, and she hurried toward her post. Though she’d made it on time, she still had to report for duty before anyone noticed her absence.

  Christine scurried through halls and corridors filled with people like herself, minimum wage staff who performed the most menial of tasks. They ignored her as she did them.

  There were no friends between these walls, only opponents who’d rat you out for the smallest misdemeanor if it meant something was in it for them. Here, they’d see you fired and step into your shoes within seconds. Not that anyone wanted her position. In this particular fishbowl, she ranked alongside algae. If I died tomorrow, would they even know I was gone?

  She passed numerous guards and went through several scanners, each more stringent than the last. Big silver doors loomed in the distance, and a sign announced she’d reached her destination. The laboratory. A final checkpoint halted her progress, and she waited with impatience while the guard patted her down.

  “Good morning, Christine,” he greeted.

  “Morning, Howard,” she replied, forcing the words from her lips. She detested the sight of his even white teeth and dark eyes and pretended not to notice the way he stared at her breasts.

  “What are you doing on Friday night, sweetheart?” He leaned forward until he towered over her. “Let me take you out to dinner.”

  “I’ve got plans.”

  “Oh?” His raised eyebrow informed her he wasn’t convinced. “What plans?”

  “My mother is coming over to visit.” This was a game they’d played many times before. He’d ask her out, and she’d make some excuse. So far it was working, and she’d managed to stay out of his clutches. Until today.

  Howard’s answering smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Your mother is dead, sweetheart. You’re a liar.”

  “I…” Her heart dropped like a stone, and blood rushed to her cheeks.

  “I did my homework. Pulled a few strings for information.” He circled her with predatory intent. “Have you been lying to me all this time?”

  “No, I…”

  “Am I not good enough for you?” He stopped in front of her, and his lips curled back. “I’ve been very patient. Very considerate. A saint even.”

  “Howard, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to―”

  “Lift your hands.”

  “Why?” she protested. A body search, though not unheard of, was uncommon, and the last thing she needed today. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Do it.”

  She gritted her teeth and complied. Her hands trembled as she held them above her head, feeling exposed beneath his hungry gaze.

  Howard’s hands ran across her back and down her sides while his face remained in front of hers. His breath washed over her nostrils. It smelled of cloves, a spice she hated. With a taunting grin, he caressed her stomach before cupping her breasts.

  “Mm, so firm. I can just imagine what they feel like underneath.”

  Christine closed her eyes and tried to will his touch away.

  “Now spread your legs.”

  “Please, Howard. Don’t.”

  “Go on. It can’t be something you haven’t done before.” His lips tickled her ear as he leaned in to whisper, “And will do again for me. Or else I’ll make sure you lose your job.”

  A whimper escaped her lips as Chris realized there was no escape. Howard would have his way with her, or she’d be accused of something false and tossed out onto the streets. She’d join the ranks of beggars lining the streets each morning, become one of the sixty percent of the population that had no income.

  No job.

  No money.

  No flat.

  No car.

  “What will it be, Christine?”

  “I...all right. I’ll go out with you.”

  “Good girl.” He smoothed out the strings of her apron, fingers lingering on her buttocks before patting them with loathsome familiarity. “Go on then. We wouldn’t want you to be late.”

  Christine fell over her feet in her haste to get away and barely managed to contain her horror. What have I done?

  She slid her card through the slot next to the lab doors and blinked to clear the moisture from her eyes before submitting to yet another scan. They slipped open with a whisper and a rush of cold
air. A final glance over her shoulder showed Howard’s mocking eyes watching her. He winked.

  She fell through the opening and almost cried with relief when they closed, only to whirl around at the sound of her name.

  “Miss Murray. You’re late. Please explain yourself.” Mr. Roberts said.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Roberts. I was detained at the―”

  “I’m not interested in excuses, just results.” His pale blue eyes pinned her to the floor like an insect.

  Christine blushed a painful red beneath his intense scrutiny and ducked her head. “I apologize, Sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it will not. Luckily for you, subject 306 is particularly agitated today, or else I’d fire you on the spot.” Mr. Roberts shook his head. “You’re the only one he seems to like, so make yourself useful for a change.”

  Christine nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  Relieved to get away, she rushed toward the broom closet that held the lab’s cleaning supplies. Armed with the tools of her trade, she headed deeper into the laboratory and through another set of doors that led to the containment units.

  Here she faltered, her stride slowing as she entered the gauntlet, and a deep shudder ran down her spine. Christine gulped as she gripped her bucket tightly and forced her frozen muscles to move. Her shoes squeaked on the white tiles as she passed the glass-fronted cages that held every experiment, failed or otherwise, that the ISC had ever created.

  Hybrids.

  Creatures dreamed up on paper and brought to life in petri dishes. Monstrous aberrations of nature suited to nothing but destruction. For that was the ISC Corporation’s aim. To engineer the perfect killing machine, a weapon to win all wars, sold to the highest bidder.

  The ISC, or Interspecies Creation Corporation, existed for one reason only: To rule behind the scenes with money and power, and lots of it. It was because of them that a third world war had devastated the planet, killing man and animal alike while ruining the atmosphere with smoke and fire. It was because of them life was hardly worth living anymore for the average person. There was no profit to be had in peace it seemed.