sense of loathing tingle all over the surface of his skin, he had opened the blast doors to the Restricted Area.
He had checked every one of the neat bullet holes in each one of his family’s foreheads.
Just as Heinmein would’ve wished it.
Clean, clinical.
Concluded.
On his way back out of the Compound, Mitts had found some medical supplies.
From one of the first-aid zones.
He had done his very best to disinfect the wound, to patch himself up with gauze and cotton wool.
As far as Mitts had been able to tell, the bullet hadn’t lodged itself in his side.
But, among all those text books, there had only been basic first-aid care guides.
Certainly nothing to do with the surgery a bullet wound would— surely —require.
Mitts plodded on.
He could feel a few tears coming now.
Each one of them welling up in the corners of his eyes, hanging there for seconds before rolling down his face. He wished he could go back. He wished that he hadn’t left at all.
It might all have been different if he hadn’t become so decided, made it such a definite, unshiftable decision that he would leave.
He could’ve played along, continued with his routine within the Restricted Area.
His family surrounding him.
None the wiser.
And Heinmein would’ve been placated.
Happy to wait— perhaps forever —for his human specimen.
But Mitts knew the truth, that, sooner or later, Heinmein would’ve tired.
And, as was clear from his desperate action in the Autopsy room, Heinmein had no real question of conscience about whether he got his specimen dead or alive.
As the sun continued to beat down, the sports bag which Mitts lugged over his shoulder became almost like a lead weight. He had the urge to simply cast it off—to chuck it into the dirt which surrounded him.
But he told himself that he needed the supplies nestled within.
That if he didn’t have the batteries for his suit then his life-support systems would soon run out.
Mitts slugged on for another few steps before he realised that— really —he couldn’t care less whether he lived or died.
Because, if he did live, he would have to experience those images: the images of his dead family, staring back at him every single day.
Every time he closed his eyes.
Until he died . . .
Why postpone time?
What was the point?
There was no world left any longer.
Feeling the sweat pour down his face, and the pain in his side become almost too much to bear, Mitts swung back his arm, getting up momentum, and then he thrust forward, hurling the sports bag off into the air.
Sending it tumbling.
It landed with a puff of dust.
And Mitts dropped to his knees.
He lost himself to the heat.
And unconsciousness.
* * *
When Mitts awoke he could hear voices.
Distant voices.
Voices through walls.
For a second—for a hopeful second—he thought he had dreamed it all. That the nightmare hadn’t played out in reality.
Before he opened his eyes, Mitts felt a smile find its way onto his face.
Sometimes his dreams were so real—so lucid —that he couldn’t quite manage to convince himself that dreams were all they were.
Mitts opened his eyes.
His vision was bleary.
He could smell . . . bacon? . . . it had been so long since he had smelled bacon.
In the Compound—in the Restricted Area—there had been no meat, for obvious reasons. Only powdered substances. Tin cans of vegetables, pulses.
Mitts felt his stomach quiver out of anticipation.
He wondered if his mother had managed to dig up some bacon from somewhere . . . or, perhaps, as Mitts had often fantasised, someone had come to save them.
Maybe it was a group of soldiers, with fresh supplies for survivors.
Could it be that they weren’t all alone in the world after all?
Mitts blinked several times, trying to bring the world clear.
He was lying on his side.
On a bed . . . not his camp bed back in the Restricted Area.
His stomach dipped.
First of all, he brought the foreground into focus.
Bars.
Grey, steel
He had checked every one of the neat bullet holes in each one of his family’s foreheads.
Just as Heinmein would’ve wished it.
Clean, clinical.
Concluded.
On his way back out of the Compound, Mitts had found some medical supplies.
From one of the first-aid zones.
He had done his very best to disinfect the wound, to patch himself up with gauze and cotton wool.
As far as Mitts had been able to tell, the bullet hadn’t lodged itself in his side.
But, among all those text books, there had only been basic first-aid care guides.
Certainly nothing to do with the surgery a bullet wound would— surely —require.
Mitts plodded on.
He could feel a few tears coming now.
Each one of them welling up in the corners of his eyes, hanging there for seconds before rolling down his face. He wished he could go back. He wished that he hadn’t left at all.
It might all have been different if he hadn’t become so decided, made it such a definite, unshiftable decision that he would leave.
He could’ve played along, continued with his routine within the Restricted Area.
His family surrounding him.
None the wiser.
And Heinmein would’ve been placated.
Happy to wait— perhaps forever —for his human specimen.
But Mitts knew the truth, that, sooner or later, Heinmein would’ve tired.
And, as was clear from his desperate action in the Autopsy room, Heinmein had no real question of conscience about whether he got his specimen dead or alive.
As the sun continued to beat down, the sports bag which Mitts lugged over his shoulder became almost like a lead weight. He had the urge to simply cast it off—to chuck it into the dirt which surrounded him.
But he told himself that he needed the supplies nestled within.
That if he didn’t have the batteries for his suit then his life-support systems would soon run out.
Mitts slugged on for another few steps before he realised that— really —he couldn’t care less whether he lived or died.
Because, if he did live, he would have to experience those images: the images of his dead family, staring back at him every single day.
Every time he closed his eyes.
Until he died . . .
Why postpone time?
What was the point?
There was no world left any longer.
Feeling the sweat pour down his face, and the pain in his side become almost too much to bear, Mitts swung back his arm, getting up momentum, and then he thrust forward, hurling the sports bag off into the air.
Sending it tumbling.
It landed with a puff of dust.
And Mitts dropped to his knees.
He lost himself to the heat.
And unconsciousness.
* * *
When Mitts awoke he could hear voices.
Distant voices.
Voices through walls.
For a second—for a hopeful second—he thought he had dreamed it all. That the nightmare hadn’t played out in reality.
Before he opened his eyes, Mitts felt a smile find its way onto his face.
Sometimes his dreams were so real—so lucid —that he couldn’t quite manage to convince himself that dreams were all they were.
Mitts opened his eyes.
His vision was bleary.
He could smell . . . bacon? . . . it had been so long since he had smelled bacon.
In the Compound—in the Restricted Area—there had been no meat, for obvious reasons. Only powdered substances. Tin cans of vegetables, pulses.
Mitts felt his stomach quiver out of anticipation.
He wondered if his mother had managed to dig up some bacon from somewhere . . . or, perhaps, as Mitts had often fantasised, someone had come to save them.
Maybe it was a group of soldiers, with fresh supplies for survivors.
Could it be that they weren’t all alone in the world after all?
Mitts blinked several times, trying to bring the world clear.
He was lying on his side.
On a bed . . . not his camp bed back in the Restricted Area.
His stomach dipped.
First of all, he brought the foreground into focus.
Bars.
Grey, steel
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