Cycle 41

Cycle 41

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Sirens blare in your ear. Red lights flash around you.

“SUBJECT ESCAPE. LOCKDOWN IN PROGRESS.”

You sprint down the hallway. Every muscle in your body hurts, and your vision blurs. The ringing in your ears becomes deafening.

You burst into a huge room with pipes, stairs, and all types of machines. Everything vibrates. Footsteps echo behind you.

“Hey! Stop right there!”

You run up one of the stairs, pushing yourself off the handrail. Below, machines hum and steam hisses. You spot a door on the far side with a red sign over it.

EXIT.

You sprint for it.

A shot rings out. Then another. Then another. Bullets zing past your ear. All of a sudden, there’s a sharp pain in your stomach.

You crawl behind a boiler and look down. Theres a long cut underneath your rib.

Shit. Well, at least it grazed me.

You look up and see a ladder leading to a hatch. You stand up and start to feel nauseous. You climb. More bullets fly by you. Your ears are ringing, your vision is fading, and you can’t feel your limbs. But you climb faster.

You push the hatch. After climbing out, you lift the hatch back onto the hole and sit on the street.

You look up.

It’s snowing.

You close your eyes.

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THE TUNNEL

You crawl forward, ribs aching with every movement. You hear faint voices echoing through the vents. There’s a small hole up ahead—big enough to look through.

Two men with camouflage uniforms and equipment stand by a panel of monitors.

One of them shows your room, which is empty now except for the gas slowly dissipating.

“Find him.”

They turn away and run. You look up and see another hole—probably big enough for you to fit through. The guards’ footsteps fade, and you drop down into the room. You’re breathing hard, dizzy, chest aching.

I gotta get out of here.

You run.

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THE RESET

You stand in the silent room, staring at your shoulder in the cracked mirror.

41.

The air becomes brisk. It feels like the walls are closing in on you. Soon, a faint sound buzzes around you. The lights flicker. A voice crackles through the ceiling speaker.

“Cycle Forty-One complete. Preparing subject for reset.”

Reset?

“Wait…wait,” you call out to no one.

A faint hiss fills the air. A strange smelling green gas enters the room. You stumble back from the mirror.

“Hey—HEY!” You pound on the door. “LET ME OUT!”

The hiss gets louder. Your vision starts to blur, edges of the room softening.

You look around desperately—table, bed, walls—nothing. Then your eyes land on the mirror. One of the screws on the edges is missing.

You rush to it and wedge your fingers inside the gap. The metal screeches. You pull harder, and the panel rips open, revealing a hole, just wide enough for you to squeeze through.

The hissing quiets down, and you hear a door open behind you accompanied by shouting. You climb into the wall and pull the panel shut behind you.

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THE ROOM

This room is different. It’s simple. The walls are bare concrete. There’s a metal bed and a table with a chair and a mirror in front of it.

“Your quarters,” she says. “You’ll be here until the next cycle.”

You step inside. All of a sudden, you get a flash of déjà vu. The hair on your neck pricks up.

The mirror is cracked.

You walk toward it slowly.

In the reflection, the tattoo on your right shoulder is visible.

42.

Your heart skips a beat.

You spin around. “This isn’t—this isn’t what it was earlier.”

She nods calmly. “Correct. You were at 41 when you woke up on the street.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “So…what does 42 mean?”

She looks at you for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then she spins around, heads for the door and closes it before you can say anything else.

“Wait—”

The lock clicking echoes through the room, and is replaced by silence.

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THE OTHERS

This hallway is dark. Lightbulbs flicker above you. The faint sound of machines hum all around you. As you pass each room, you see other people strapped to chairs, presumably undergoing all kinds of strange tests.

You pass by one room, and the man inside pounds on the glass.

“GEORGE! DON’T GO IN THERE AGAIN!”

You freeze and look at him.

The woman turns around. She grabs your arm and pulls you forward. “Ignore him.”

The man keeps shouting at you, slamming his palms against the glass, leaving red streaks.

“THAT’S HOW THEY RESET YOU! DON’T LET THEM—”

The woman shuts the door behind you.

“Who was that?” you ask.

“Another subj—errrr…volunteer,” she says as she laughs softly. “He’s a bit crazy.”

“How does he know my name?”

She smiles.

“Everyone here knows your name.”

She turns you away from the door and shows you the room.

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THE TESTS

“Please sit.”

You hesitate.

She tilts her head. “You always hesitate here.”

Your arms become bumpy.

“Always?”

She straps your arms to the chair.

You hear a machine in the corner of the room power on.

The ringing in your ear suddenly sharpens, and your vision blurs.

“Wait—”

“Test One,” she says into a recorder. She holds up a card.

“George, what number is on your left shoulder?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“41,” you say.

She writes something down.

“Test Two.”

She asks questions you don’t know how to answer. Your birthday. Your address. Your mother’s name. Questions you probably should know how to answer.

The ringing stops, and she unstraps you from the chair.

“Very good,” she says. “You’re adapting faster.”

“To what?” you manage.

“Follow me.”

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THE BUILDING

You step out of the van. You seem to be in an underground parking lot. The air smells like metal. A woman in a lab coat greets you with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Welcome, Mr. Miller. Follow me.”

Inside, everything is brightly lit. You follow the woman through a long corridor with glass windows. Behind them are empty rooms with chairs, tables and strange machines.

She hands you a clipboard. “We just need your signature.”

You look at the paper. The text is almost too small for you to read, and half the words don’t even make sense to you.

“I don’t—”

“You’ve already signed,” she says.

You blink. Sure enough, your signature is at the bottom of the page.

“Follow me, George.”

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THE VAN

You quickly put a shirt on and hurry outside. A black van with no logo or license plate is parked in front of your house. The window rolls down a crack.

“George?” a man asks.

You nod and climb in.

The ride is silent. The scenery slowly changes from the city to houses to trees.

“We’re almost there,” the driver mutters as he gives you a cold look in the mirror.

You don’t remember falling asleep. But you wake to a cold hand shaking your shoulder.

“We’re here.”

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THE ENVELOPE

“EARN UP TO $10,000

Paid Participation in Clinical Decision-Making Study

Transportation Provided

Confidential

Immediate Start

Call: 926-736-6684”

Ten thousand dollars.

You take a look at the other envelopes on the table. Half of them are rent notices. You take a deep breath.

You walk over to your home phone and dial the number. A woman answers almost immediately.

“George Miller?”

“Uh… yeah. How did you—"

“We have an opening tonight. If you’d like to participate, a driver can pick you up in twenty minutes.”

You hesitate.

“…Yeah. Okay.”

“Great! Please wait outside.”

She hangs up. You stare at the phone. Questions race through your mind, but your head hurts too much to think about it. You go to your closet to change into something a little more appropriate.

As you take off your shirt, you take a closer look at the 41 on your shoulder. Around the 1 is a faded mark, almost like a 0. What the—

A car honks outside.

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THE APARTMENT

Your apartment complex looks as shitty as it always has—peeling paint, flickering hallway lights. You climb the stairs slowly, clinging to the railing like an old man.

When you reach your door, you find an envelope on the ground with your name on it.

You pick it up and go inside.

The place is a mess. Clothes everywhere. Dishes are stacked in the corner. A mattress on the floor. The TV is static, and you can hear the faint arguing of your neighbors upstairs.

You toss the envelope on the table and sit on the couch. The springs dig into your back. You stare at the ceiling for a long time before finally ripping the envelope open and reading it.

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THE BUS RIDE

“Does this stop at Newport?” You ask.

The bus driver raises an eyebrow. “Yeah…the routes don’t change pal.”

The bus ride feels longer than it should. Maybe it’s the pain in your side, or the ringing that hasn’t stopped since you woke up in the street. Every bump in the road sends a shock through your ribs. You keep your hand on the gauze, applying pressure.

“This stop is: Newport. Please exit through the rear door.”

The bus driver gives you a weird look but doesn’t say anything. You get off and start walking home.

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THE GAS STATION

You open the door to the gas station deli, and the man at the counter gives you a strange look.

“Jesus,” he says. “How many times you gonna keep comin’ into my shop lookin’ like a zombie?”

“Huh?” you say back. “What do you mean?”

He scoffs. “Oh right, I forgot. So, what ya need?”

You grab a pack of gauze, water, and a Twix bar from the shelf and walk over to the counter. You reach into your pockets, only to find them empty.

“Shit, man. Think I forgot my wallet,” you say as you start to return the items. “Have a good one.”

He chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”

You turn to look at him. “Really? Thanks man.”

“No problem.” He hands you a ten-dollar bill. “For the bus.”

He smirks at the surprised look on your face. “Damn,” you say. “I owe you one.”

“See ya around, George,” he says.

How does he know my name?

You sit down at the bus stop and pour water on the cut on your side. It stings. As you wrap the gauze around it, you see something tattooed on your shoulder. You tilt your head and squint your eyes.

“41.”

When did I get that?

After a few minutes, a bus comes.

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You open your eyes.

It’s snowing.

You look around and find yourself in the middle of a road, with houses all around you. Your hands are dirty. The white T-shirt you’re wearing is torn and bloody.

The ringing sound in your ear fades. You feel a sharp pain in your side. You look down to see a long cut under your ribs.

Your eyes adjust to the strange, sewer-like hatch you’re standing on. There’s a few dozen tally marks etched into the metal.

What the hell am I doing here?

You look up to see a familiar-looking gas station and begin to walk over.