Be Her: A dark dystopian technothriller by Emma Ellis

Author:Emma Ellis [Ellis, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2024-08-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter thirty-two

Layla

Each hand lands with a dull thud as the pudgy limbs splatter to the ground. Some of them split open, gashes ripping through the decaying flesh and chunks littering the stage, the sound of decomposing fingers breaking on impact. I swallow back vomit. Even from my position towards the back, I can smell the rotten cabbage scent of corpses.

The big screens on either side of the stage zoom into the hands. My own go to my mouth when I see, and my stomach lurches. Saw marks streak down the wrists, the effort of each cut visible in striations across flesh and bone. Retching noises come from the front rows, the old cheese scent of vomit adding to the aroma. It is overwhelmingly hot, too hot, sweat beading across my brow and top lip.

This is so different from the hand in the office. I could shut away one, I had a computer to look at, work to do. Now I am swimming in the stench, surrounded by rotten body parts. I need to get out. I need to breathe some fresh air.

Everyone runs for the exits, a clot of people blocking the corridors. There are a few panicked screams, though mostly swearing and retching. Shoulders slam into other shoulders with similar sounds to when the hands landed. Everything reminds me of that sound. The squelch of shoes, the huffs of impatience, the tapping on the walls like breaking bones.

I really need to get out.

The auditorium exits onto Old Broad Street, where clouds create hazy light and too much humidity. The cool breeze I need takes an age to come as outside, I still have to wade through the throng of people, all pale with shock or green with nausea. I step in a puddle of thick sludge, the lumpy vomit coating my shoe.

I make it to clear ground before my own chunks surface and after I bend double, spewing out all my disgust, I reach for a bottle of water in my bag, but the few sips left are not sufficient to cool me down. I remove my jacket, fan myself, then give in again and throw up once more against a bin.

With my empty stomach comes a weakness shaking its way over. I walk a few steps away and sit on the cold tarmac, leaning back on my hands and lifting my face to the sky. I try to imagine a frosty breeze of winter, a meadow, the scent of wildflowers, and the sound of bees. I squeeze my eyes shut to try to feel it, to barricade the horribleness away. It’s no use. I am still in London. The stench of sick, the cigarette butts, and the dog turd next to me will not allow my mind to be fooled. The angry sound of horns beeping, swearing cyclists, buses’ dump valves, and exhaust pipes spitting out fumes will not let me escape reality. My phone buzzes. IMAtech has kicked in and now the seconds are counting against me.

I want IMAtech over as much as anyone.

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