The Multiple One by Alexander New

Author:Alexander New [New, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Redactura/Sigill förlag

Chapter 19

They brought Carl back, in one piece, to the so-called Presidential palace, deep underground. When the artificial diurnal cycle dimmed the lights in the ceiling sky and had the TV windows show scenes of dusk, the echoes of the attack finally caught up with him.

The explosions still rang inside his mind when he closed his eyes.

He could still smell the smoke, the blood and the dirt. He could still hear the screams of terror and pain. His hands trembled. Any sudden sound animated him, like a sharp and painful electrical shock that clenched every muscle and sent his heart racing.

He tried to get some sleep, only to find himself tossing and turning in sheets wet with cold sweat.

Carl sat up in bed, elbows on his thighs, face buried in his palms. He sighed.

He’d go for a nighttime walk outside if only there had actually been an outside to traverse, and not just some big terrarium for humans.

Eventually, after hours of brooding and staring out his bedroom window, he did drift off into uneasy nightmares of gunshots, fire, and Gus Walker’s horrible demise.

This so-called rest drained him of whatever energy he still had left rather than replenish it, and he shambled around like a reanimated corpse, mindlessly sipping coffee in a futile attempt at perking up.

Sophia swung by around lunch, that very next day.

“No offense,” she said as she joined him at the balcony overlooking the artificial garden. “But you look like shit.”

“I feel like it,” he said and put his porcelain mug down next to his plate of bacon, mashed potatoes, and green peas.

“No, I mean it” she said, sincerely concerned as far as he could tell. “You look really spent. Can I get you something? Just let me know if you need something, and we’ll have it fixed.”

“Naah,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

Synthetic sunlight kissed the waist-high marble balustrade, the table in front of him and the lunch Mina had prepared. Soft breezes, surprisingly authentic, blew in at uneven intervals, the product of some hidden air-circulation system made to enhance realism.

In a glade in the distance a stuffed deer still stood frozen in time. It felt as if it watched him move and speak, just like it sometimes felt like the portraits on the walls carefully observed him as he passed by.

“No offense,” he said, gently wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin. “But what brings you here?”

“Winston,” she said.

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m here to check his wiring. Run some diagnostics. Tweak his behavior. He got a little… frisky with you, or so I’ve heard.”

“Yes,” he said. “Son of a bitch whooped my ass—”

“Miss Sophia,” the big, burly, bald man said in a cockney accent. “You wanted to see me?”

Carl stiffened. In the corner of his eye he could make out the silhouette of the large London thug that now stood in the doorway between this balcony and Carl’s bedroom.

The son of a bitch is silent, despite being so large.

“Yes, Winston,” Sophia said. “I did call on you. I need to run some tests.

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