"Put the GMO back into the bed!" ordered the red-haired, lanky researcher as the guards marched toward them.
Billy trembled. His legs felt as soft as jelly. It was mind over matter that he was still standing and not collapsing to the ground in fear.
The goateed researcher clicked his tongue loudly, making hissing noises like a viper. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. These guys don't seem to speak our language. Let me give it a try," he taunted, snatching a baton from one of the guards and swaggering confidently toward them, slapping it against his open palm in rhythm with his steps. The guards followed him.
"This is going to hurt," said the researcher, grinning crookedly.
Billy uttered a prayer he didn't believe would ever escape this hell and reach the heavens above. Isaac was still holding his emaciated wife in his arms. As the researcher approached, Isaac gently laid her back into the bed, stroked her forehead with a slightly distant gaze, then turned to face the researcher, now completely serious, and fished out something from under his shirt that was tucked into his waistband. Smiling, curious, the researcher watched. But his smile froze when Isaac suddenly pointed a plexiglass laser pistol at him. With his thumb, he pressed a button on the weapon, causing the cooling tubes to light up. At least, Billy thought they were for preventing overheating. But what did he really know? He was only sure of one thing: this was the murder weapon used to cold-bloodedly kill X-3-19.
"We—Billy, my wife, and I—are going to disappear from here," said Isaac. "And you're going to stay here, in this room, and think about what sick bastards you are. Capisce?"
The researcher nodded.
"Good. If you assholes even think about triggering the alarm, I'll come back and take you out. Every single one of you. Comprende?"
The guards nodded.
Isaac handed the weapon to Billy, who, with great effort, alternated pointing it at the guards and the researcher. The hardest part was hiding his ignorance of how to use this thing—or hiding that he was incapable of shooting anyone. He was bluffing. He had no other choice. In an adrenaline rush, the action passed as quickly as a blink. Billy followed Isaac's slow steps through the room, the path lined with beds of corpses. He opened the door for him; Isaac stepped out backward. Billy darted after him, still pointing the laser weapon at the guards. He closed the door to Room 101 and locked it using a control panel. Then he exhaled in a rush of relief, as if he had been holding his breath the entire time. "My God, you stole the murder weapon from the crime scene and kept it with you this whole time?? How do you turn off this damn thing?!"
His hands trembled. Isaac pressed the right button for him. Then Billy lifted the leather strap of his satchel over his head, placed the deactivated weapon inside, and slung the bag across Isaac's shoulders. "The magic cube is in there," he said. "The records of the test subjects might not be enough to bring down the corporation, but it's a start. Also, my wallet is in there with the receipt that has the password for the elevator."
"You’re staying here? You’re not coming with me?"
"If there’s a cure for me, I’ll find it here. Nowhere else."
Isaac nodded. "The elevator is nearby, so my chances aren't that bad. Wherever it takes me, I'll bring Tabitha to the surface and give her a proper burial. After that, I'll come back, get you out of here, blow this whole damn place sky-high, and make Henry Thandros pay for his crimes, I promise," he said in a firm voice that made Billy believe his words.
They stood facing each other in silence for a while. Isaac took a deep breath, as if about to speak, but then fell silent again. Whatever he wanted to say, he started anew: "Have you ever thought that everything in the world is predetermined? That everything we do—what we say, think, believe, and feel—is predestined?"
Billy hesitated. "What do you mean?"
"Reach into my left back pocket, then you'll know."
Billy hesitated. What was he about to find? Isaac turned his back to him. Hesitantly, he reached in with two fingers and pulled out an old photograph, which he examined, holding it in both hands. It was a family photo of the old man, Nicholas Curtis, with his wife, who cradled a swaddled newborn in her arms. You could see the illness in her—the sleeplessness—but the smiles they both gave the camera seemed genuine: exhausted but happy. The three of them were complete. In the background, the lens had captured the glow of candles burning on a Christmas tree. Billy turned it over.
Christmastime many years ago, in a completely different world, he thought.
On the back was written:
YEAR 2024
HEMOLD MILENA BILLY
Billy furrowed his eyebrows tightly. Then he lifted his gaze to Isaac, but he was no longer there. From the far end of the room, he only heard the researchers' screams as they saw the man with the dead test subject on his shoulders and the laser weapon in his hand. Billy glanced again at the date and the names written in ballpoint pen, and he felt his heart beating faster and faster as a realization he had been trying to suppress all along now broke through to the surface of his consciousness. A deep sigh escaped him. The strength drained from his legs, and he collapsed on the spot. He remained crouched on the sterile floor for quite some time, continuously shaking his head and whispering that one word in an unending stream: "No."
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Less than three minutes later, the alarm blared through the tubular corridor, and the pulsating warning lights bathed it in an ominous red glow. Had Isaac made it to the elevator without anyone stopping him? Would he, once at the surface, find a way to escape the corporation's enforcers and lay low until he could figure out how to expose the truth?
As Billy passed through the security door into the next corridor, he found himself in an empty hallway, with no guards or scientists in sight to his left or right. He moved straight in the opposite direction from where they had come earlier, heading into a section marked Clinical Chemistry/Immunology according to the digital sign. He marched resolutely in a direction he didn’t know, with no clue how he would track down Henry Thandros in this labyrinth. One thing was certain: his time was running out.
The next area was slightly busier than the previous hallways, though it had the same sterile air and the same uncomfortably cool temperature. The harsh ceiling lights reflected off the domed plastic visors of the scientists, concealing their faces. Billy intercepted a young woman who was about to walk right past him.
"Excuse me?"
With visible reluctance, she stopped. It seemed the researchers here not only boasted the best academic credentials but also the iciest personalities. Billy was about to put a terrible idea into action—terrible but also his only option. He asked, "Can you tell me where to find Henry Thandros?"
The researcher looked at him, puzzled, clutching her large notebook tightly against her chest. Then she snorted derisively. "What kind of question is that?" she said. "In the Garden of Eden, of course.”
Billy hesitated. "Garden of Eden?"
"Yes, behind the Paradise Walls."
"Isn’t that where we are right now?"
She was already turning to leave but stopped again. "You’re new here, aren’t you?"
"I suppose I am."
She nodded. "It’s obvious. This is the Thandros Corporation Research Facility. What I’m talking about is the real Garden of Eden, behind the palisades in the Central Park HQ zone of the corporation. In Paradise—that’s where Henry Thandros and his disciples are. By the way, you look just like one of them.”
Before Billy could ask another question, she hurried off. He didn’t want to waste time on trivialities like clarity or certainty, so he blurted out the most important question, shortening it in fear she wouldn’t answer at all: "How do I get there?"
"You don’t," she said curtly, without turning back. "Security there is even stricter than here. None of us have ever seen beyond the Paradise Walls. You’ll only enter Paradise if you’re supposed to—if you’re worthy."
Billy stood there, frozen, like a reed on a windless day, as his hope crumbled inside him like an old, stale cookie.
He was back at square one.
The echo of her footsteps reverberated through the bare corridor. The hem of her lab coat fluttered as she hurried to wherever she was headed.
Am I in the wrong place? he thought. This can’t be happening. I don’t have the resources or the strength to find a way into Paradise now—a place even the researchers don’t know how to access.
His goals—to find a cure and to confront Henry Thandros, holding him accountable for his atrocities—weren’t striding through the hallways like the researchers; they were racing away from him at lightspeed.
Staggering under the weight of truth, Billy stumbled to the next terminal and brought up a map of the sector he was in. No mention of paradise. He checked the tram connections next, hoping for a line to a place called Garden of Eden. Nothing.
For a brief moment, he stared at the monitor, as if gazing into the infinite void of space. Then he grunted in frustration, rejecting the microscopic odds of ever reaching his goal. Probabilities and improbabilities were the domain of statisticians and geniuses; he was just a factory worker, determined to prove that impossibilities could be made possible—like hitting the jackpot in the lottery.
"I can do this," he whispered.
At that moment, several doors along the corridor suddenly opened, and men and women in white coats spilled out, agitated. From their gear, though, they were clearly not ordinary researchers. These were elite guards, fit and battle-ready—unlike the sluggish goons locked in Room 101.
Billy’s pulse skyrocketed. The scientists formed a cluster around him, like a birthday party committee springing a surprise. Fear surged, dulling the ache in his body. He kept moving in the other direction, convinced stopping would be his worst mistake. But more researchers appeared around the bend, all fixing their eyes on him, their curiosity palpable. Out of the crowd emerged even more guards. Where were they all coming from?
Billy came to an abrupt halt, glancing behind him in panic. Dead end. With his head lowered, he strode toward the nearest door, shoving the group of scientists aside. He grabbed the handle, pushed the door open, and was about to slip inside when a hand grabbed his arm.
"You need to give up. There’s no point in running."
"I…" He didn’t know what to say. Instead, he yanked his arm free with the last of his strength, hearing the loud thudding of footsteps behind him.
When he turned, eyes wide with fear, he instinctively raised his hands in defense, but it was already too late. A split second later, he was hurled backward through the door into the next room. He hit the tiled floor headfirst. Blinking as consciousness returned, he felt someone pinning his limbs to the ground with ironclad force, immobilizing him completely. A hard knee brace crushed his neck.
"Let me go," he croaked.
With his head twisted to the side, he saw the old man preparing a small syringe above him. The face was one he recognized all too well. But what was he doing here? Nicholas Curtis pressed his thumb on Billy’s nose bridge, holding his head firmly to the ground.
"Stay still," he said.
Billy felt the tiny prick in his neck as the needle slid into his carotid artery. Something cold mingled with his blood. It was an odd sensation. Moments later, it felt like an electric shock coursed through his entire body. The last thing Billy remembered was the insolent look on the old man’s face—the mockery etched into his features.
"Dad," Billy whispered.