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Area 52

June 28, 2017 by Summer Writing Contest Leave a Comment

This story is by Amber Meyer and was part of our 2017 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the Summer Writing Contest stories here.

They pulled the hood from her head and the first thing she noticed was the smell. She’d been in dozens of laboratories. Hell, she’d practically lived in one since high school. The incongruity of it made her heart pound. It wasn’t sulfur. It was spicy. Like something out of the restaurant kitchens, her brother worked in. Even more mystifying was how it permeated the elevator. It intensified as they continued down. Several long minutes passed. She’d lost track of her distance calculations on account of the odor, but they were a long way down. The door opened and the full force of the aroma smacked her in the nose.

“You’ll get used to it after awhile,” the guard said. She nodded. Her face puckered as she tried to breathe in short gasps. She followed the guard to a door, and he motioned for her to scan her badge. It didn’t work.

“You’ll need to turn it around,” he said.

“Right.”

They passed through a hall, and she heard the hiss of an airlock, and the floor began to move, throwing her off balance. She looked up. Glowing blue mist rained down. She held her breath. They reached the end, and the exit opened. She thought about asking what the blue chemical was, but she’d been told repeatedly not to ask questions. She caught the flickering red lights of a laser in her peripheral, but as soon as they passed through the doorway, it was gone, as was the blue substance. Her lab coat was still crisp white. Her shoulders tightened. She took a deep breath as the guard led her down a corridor where they turned left and then right and then left again. The smell seemed fainter now. Finally, they stopped at yet another door. Only this one had some sort of booth in front of it. Kind of like those photo booths at the movies, her nephew begged her to try a hundred times. She bit her lip.

“Sit down inside,” he said pulling back the curtain. “And then put on the helmet thing.” It resemble a motorcycle helmet. She shot him a hard look. Was this some sort of joke? His face was serious. Not a hint of a smile. It reminded her of Eric’s, but less charming. She pushed the thought out of her mind and stepped inside the booth.

“Try not to blink,” said the voice in her ears.

After a series of flashing lights the voice said, “Scan complete.”

The door slid open. On the other side stood a man in an identical lab coat. There were others walking about, and her shoulders relaxed at the sight of more people.

“Hello Mrs. Pruitt. I’m Edward Harrison, but you can call me Dr. Ed. Everyone does,” he said with a forced smile. Dr. Ed’s eyes were a soft blue, but his skin was the most startling thing about him. It was incredibly pale. At least, he didn’t remind her of Eric. Eric always had a nice tan from hours spent biking. “I might as well show you the nursery first,” he said, with a dismissive wave at the guard.

“The nursery? Will I be working with plants? I’m not a botanist,” she said. Her palms broke into a sweat.

“Oh no,” Dr. Ed replied. “You’ll see. As a fellow scientist, you’re certain to be impressed with our work here.” His lips curled into a genuine smile as he began to speak about genetic re-engineering. This was clearly more his element. He took her into a tiny room and pulled clean scrubs from a closet. “Changing room’s over there.”

She stepped inside and locked the door. Her brain swirled with questions? She knew the government needed to keep certain things private. That was reasonable, but this was too much. She stepped back out and followed Dr. Ed into an underground hospital. There were gurneys lining the halls and men with stethoscopes. On the left was a wall of glass and inside sat rows of incubators like the one’s they’d put Jeffrey in when he was born. Her stomach churned. A tiny cry hit her ears, and then her eyes caught something that made her grip the wall for support. It wasn’t just that they had babies down here. That was unsettling enough. It was the names that made her go weak. Thomas Jefferson 327. Abraham Lincoln 492. George Washington 829. An entire room full of them. Realization punched her in the throat. She searched for an exit that rationally didn’t exist.

“I want to go home,” she said, voice quivering.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Your death has already been staged. The affair with the good professor and loss of your credibility was more than you could handle. You jumped off a building.”

“My nephew needs…” she choked.

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything as long as you cooperate.”

Filed Under: 2017 Summer Writing Contest

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