Ben Appleton [Appleton - The Controlled

The Controlled

Ben Appleton

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2019 Ben Appleton

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any mechanical or electronic means, including information storage retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover design and artwork by VectorArtist

I raise my head as someone enters the breakout room from the labs, but quickly lower it again on spotting who it is, feigning interest in the latest dog-eared and food-smeared copy of New Scientist, and pick up my mug of tea.

Sorry to hear you didnt get the promotion Aaron, says Paul, moving over to the kettle.

The sound of my mug slamming onto the table is just a little too loud.

Oh, dont you know? Sorry, I just assumed youd been told, replied Paul, every word dripping with barely contained glee. He flashes me his trade mark self-satisfied grin and busies himself with making his own tea.

Nobody told me, I manage, looking up at Paul and trying desperately to sound nonchalant. So, whos the lucky recipient then?

Youre looking at the new Senior Scientist Grade Two. Paul points both thumbs to his chest, and finishes with a ta da!, knowing full well what effect his bombshell is going to have on me.

Screw this . Ive been waiting for a promotion for four years. Four years! My work ethic is good, my results are research-grade quality and I dont rock the boat. What more do I have to do? Paul has been here less than a year, and, as far as I can tell, has achieved precisely nothing in that time.

I dont bother to hide my feelings now, tossing the magazine across the table, and throwing my chair back as I rise.

I would say congratulations Paul, but we both know you dont deserve it. What did you do? Get daddy to use his influence?

I know its a mistake as soon as Ive uttered it. Pauls face manages to morph into the mother of all arrogant expressions, drinking in my disappointment, positively glowing in triumph, and winding up for the inevitable put-down, Paul being a master of subtle rage-inducing barbs.

Rather than suffer his crowing, I stomp across the breakout area towards the door to the labs, all the while feeling Pauls smug gaze boring into my back.

We both jump as the alarm above the exit door behind us springs into life.

Crap, I think Ive wet myself, says Paul behind me.

We both instinctively look up at the alarm, though Im not sure what we think it will show us, seeing as its just a couple of speakers and a red lamp. The alarm is really loud and very annoying, one of those whooping noises in a constant loop which slowly drives you insane. While the alarm maddens the ears, the room erupts into a hellish red-strobed disco as the bulb below the speakers rotates to madden the eyes.

A couple of seconds later and the second loud-speaker above the alarm springs nerve-shreddingly to life, even louder than the first alarm.

Goddamn it, I mutter, jumping for the second time in a matter of seconds.

I really have wet myself now. Just a little. Paul looks down at his crotch and Im really glad hes behind me and out of sight.

All personnel, please exit the facility by the nearest emergency exit. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill.

Oh shit, I say, finally looking at Paul.

The raging emotions boiling within me, the triumphant feelings Paul has, all morph into worry in the blink of an eye.

Not the haz labs again, surely? he says, paling visibly, all vestiges of arrogance wiped off his face.

Now that was scary, I reply. Wed better leave, we dont want to get infected with fungus, or in your case, more fungus than youve already got nestled in your cracks and folds. I just cant help getting in a barb, even now, but inside abject fear starts to take control. Some of the stuff the haz labs work on is lethal, and potentially contagious.

With a nod of silent agreement, we both make for the door to the reception area, but a few steps before we reach it, the door bursts open and a flustered-looking security guard stumbles through, red-faced and panting.

Shit, he says, turning to face the flashing red light above the door. The alarms on in here as well.

He notices us and waves absently as he bends over to catch his breath. Cant go that way lads, he gasps, then taking a second to suck in a reedy breath before continuing. Theyre not allowing anyone through to the tech labs.

Hes really unfit and wheezing heavily. Sweat runs in rivulets down his face, and he seems to be having even more difficulty breathing as the seconds tick by, probably not helped by his enormous size, his huge gut almost obscuring the utility belt holding up his trousers.

Whats going on? Why have they locked down the tech building? I ask, but the fact that whatever is happening seems to be based around tech labs and not the haz labs is music to my ears, and I start to relax.

No idea, but everyone in there is going totally ape-shit, replies the guard.

What do you mean? asks Paul, relief tinging his voice at the realisation that there isnt some lethal pathogen leaking from the haz labs down the corridor. It doesnt stop him repeatedly glancing back in their direction though.

The guard straightens, trying to compose himself, and then quickly doubles over again, erupting in bout of phlegmy coughing, and clinging on to the edge of the table next to the exit.

Theyre attacking each other in there, he finally manages, in between gasping breaths. I dont know, its really odd, theres no punching or kicking, nothing like that. Theyre spitting and biting and really going for it. One of the bastards even bit me. Fucking disgusting.

The guard is in extreme distress now, sweat soaking his shirt, and his breathing is really ragged and laboured. Although the alarm is unnerving, as is the fact that the tech boys seem to have gone postal, for some reason seeing the guard like this is even more worrying. He can only have waddled a hundred metres at most.

Do you have asthma? I ask.

No, he gasps, No asthma. This feels weird, Im really dizzy. I need to sit down, thats all.

We need to get out of here. Im not waiting for the trouble to find its way here. Lets head to the other emergency exit through the labs. You can sit down when we get out.

We set off back up the corridor, just in time to see the last of the other scientists and technicians leaving through the exit door at the end. As we pass my lab, I stop. Hang on, I want to get my bag. I rush in and grab my backpack, quickly checking that my keys and phone are there.

Fuck, Aaron, somethings seriously wrong with this guy, shouts Paul from outside the lab while I finish grabbing my stuff.

As I scurry back out, the sight in the corridor stops me dead in my tracks. The security guard is lying on the floor, twitching spasmodically, rolls of flab rippling in time to his jerky movements. Hes on his back, legs akimbo and for some reason his hands are curled up into claws over his chest.

Oh crap, I manage, temporarily stunned at the sight. Ive never seen anyone this ill before.

He just dropped and started this, says Paul, waving at the prone form in front of him. What do we do?

I move forward gingerly, about to kneel down and do - well, Ive no idea what Im going to do - when the guard lets out a loud groan and stops twitching.

Fuck, is he dead? shrieks Paul, jumping back from the guard. He is, isnt he? Hes fucking dead!

I hesitate for a moment, and then place my fingers on the guards neck, feeling for a pulse. At first, I cant find anything, but move my fingers around a little, and there it is, weak but definitely there. Hes alive.