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Mr. T. Waters studied his reflection in the spoon he was holding. It was like looking into one of those crooked mirrors you get at fun parks. Only, there was something very wrong with the mutated image that stared back at him. He concentrated, trying to pinpoint what was disturbing him about the reflection, turning the spoon this way and that, polishing it on his sleeve, as if he were a vampire trying futilely to check his hair. He soon gave up and dunked it into his breakfast cereal.
His eyes occasionally darted up to the clock on the facing wall, until he hastily shoved the last spoonful of flakes into his mouth and, still crunching, pulled on his jacket and left the house. He stepped into his car, swallowing, and checked his face in the mirror to see if there were any cereal remnants around his lips. He nearly choked.
His eyes were pale and soulless. They gazed back at him; their cataract-shrouded surfaces boring through him like a drill. He jerked his head away, gasping. It took him only a few seconds to compose himself, and timidly glance into the car mirror again.
Nothing was wrong. Dark brown eyes, an inoffensive nose, tight lips, a starched collar and swept back dark hair with a hint of curls. As it should be. He shook his head, trying to clear out the sleepiness that he assumed was clouding his perception. He twisted the key in the ignition, raging the lifeless car into motion.
He turned up the air conditioning as he drove, hoping that the rush of cool air would keep him fully awake and alert. He tried to shrug off the sense of foreboding that he was feeling as the winding road rolled past him. Though his eyes were wide open, tearing slightly as the air blew into them, he was afraid that he would fall asleep at any moment and wake up in a wreck of bent metal. He didn't feel fully aware.
He saw the accident coming long before it happened. He drove over the brow of a hill and noticed a car that had been pulling out of a minor road on his right had stalled in the middle of the opposite lane. Another car sped around a blind bend far ahead, approaching the immobile vehicle far too quickly to be able to stop in time. There was a wall to his left and a pond to his right. This left Waters with very few options. He tried quite helplessly to slow down, hoping that the speeding car would choose to hit the unfortunate driver of the stalled car rather than opting for a head-on collision with him. He counted the seconds in his head: 3... 2... 1--
Waters pulled over as soon as he could, and ran back to the site of the crash. As soon as he arrived, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone to dial the emergency services. He handed the phone to the dazed driver of the speeding car as it started ringing, and with a hard look of determination, began trying to revive the other driver.
The cars had hit diagonally, putting an enormous dent in the driver's side of the stalled car, but leaving the speeding car relatively unharmed. The driver of the stalled car had been crushed. His legs were folded the wrong way, wedged into the gap between the seat and the steering wheel. His head was slumped back limply on the seat. His mouth was dripping thick blood. The doors on his side were both partially blocked, jammed shut, so Waters rushed around to the passenger side and opened the front door in order to reach over to the injured man. No breathing. Erratic pulse.
Waters reclined the broken man's seat so that he was lying down, after having tried to check his spine for damage. He pushed back the seat that he was reaching over as well, allowing relatively easy access to the dying man. He cleared the man's throat with a steady finger, and was relieved to discover that the man had bitten his tongue, explaining the blood pouring from his mouth. He hoped that was the only source. He tried to empty the rest of the blood from the man's throat and started artificial respiration when the man still wasn't breathing.
Waters recoiled with distaste when the maimed man coughed up blood into his face and started to scream, clutching at his chest and legs. It wasn't long before the screaming was lost again in the sanctuary of unconsciousness, smoothly replaced by the approaching wail of sirens. Waters checked the man's breathing and pulse again, nodded almost apathetically, and walked briskly back to his own car, ignoring shouts from the driver of the speeding car who was now jumping around the wreckage in a crazed panic.
As Waters brought his car roaring back into life, he checked the time on the dashboard clock. He frowned, pulling away quickly and turning around the blind bend ahead of him, going a little faster than he should have been, just as the ambulance arrived at the scene of the accident.
As he reached into his jacket for a handkerchief, he realised that he had forgotten to retrieve his mobile phone. He cursed softly - now they could contact him and he'd have to waste his precious time with interviews or witness statements. As he rushed along the black tar rivers on his tyres that grip in the panic, he looked into his mirror, skilfully angled so he couldn't see his eyes this time, and wiped off the clotting blood that was spattered across his face.
Mr. Waters turned into his parking space and was out of the car almost before the engine died. He half-walked half-jogged around the imposing 24-storey glass building that held his office, noticing his reflection in the expansive shiny surface. He hesitated for a moment, a lump appearing in his throat, when he saw that his reflection was clearly dressed not in a smart business suit, but in a one-piece blue overall. He instinctively snapped his head down to confirm that he was wearing his usual black jacket and pants, with the matching tie and white shirt underneath. Of course, he was. When he looked back into the glass, it now agreed. He rubbed his eyes, pushing his way against a crowd to get to the entrance.
He walked through the lobby, getting a nod from the worried-looking receptionist, and pressed the button for the elevator. The doors soon slid apart, and a flood of people gushed out, pushing him aside, giving him concerned glances. He supposed he still had some blood on his face or shirt, warranting the odd looks, though he did wonder where they were all going. Why were they leaving?
He entered the elevator and repeatedly pressed the button for the top floor, impatiently waiting for the doors to close. When it had quietly risen the requested amount, it pinged and the doors opened. Waters was taken aback by the swarm of people that invaded the elevator as soon as the doors opened, nearly trapping him against the back wall. He managed to squirm his way through to the hall outside, just as the doors were closing. Everyone he left behind seemed surprised that he wanted to get out.
As soon as he turned towards his office, his assistant accosted him: "Thank God you're here, sir! Just in time. You picked a pretty awful day to be late. We've been fumbling along like headless chickens - I did my best to, you know, but..."
"From the beginning," asserted Waters firmly.
"Bomb scare," explained the assistant, wide-eyed. "The ITC called us a few minutes ago and told us that they'd planted some C4 in a government building - they told us which one, but it was in code, I put it through the computer, it's still working on it..."
"Did they say when it would go off?" asked Waters calmly. "Are we waiting for another call?"
"Now!" shouted the assistant. "Like, in four minutes! It's a hell of a lot of C4! I called the other floors and told them to evacuate, but the building's not on general alert yet, I don't want to cause a panic, it might not even be here, it probably isn't, but I..."
"Settle down. You did the right thing. Don't panic. Let me see." As Waters spoke, he started moving towards the computer that was being indicated by his frenzied assistant. The screen was filled with apparently random characters, which were being substituted and rearranged thousands of times a second, slowly resolving into a legible message. There was a little box in the corner of the screen with a large digital countdown displayed in it, reading just under four minutes and relentlessly decreasing. That was a nice Hollywood touch, thought Waters.
The assistant followed him and looked at the screen over his shoulder. "That countdown is a little... uh... slow - I mean we don't have that long. I set it wrong. Take about 15 seconds off."
"Great," drawled Waters. "Look, there it is. Hit the general alarm. Evacuate. It's us."
"But we can't get everyone out in time, if it goes we'll..." the assistant's words stuck in his throat. He turned and ran back along the hall. Seconds later alarms were wailing. Waters thought quickly. The bomb could be anywhere. There was very little time. Most of the people should be out of the building by the time the bomb goes off, if it's going to go off, but loss of life would be hard to avoid. Those terrorist bastards.
The assistant ran to the elevator, slammed the call button and started running down the stairwell beside the elevator shaft, calling for Waters to follow. Waters jogged over to the stairs and hesitated. He looked at the floor display beside the elevator. It was on the 13th floor, and it appeared to be dropping by only one floor at a time. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to catch up with it, and it would be crammed with panicked people anyway. He knew he couldn't climb down 24 flights of stairs in three and a half minutes. This left Waters with very few options. He tried quite helplessly to slow down, hoping that the speeding car would choose to hit the unfortunate driver of the stalled car rather than opting for a head-on collision with him. He counted the seconds in his head...
T. Waters awoke minutes later, his mind swimming with unreal images of swarms of people with pale blank eyes, wearing blue overalls, pouring towards him, trapping him. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. The bomb. It had gone off. He had heard it many floors below, heard the roar approach, he had lost his balance and fallen as the blast assaulted his ears and the floor moved beneath him. Maybe he had hit his head. He seemed to be having a problem regaining full consciousness. He couldn't quite seem to focus. It was as if the room was only there if he was looking at it, as if it didn't actually exist beyond the realms of his immediate perception.
He tried to get up, but he was very dizzy. He noticed that the power was out. The backup generator supplied enough electricity for a dim light, which made the familiar office look like a gloomy and foreboding place. In fact, Waters swore that it was getting darker. Always darker. He pulled himself unenthusiastically along the floor to his office. He got up, leaning against the desk for balance. He picked up the telephone that lay next to his dead computer. He put it against his ear. He wasn't immediately sure whether there was no sound coming from the phone, or he was deaf. He let the handset slip through his sweaty hands and fall to the floor.
But he could hear something. A crackling. Like hail falling far away. He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone, and was distressed when he didn't find it. Not that he would know whom to call anyway. His mind was still addled. And it was getting darker. Something else he noticed. Heat. It was very hot. He was sweating. The air conditioning wasn't working, he thought. He coughed.
He staggered around his desk, holding on to anything he could for support, and looked for the latch to open the window. Cool air. Fresh air. But there was no latch. The windows couldn't be opened. He considered trying to break the window, but he knew that they were supposed to be bullet proof and unbreakable. He doubted he had the strength to throw anything of significant weight at the glass anyway. Maybe that's why the bomb seemed so powerful, he thought. The windows didn't break when it exploded, containing it like a fist around a firecracker. Making the explosion disproportionately ferocious. He coughed again, for longer this time. It was still getting darker.
He managed to totter back to the elevator and the stairwell. It got very dark, and he was coughing uncontrollably. He fell against the stairs, and started climbing up towards the roof. The crackling was getting louder. Reaching a crescendo. No, that was another sound. Screaming. A call for help, coming from lower down on the stairwell. His lungs ached for a breath of cool air. Fresh air. But he turned around, clambering down the stairs, plunging deeper into the darkness. He followed the cry for help. It was his assistant.
Waters hardly noticed when the sprinklers turned on overhead and doused everything in a fine wet spray - he was already drenched with sweat. His head pounded, and he was coughing with abandon. He felt his way through the darkness, reeling towards his assistant's yells. He tripped over something, and collapsed to the ground.
"Sir!" shrieked his assistant, clinging on to Waters' leg. "Stay down, under the smoke, I don't think the fire is close yet, but the heat is killing me! The elevators are busted, the service elevator too, where are the stairs? Do you know? I went looking for the service elevator, and now I can't see enough to find the stairs again!"
"Settle down. Don't panic. Let me see. Settle down," muttered Waters feverishly.
"Where are the stairs?" asked the assistant, shaking Waters gently. "Did you come from the stairs? Tell me... point..." Waters tried to speak, but coughed violently instead. He held his head and began crawling back in the direction he had come from. He crawled straight past the stairs, and his assistant pulled him back and started helping him down. Waters submitted briefly, then resisted.
"Up." Waters protested weakly. "Roof."
The assistant looked at him wide-eyed. "Good idea, sir. We could get outside, and signal someone to rescue us! We might still live - I thought I was going to die, lost in this damned building!"
"Settle down," murmured Waters. He wasn't sure if his assistant had said damned or doomed. They hustled up the stairs, only two flights though it seemed like many. The heat was becoming unbearable. Diluted sweat was dripping off both their faces. Waters released another prolonged cough, gripping his head as if he were trying to hold something in.
They reached the last step, dragged each other across the landing and stopped in front of the external door at the top. The assistant tried the handle. It was locked. He cursed, letting Waters go. Waters slumped to the ground in the corner and watched as his assistant started trying to break the door down like a wasp flying against a pane of glass. Waters reached into his jacket pocket, which was wet and sticky, and absent-mindedly fumbled around. He pulled out his car keys and started removing them from their keyring one by one. His assistant paid little attention to him, assuming that he had gone delirious perhaps.
"You did the right thing. Don't panic. Settle down," reassured Waters automatically, but he went unheard. His assistant was alternately shaking Waters by the shoulders and rubbing his own shoulders, repeatedly asking where the key was. Waters struggled to get up, helped by his assistant. He leant against the door, choking in the thick smoke. He uncoiled the piece of metal wire from his keyring and thrust it into the lock. His assistant watched wide-eyed as Waters fiddled around with the wire in the lock with one hand, holding a bloodied handkerchief against his mouth with the other.
The heat seared them and the crackling noise became very distinct, like static. Waters did his best to tune in and concentrate on the task in hand. His assistant had dropped below the smoke, almost completely out of sight. He closed his eyes to protect them from the smoke. He numbly worked the wire back and forth, using all the persuasion he could muster.
The string of bent wire slipped out of his sweaty hands, and he jerked to catch it. He didn't feel it land in his hand. His assistant shouted through the static that the fire was getting close. Waters squinted open his eyes to search for the thread of bent metal, the twisted lifeline. He breathed a choked sigh of relief when he saw it resting caught in the keyhole. He removed it, bent it into another shape with his teeth, replaced it and closed his eyes again.
He almost fell through the door when it gave way. The smoke billowed out above him, burning his back as the cool outside air chilled his saturated figure from the front. He staggered to one side, away from the searing heat and the smothering smoke. He coughed deeply for a long time. He shivered as the wind from the helicopter above blew through his wet clothes.
His assistant walked unsteadily over to him, tears streaking his sooty face, and hugged him. "You're a hero, sir. You saved my life! You risked your life to come and get me, and you picked that lock, you showed me the way to the stairs, you told me to go to the roof, you..."
"Settle down. Let me see." Waters looked behind him, over the edge of the building. He could swear the whole glass edifice was falling. He was finding it very hard to get a firm grip on reality. He faced his assistant again, and let out a shocked cough. His assistant was wearing a one-piece blue overall. He gazed at Waters expressionlessly, through irises that were almost white. His assistant had Waters' own face.
A billion pinpoints of light shimmered through Manhattan's twilight haze. New York City was once a grand and sinister machine, each human life playing its own small, mechanical part in that grim and ominous engine - but now it lay dead. No more cars polluted the gridiron; no more people nervously walked the streets; no more blinking neon graced the skyline as a ghastly homage to the dominance of technology.
Because the humans themselves had become machines.
Every window in the ancient forest of skyscrapers hid the same scene. Every room contained a supine naked body, with arms and legs constantly twitching, jaw working like a goldfish, the last atrophied vestiges of life dependant on a hundred tubes inserted into the pale skin. And the eyes were always moving back and forth so fast beneath their sealed eyelids.
A gaggle of mindless clones surrounded each body, tirelessly carrying out their daily life-sustaining chores as they had been bred to do. They checked the intravenous tubes that pumped water and nutrients into the body, they disposed of the waste and rinsed off the sweat, they monitored the heartbeat and brainwaves. Those clones, like many others across the planet, maintained their human template's body, allowing his or her mind to transcend the limits of the physical plane and one-dimensional time by existing in an interactive dream world.
Around one of the human shells there was a sudden frenzy of activity as the group of identical assistants fought to stabilise an irregular heartbeat and a brain wave pattern indicating high levels of distress. Each clone had dark brown eyes, an inoffensive nose, tight lips and swept back dark hair with a hint of curls; each was clad in blue, staring expressionlessly with glazed eyes. They injected sedatives into Mr. Waters' prone white skin, wiped the sweat off his forehead and increased his saline and glucose dosage rate so he could continue with his dreams undisturbed.
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