Sleeper Code Page 12

  Tom felt his entire body begin to tremble, and he grabbed hold of the chair’s arms to steady himself.

  “But what they’ll really do is give you a shot to make you all docile and such and bring you back to the homestead—our real home away from home, the place where you and I were created. They’ll ship you back to the Janus Project and they’ll just wipe your brain clean, and then they’ll start from scratch, whipping up two more equally fascinating personalities to share the same space.”

  Tom wanted to scream, but he remained perfectly still, letting the nightmare wash over him. Biding his time until it was finally over.

  “It’s going to be different once you wake up,” Garrett said, seeming to pluck the thoughts from Tom’s mind. “You’re not supposed to be the surface personality right now. I am. But our good friends Quentin and Tremain put some kind of fail-safe inside our head that’s made us aware of each other’s existence—and so here we are.”

  Garrett reached out to swat Tom’s leg. “Trust me,” he said with a wink. “I’m just as confused as you are, but I’m better equipped to deal with it on account of my work.”

  “Your work? You’re a killer!” Tom screamed. “A murderer!”

  “I’m an assassin and damn good at it too,” Garrett corrected sharply. “Killer is such an ugly word.”

  Tom closed his eyes again. He thought of his parents, of Madison, desperately willing himself to wake up.

  “It’s not gonna work, Tommy,” Garrett interrupted. “And they’re sure as hell not going to help. No waking up until we deal with the problem at hand.”

  “And what’s that?” Tom asked, tired of all the craziness.

  “Hello?” Garrett questioned, standing up and knocking on Tom’s skull with a closed fist. “Anybody home? What’s the problem? You been paying attention here, boy? We’re two distinct personalities living inside one head. Call me crazy, but I think we’ve got an issue here.”

  Tom watched his other half drop back into his chair. “So what do you think we should do?” he asked.

  Garrett rubbed his chin with a finger, and Tom wondered if that was something he did when asked a difficult question.

  “My first inclination is to take over completely, to kick your whiny ass to the curb, but something tells me that I wouldn’t be able to do it,” his double said. “Actually gave it a try once, around the time that you stopped taking your medicine. You had a spell in your doctor’s office, got that nasty knot on your head and all.” He pointed to his own forehead, smiled, and nodded.

  Tom didn’t know what to say, staring in horror at his evil reflection.

  “Couldn’t do it then, probably some kind of built-in deterrent,” Tyler explained. “And besides, I kinda doubt that Quentin would allow the person responsible for his murder to take the driver’s seat now.”

  Tom’s fear turned to anger and he stood, glaring down at his doppelgänger. “I’d never let you take control,” he said with a sneer. “I’d fight you.”

  Garrett shook his head in disgust. “Like you’d have a say. It’d be just like you havin’ one of your attacks, only this time I wouldn’t be lettin’ you back in. But that’s neither here nor there,” he said, his brow furrowing as he concentrated. “The only way I figure we’re both gonna make it out of this alive is if we work together, which is what I think old Doc Quentin might’ve had in mind.”

  It was Tom’s turn to laugh. “You know what you can do with your offer,” he said, walking away, ready to leave the old house and begin his search for a way back to reality, wherever that was.

  “Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Tyler Garrett yelled from the room behind him. “We need each other if we want to live.”

  Tom ignored him. He threw open the front door and was hit with a blast of wind so powerful that it lifted him from the ground, hurling him across the foyer. He knew it was all part of the hallucination that held him captive, but that did little to squelch the pain he felt in his back as he bounced off the wall opposite the front doors with a sickening thud. He rolled onto his side, splotches of bright orange dancing in front of his eyes as the hurricane-force winds outside the mansion cried like the damned.

  “This is my place, Tommy,” said a voice very close to his ear, and he pushed himself back against the wall, away from its owner. “I made it myself. My home away from home when you’re awake.”

  Tyler Garrett squatted in front of him, and Tom was strangely fascinated to see himself appear so frightening.

  “It responds to my feelings,” Garrett continued as the winds screamed and moaned, shaking the mansion to its very foundation. “And right now I’m a little upset with you.”

  He stood, staring down at Tom, who had to shield his eyes from the leaves and airborne grit driven by the wind’s onslaught.

  “I know you think this is all part of some screwy nightmare, that it’s all the creation of your mind, and in a way you’re right—but the message is still the same.” The double reached down, offering his hand to Tom. “You’re not what you think you are,” he yelled over the screaming wind. “And if you want to stay alive, you’ll take what I’m offering.”

  Tom stared at the proffered hand hanging in the air before his face.

  “They’re going to kill you, Tom Lovett,” Garrett growled. “They’re going to wipe you from existence and me right behind you unless…”

  Tom wondered if taking Garrett’s hand would end this latest creation of his sick mind.

  “Well?” Garrett prodded, a halo of leaves swirling around his head.

  What do I have to lose? “I want this to be over,” Tom screamed over the mournful cries of the elements, reaching out to take hold of Garrett’s hand. It was like taking hold of a live wire; his entire body pulsated with an energy that threatened to explode from within him.

  “Over?” Garrett scoffed, his flesh beginning to smolder and bubble.

  Tom wanted to look away, but he couldn’t pull his eyes from the horrible sight as Tyler Garrett began to burn, his flesh blackening as the fire ate away at him.

  “We’re just getting started, boy,” the killer snarled, his voice reduced to a gravelly bark. “We’re just getting started.”

  The ragged words of a killer still echoing in his ears, Tom opened his eyes in the cool semi-darkness. He looked around, searching for some sign that he had at last been freed from the latest bout of ass-kicking, narcolepsy-induced hallucinations.

  A consistent droning filled his ears, and a strange airy feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that he definitely wasn’t where he wanted to be—at home, in bed, nestled beneath the warmth of his sheets and blankets. Instead a cold metal buckle and a strap fixed him tightly to an uncomfortable seat.

  I’m on a plane, he realized as the craft banked sharply to the right, beginning its descent. At first his tired mind wanted to believe that this was just a continuation of the most horrible of daymares, but that same nagging instinct he had felt on awakening in the West Virginia motel room said otherwise. This wasn’t a dream at all; this was reality. Whether he liked it or not.

  The plane continued its drop as his eyes darted around the compartment, searching for anything that could tell him how and why he’d ended up here. It wasn’t a commercial flight he was on but some kind of small transport plane. His hands went to the seat belt, ready to release the buckle and explore the cabin further, but something told him that wouldn’t be smart.

  The sound of a door sliding open somewhere behind him, followed by voices, told Tom that these new intuitions were probably on the mark.

  Tom closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, listening carefully to the two men drawing closer. He recognized them as the ones from the black van.

  Burt and Crenshaw.

  “What if he’s awake?” the one called Burt was asking.

  “Depends on which one is active,” Crenshaw replied.

  “What do you think went wrong with him?”

  “That’s for the science geeks back at Janus
to figure out. We just worry about transport and delivery.”

  Tom’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the mysterious project. He could sense them standing very close, watching him as he slept.

  “Looks like he’s still out,” Burt observed. “Hope you didn’t do any permanent damage with that thing. Kavanagh’ll wear your balls for a hat if you did.”

  “My balls will be staying right where they are,” he heard Crenshaw reply.

  Then he felt the man’s hand on his wrist, and it took all of his self-control not to scream. Stay calm, he told himself. He hoped that he was succeeding in keeping his breathing regular, his heart rate steady.

  “Seems fine,” Crenshaw told his companion. “Pulse is strong. I think he’s just catching up on some beauty sleep.”

  An intercom crackled to life somewhere in the cabin, and the pilot warned his passengers to prepare for landing. Tom listened as the two men pulled down folding seats from the compartment wall, buckling themselves in just as the plane dropped for its final descent. He wondered where they could possibly be taking him.

  He would find out soon enough.

  The plane dropped from the sky quickly, tires squealing as they touched down with a violent bounce. They eventually rolled to a stop, the high-pitched whine of the twin engines reduced to a soft hum as the plane powered down.

  “This is it,” Tom heard Crenshaw say, and then he felt the man’s hands at his waist undoing the seat belt. “We’ll get him back to his keepers and then we’ll be done with him. Give me a hand, will ya?”

  “Are you sure he’s still asleep?” Burt asked, joining his partner to haul Tom up from his seat.

  “He’s out like a light, trust me, and if he does wake up, I’ll just give ‘im another jolt. Relax.”

  Tom felt himself begin to break out in a cold sweat, remembering the pain of the Taser as it fried his ass into unconsciousness. He didn’t want to go through that again.

  “Relax, he says,” Burt grumbled, throwing Tom’s arm around his neck as the two men dragged him toward the exit. “I’ve heard what this kid can do. It isn’t natural.”

  The men were afraid. He knew that they were talking about him, but it was a side of himself that was still completely unfamiliar. He imagined his double, Tyler Garrett, locked away inside his head. At least, he hoped he was locked away.

  The door to the craft opened with a hiss of hydraulics, and a rush of night air flowed into the plane. Tom allowed them to haul him from the craft, the toes of his sneakered feet bouncing off each step as they descended to the runway. He let his head loll limply to one side and through squinted eyes checked out his location. Another black van was parked on the side of the landing field, not far off in a patch of shadow. His kidnappers were bringing him toward it. His head rolled on his shoulders, and as they neared the van, he caught a glimpse of an airport hangar in the distance. He could just about make out the white-painted letters on the side of the corrugated metal structure.

  Butler.

  Tom couldn’t believe it. The decommissioned air force base where he had ridden his bike a few months back. He knew exactly where he was. And he knew what he had to do.

  Tom took a deep breath, psyching himself up; then he leapt forward, breaking away from his keepers. Burt screamed in surprise and tried to grab him, but Tom was already running, running faster than he ever had, even though his legs felt like they were made from rubber and would give out on him at any moment.

  Just not yet, he begged them, focusing everything he had on getting away. He heard frantic footfalls and the sound of heavy breathing behind him but didn’t dare turn around. He knew what he would have seen anyway—Crenshaw coming up fast, nearly breathing down his neck. But then he heard the sound, the now-familiar high-pitched whine of the Taser as it charged up. The man was going to shock him again.

  Like hell he is, said a cruel voice inside his skull.

  Tom stopped short, spinning around as Crenshaw collided with him. The two stumbled, falling to the ground in a flailing heap. The man was strong, and Tom knew he couldn’t hold out for long. They rolled around, struggled on the pavement.

  “Give me a hand!” Crenshaw screamed for his partner.

  Tom didn’t have a chance against both of them, so he fought harder, trying to break free while avoiding the shocking prongs of the Taser that crackled in his attacker’s hand.

  Burt was almost there. Tom knew he had to do something.

  And then a new force overcame him. He had been aware of it earlier, that strange knowledge of things he had no business knowing about, only this time it was stronger, filling his head with ways to survive.

  And Tom listened, suddenly going limp and falling backward to the ground, taking Crenshaw completely by surprise. The man fell forward as Tom brought his head up, smashing the front of his skull into Crenshaw’s descending face. There was a snapping sound, and Tom’s face was sprayed in a gout of warm blood from the man’s broken nose.

  He had a nearly overpowering urge to slam the palm of his hand into Crenshaw’s face, driving the broken piece of cartilage up into his brain, but Tom pulled back, stifling the violent desire. It was difficult. Something writhing inside him wanted to kill the man, and it took a concentrated effort to hold it back.

  He wiggled out from under Crenshaw’s moaning form, scrambling to his feet and escaping into the night, running as if the devil himself were hot on his heels.

  But he knew the devil wasn’t really behind him. No, he thought, remembering the cruel voice echoing in his skull.

  The devil was much closer than that.

  Tom wasn’t sure how, but he managed to lose his pursuers, scaling a chain-link fence and throwing himself head-on into the thick underbrush that surrounded the now-closed air force base. His lungs burned as if they were on fire, and his heart beat so rapidly in his chest he worried that it just might burst, but still he ran, sloshing across drainage ditches filled with stagnant, nasty-smelling water and on through densely overgrown sections of Hawthorne wilderness.

  He was desperate to find the paths he had taken when he had ridden his bike to the airfield, searching for something—anything—that looked even vaguely familiar. The sound of a truck horn blaring mournfully in the distance spurred him on, and Tom changed direction through the tall grass, moving toward the sound. If he could find his way to the main road—any road, really—he was sure he could get back home.

  Home. It was the only place he could think of where he would finally be safe. His parents would know what to do; they would help him.

  Something … unnatural stirred within his skull at the thought of his family, distracting him, and his foot caught under a root protruding from the moist earth. Tom stumbled forward, fighting to regain his footing, but fell flat on his face. His glasses flew off and the wind was punched from his lungs in a whistling wheeze. For a moment he lay stunned on the damp ground, feeling the moisture from the earth seeping through his light jacket and jeans to chill his flesh.

  Disturbing imagery from the evening’s experiences poured into his mind, and Tom attempted to break them down into two columns: dream and reality. He was having a difficult time discerning one from the other. If it hadn’t all been so frigging scary, he would have laughed himself sick.

  Maybe I’ve just completely lost it, he thought, finally having the common sense to pick himself up from the ground. Maybe I’m still at home, tucked in bed, trapped inside the mother of all hypnagogic hallucinations.

  He ran his hands along the ground and found his glasses. Rubbing the lenses clean of dirt on his T-shirt, he returned them to his face. He brushed the mud and leaves from his clothes and reexamined his whereabouts.

  His pursuers were nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t necessarily mean they had given up. The sounds of traffic were closer now, and around him he noticed the remnants of a campfire, complete with empty beer cans and food wrappers. He had to be getting closer to where he wanted to be; he was almost sure of it.

  Ahead
of him Tom could see an embankment, and he trudged toward it, careful not to repeat his last spill. It wasn’t long before he reached the top of the rise and stood looking down into the parking lot of a Li’l Peach convenience store like somebody lost in the desert who had found an oasis. He felt strangely excited as he cautiously descended from the woods into the lot, keeping to the shadows, searching for signs of his captors’ shiny black van. This will all be over soon, he told himself.

  It was still relatively early in the morning, and the store, as well as the road in front of it, wasn’t all that busy. Tom had been to this store on his bike trip to explore Butler. He had stopped here to refill one of his tires and buy a bottle of water. And he knew that on the other side of the building, near the air pump, was a pay phone.

  Praying that it wasn’t out of order, he made his way around the building to the phone, picked up the receiver, and put it to his ear. He leaned heavily against the body of the booth to which the phone was bolted, listening to the sound of the dial tone as if it were the greatest sound he’d ever heard. He called home collect.

  His mother picked up on the second ring.

  “Mom,” he said, hunched over the phone, his mouth close to the receiver. “It’s me.”

  “Tom, where are you? What’s going on?” she asked.

  He closed his eyes, enjoying the sound of his mother’s voice, suddenly very tired and hoping it wasn’t a precursor to another attack. In the background he could hear the shuffle of feet across the kitchen floor followed by the muffled sound of his father’s voice.

  “Tom, where are you?” his mother asked again breathlessly.

  “I’m here,” he told her, finding it difficult to keep his emotions in check. “Mom, I … I think I might be in trouble.”

  “Trouble? What kind of trouble? Just tell me where you are, Tom, and I’ll come and get you right away.”

  His eyes were burning with emotion, and he suddenly couldn’t stand up anymore. He sat down hard on the ground, still clutching the telephone receiver to the side of his face. “There are people chasing me, and I don’t know why. Something about me being a killer and—”