Utopia

Part 3

3.

Walsing's shoulders are clenched so tight it seems like they might shatter and have been that way since he led me away from the Barracks. Walsing walks brusquely along the lengthy corridors, eyes relentlessly sweeping the open spaces around us. I can’t help but feel entirely helpless and vulnerable, my weapon-less hand twitches at my side. Of course the logical part of my brain tells me I’m being ridiculous, with Walsing at my side I’m practically untouchable. I mean, the man is legend: the only person alive to have faced off with an Outsider and lived.

A line of static burst out of the telecom strapped to his belt. Hearing the wheeze and hiss that crackles out of the small device, I can almost pretend that I don’t hear the screaming.

“Sir, we need assistance in the gardens now!” a frantic voice shouts through. Walsing curls his fingers around the thin metallic square and yanks it to his mouth.

“On my way, contain it,” he says before stuffing the telecom back into his belt. “I trust you can make it home safely from here, Miss Rosewood?”

“Um – yeah, yes I can make it from here,” I splutter, though he’s already started towards the gardens.

The gardens! They’re actually here, broken through the safeness of the protective field and invaded the facility. The gardens aren’t too far from here, how close are they? How close do they have to be before they can infect people?

Something on the floor catches my eye. It lies a few feet away, a stark black against the white of the walls. A gun. Walsing must have dropped it in his haste and now it sits staring at me; daring me. I’ve never used one before. Some people practice with them in simulation but personally I’ve always favoured a knife.

It feels heavy in my hands, heavier than I’d expected. Cold too. The metal presses against my fingers and leaches away all my heat. I hold it tentatively in front of me for a moment, trying to get used to the unfamiliar shape.

Then I’m running down the hallway, following the path that Walsing took with his gun in my hands, heading towards the Outsiders. My stomach cramps and my heart beats double-time and I know I should be feeling fear, or dread, or worry. Instead I just feel exited.

At the last corner, I pause. What will I see in there? The image if razor sharp claws and scaly skin enter my mind. I think of everything my father has ever told me of the Sickness, of the agonising symptoms and the slow painful deaths. Taking a steadying breath, I square my shoulders, clench the gun tight and hope to God that my air filtration clip hasn’t run out.

I peek around the corner: Chaos.

Among the fresh greens and rich browns is a forest of blacks. Uniformed soldiers barricade the entrance, hands clamped around something cupped in their hands. The harsh UV lights beat down on my face causing a bead of sweat to stream down my forehead. Unconsciously my eyes soak up the images before me – without meaning too I scan for him.

But past the statuesque sentries, everything is in motion. The solders dart around so fast they are merely dark blurs in my vision, though their wavering guns I can see in perfect clarity. I catch a sight of Walsing in the centre of the commotion, crushing the sprouting heads of new-born plants beneath his heavy boots.

His eyes flicker erratically around the room and I imagine he’s searching out hidden Outsiders. Nervously, I shift the filtration clip so that it is tighter around my nose before joining him in his search. Huge, ferocious beasts – how hard could they be to spot?

Something hovers in the corner of my eye. Gossamer wings twinkle gently in the light, fluttering so slightly that they barely disturb the air around them. They’re painted a Technicolor palette the likes of which I’ve never seen before: blue as soft as the sky, gold as bright as the sun and edged in black as enticing as midnight. It has no teeth or claws or scales, but I have no doubt that this creature doesn’t belong within the confines of the Field. It’s from Outside.