Once more, I reach for the respirator he turned off, tears blurring my vision.
He makes a sound of impatience. “Miki, pull it together. These are not people.”
I whirl to face him, breathing hard, angry and afraid and sickened. I remember the rows of patients at the hospital, sitting in these recliner chairs, getting chemo. Men, women . . . kids. Mom. “Just because they’re unconscious? Because they’re in comas? They’re still people.”
“They’re not. They never were. Look.” He points at the feeding tube that’s running into the woman’s abdomen. I glance down, trying to see whatever it is he wants me to see—
The tube runs in above the belly button, except . . . No belly button. Just a feeding tube right above where her belly button should be. I shake my head.
He yanks a bunch of electrical wires out of the woman’s neck. Then he looks around, fails to find whatever it is that he wants, and drags his knife with its deadly black blade free of its sheath. I cry out and lunge forward as he slashes at the top of the girl’s head, twisting his hand in a rapid circle. The skin of her scalp peels back and I see to my horror that Jackson’s knife has gone clear through bone. I think I’m going to be sick.
Jackson taps the hilt of his knife against the top of her skull and the dome of bone falls back, like flipping open the lid on a shampoo bottle.
An empty shampoo bottle.
There’s nothing inside.
There’s no brain, no blood. There’s nothing. Her skull is empty, a clean box formed of smooth bone. The only blood is from her scalp.
“No brain. No belly button,” I whisper.
“Because they weren’t born, so there was no umbilical cord to cut,” Jackson says. “This is an experimental facility. They were grown here to serve as vehicles for alien consciousness. They’re like suits the aliens plan to wear. And we’re here to stop them.”
“In the park,” I whisper, “when I asked who was listening, I said we’d see the Drau, but you said not necessarily. I figured it’s because they can piggyback human technology, like satellites. Listen in to what we say. But”—I can’t bear to look at the girl on the gurney. I can’t bear not to—”it’s not just that. It’s because they could be right there and we’d never know it. Because they can hide. Inside human shells.” The horror of that is immeasurable.
“Yes . . .” He hesitates, and I gasp. His scars. Those weren’t made by a shell. They were made by a Drau in the real world. My hands are shaking. He grabs one and squeezes, then lets go. “It’s our job right now to make sure they don’t get the chance to hide in these shells. So move, Miki. Get the next row.” I stand frozen, staring at him, thinking about how he once told me that I wouldn’t believe stuff he said, that I’d have to see it myself. I could have done without seeing this. “Now,” he orders, snapping me out of my trance.
I jog over to the next row of gurneys. From the corner of my eye, I see him pull the breathing tube from the girl’s throat. I don’t think. I just work. I turn off the next respirator, drag out the tube, and that’s when I notice the girl’s face. It’s exactly the same as the face of the girl on the gurney I just left. Light brown hair. Long lashes. High cheekbones. She’s lovely. There’s something vaguely familiar about her features. I move faster, pulling out tubes, disconnecting machines, and then I’m at the next gurney and the next, and each and every face is the same as the last.
A horrid thought hits me. I turn my head and look at Jackson. “Does it hurt them?” My question echoes through the room. His hands freeze on the tube he’s holding, but he doesn’t look up at me.
“No brain,” he says. “Nowhere to process the sensation of pain. You aren’t hurting them and you can’t kill something that isn’t alive in the first place.”
He’s right, but I feel sick anyway. I shove my emotions into a box and work my way down the line, aware of Tyrone creating a symphony of shattering glass behind me. I kill the next respirator and the next, telling myself these girls were never alive. They’re some sort of clones without brains, with machines breathing for them and feeding them. They’re shells destined to be used in a war against mankind, the ultimate spies, or maybe the ultimate stealth weapons.
I keep my breathing slow and steady, forcing myself to be calm. The smell is stronger now, antiseptic overlying something that smells sweet and foul, sort of like burning rubber mixed with raw bacon mixed with the smell of the mushroom farm Dad and I once drove past on the highway. I glance at the others and notice that Luka has the back of one hand pressed up against his nose as he moves between gurneys.
“Done,” he says a couple of minutes later. He’s reached the end of his row.
“Done,” Jackson says.