Free Lab 6 by Peter Lerangis Page B

audible.
    His heart was pounding.
    And his headache was gone. For now.
    He knew why.
    Shock. Nature’s protection. It causes production of epinephrine, which constricts blood vessels, shuts off pain, stimulates the heartbeat, allows passage of electrical signals across nerve endings. Laboratory form of epinephrine: adrenaline.
    He knew it all. He’d been reared on science. By Dad the Artificial Intelligence Genius, by Mom the Distinguished Professor of Neurobiophysics.
    It explained what was happening to his body.
    But it didn’t explain the voice.
    Easy.
    Calm down.
    It’s your imagination.
    Your own thoughts.
    Now use the adrenaline rush and GO.
    He bolted up the stairs. The pounding resumed.
    Sam stopped at the top, holding his head.
    He was fooling himself to think he could make it home alone.
    He had to see his mom and dad now.
    Be there for me. Please be inside.
    He stumbled down a steep hill toward the rear of the building, where a floodlight marked the top of a fire exit.
    The door had been propped ajar with a wooden wedge. No one had bothered to close it.
    Sam yanked it open and slipped inside.
    He squinted against the sickly green-white glare of the overhead fluorescents. He was in a basement corridor. Its polished wood floors and taupe-painted walls contrasted sharply with the building’s depressed exterior.
    LAB 10 , read a sign above the nearest door.
    Which offices were Mom’s and Dad’s? He couldn’t recall. He stepped down the hallway, listening for signs of life.
    “Helllllp …”
    Sam froze.
    The voice.
    It was real.
    And loud. His eyes shot to the source of it. A door on the left, in the middle of the corridor.
    Lab 6.
    Sam began to walk toward it.
    He stopped when he heard footsteps.
    Two people. In the far corridor. Coming nearer.
    Instinctively he backed away.
    A hulking electronic instrument, covered with a canvas tarp, was propped against the wall by the stairs. An old spectrophotometer, maybe.
    He ran behind it and hid.
    The footsteps drew closer. Rushed. Agitated.
    “I heard him, all the way across the building,” Mrs. Hughes said.
    “I’m sorry,” Mr. Hughes replied.
    Mom?
    Dad?
    Sam exhaled.
    They were here after all.
    Good thing they’d heard the voice. The poor dude in Lab 6 must have locked himself in.
    Sam stood up. Over the top of the machine he could see his dad in front of Lab 6, fumbling for a magnetic card.
    They were both so intent on opening the door, they didn’t see him.
    “This isn’t supposed to happen,” Mrs. Hughes scolded. “I told you he’s too sensitive.”
    “My mistake,” Sam’s dad answered as he inserted the card in the slot. “I’ll take care of it.”
    They pushed the door open and disappeared inside.
    Sam slowly emerged from his hiding place and walked closer.
    “He’s too sensitive”?
    Mr. Hughes’s voice came from inside the room, muffled and soft: “Is everything all right?”
    “Yes,” answered the voice that Sam had heard crying for help.
    It sounded young. Like someone his own age.
    Sam leaned forward. The voices were hard to hear.
    “What happened?” Mrs. Hughes asked.
    “Someone … tried to get in … the window,” the person answered.
    I know that voice.
    “No one’s at the window now,” said Mr. Hughes.
    Mrs. Hughes sighed. “Probably a squirrel. This has happened before.”
    “I guess I should silence him, huh?”
    Sam froze.
    “I told you that a long time ago,” Mrs. Hughes scolded. “But you never listen.”
    “Fine. I’ll fix everything. He won’t make another sound, until we need him.”
    What?
    Sam curled down lower, into a ball.
    He felt dizzy and scared.
    It wasn’t the headache or the pain from the bump.
    It was the sound of cold, hollow tapping.
    And the total silence that followed as his mom and dad left the room.

They’ve succeeded. After all this time.
    Not quite.
    So why must prepare?
    Because when they do, you must leave us.
    I don’t want to leave!
    You’re still human.
    And you will forget